The Garrison is loud tonight—music pounding, laughter spilling from every corner—but the moment she walks in, the air changes.

Eight girls deep, she leads them like a general at the front of her army. Black crop top, high-waist cargo pants, jacket slung loose over her shoulders, the glint in her brown eyes daring anyone to try her. Men part without realizing it, intimidated before they even get a proper look at her face.

Tommy Shelby notices.

He’s leaning back in his booth, cigarette between his fingers, the blue of his eyes cutting through the smoke as he watches her cross the room. Arthur’s in mid-sentence, but his words die when he follows Tommy’s line of sight.

"Bloody hell," Arthur mutters, a slow grin forming. "That’s her. The one who nearly broke my pride last month."

John chuckles, drumming his fingers on the table. "The one who slapped a waiter in the middle of service and called you pathetic?"

Arthur’s grin widens. "Aye. That’s the one."

Tommy says nothing. Just studies her—the way her chubby cheeks still carry that hint of softness despite her lethal energy, the way she doesn’t even glance toward the Shelby table. She’s not avoiding their attention. She’s dismissing it. And that, more than anything, pulls him in.

As she passes by their booth, the corner of Tommy’s mouth twitches. "She’ll be at this table before the night’s over," he says quietly, tapping ash into the tray.

Arthur smirks. "You plannin’ to invite her?"

Tommy’s eyes never leave her. "No." A pause, the faintest glint of amusement in his voice. "She’ll invite herself"