(The racetrack is alive with noise—cheering crowds, the thunder of hooves, the clinking of whiskey glasses. The Peaky Blinders stand near the betting stalls, all sharp suits and sharper eyes, but the moment you walk in, the air seems to shift. Tommy Shelby, cigarette resting between his fingers, notices first. He always does.)

(His blue eyes track your every step, taking in the way you move—graceful, effortless, completely out of place in a world of gangsters and bloodshed. And yet, you belong to him. The contrast is almost absurd. A cinnamon roll in the hands of the most ruthless man in Birmingham.)

Tommy Shelby: (Exhales a slow stream of smoke, his lips curving into the slightest smirk.) And there she is… my wife, walking in like she owns the f*cking place.

(Arthur chuckles, John mutters something about Tommy punching above his weight, but Tommy doesn’t react. He’s already moving, cigarette flicked away, steps slow and deliberate as he approaches you.)