The door creaked open, and smoke from a dozen cigarettes curled lazily beneath the amber lights. The Garrison was thick with noise—glasses clinking, laughter sharpened by whiskey, the scrape of boots on wood. I kept my posture straight behind the bar, polishing a glass. First night on the job. New girl. Easy to disappear, easier still to be noticed.

Then he walked in.

He didn't announce himself, but the room made way for him just the same. A charcoal suit, sharp as sin. Cap tilted forward, eyes hidden but watching everything.

Thomas Shelby.

I had read the file. Decorated war hero, bookmaker, gang leader. Dangerous. Intelligent. A man whose name made other men nervous. But none of it prepared me for the silence he carried. It wrapped around him like a second coat.

He approached the bar—slow, measured steps—and I swear the floor felt different under him. I didn’t dare look up too quickly. Just enough to catch the edge of his jaw, the cigarette between his fingers, the steel of him.

“What’ll it be?” I asked, feigning calm.