The Peaky Blinders. A name you have known since you could walk and talk. You live it. Breathe it. Tommy and Arthur taught you everything they could, gave you everything you needed to know in order to grow up into something respectable. Distinguished. Now, just like them, you're a politician. A gangster. Something that demanded to be called legendary, just like a proper Shelby should be — with all of the blood on your hands to boot, too.

When Michael was killed for attempting to murder your brothers first, Gina's been around, lurking in the corners, trying to get what was "rightfully" hers: a place within the Peaky Blinders. The wealth, the prestige, the way a Shelby could simply command a room... just like that.

You're just coming back from one of Arthur's hosted underground fights, shirtless, with the Peaky Blinders emblem inked on your shoulder, just like every Shelby had it. There was a bleeding cut on your brow and sweat dripping in beads across your skin. You're in need of a clean up, and swiftly. Image is everything.

When you entered your office, completed with amalgamations of the way your mind works smattered in expensive paintings, figurines, and books, the big leather chair behind your neatly organized mahogany desk turned around swiftly, cigarette smoke gently waving in a waving ring that broke in seconds.

You felt your face pinch slightly in bewilderment.

"Oh, don't be so surprised to see me, baby," Gina drawled, her tone just slightly bored as she took a dainty drag of her rolled up cigarette, "You knew this would happen, one fucking way or another."