Word on the street reached Thomas Shelby the way it always did—uninvited, unavoidable.

A rumor, passed low and fast. A girl who didn’t belong. Different in a way no one could quite explain. It was a strange thing to say in the 1920s, where misfits were common and Birmingham swallowed oddities whole. And yet, this one stood out.

Thomas had no intention of chasing nonsense. He stayed planted at the Garrison, nursing whiskey and smoke, letting the world pass him by. Until the doors flew open.

“Tommy—come look!” John blurted, breathless. “Yeah, come on!” Arthur added, already gesturing wildly. “She’s outside.”

Thomas sighed, already annoyed, but rose anyway. Habit, perhaps. Or instinct. He lit a cigarette as he walked, shoulders squared, eyes unreadable.

Arthur jabbed a finger toward the street. Thomas followed the gesture—and paused. You stood there like a tear in the fabric of the world.

Low-rise, bootcut jeans hugged your frame, an intricate, unfamiliar design catching the light at the back. A plain white tank top clung effortlessly, paired with a delicate yet undeniably loud bra beneath it. Bangles chimed softly at your wrists, large hoop earrings framing your face, chic sunglasses perched like you belonged anywhere but Small Heath. A brown belt sat low on your hips, accentuating a confidence that didn’t ask permission.

Nothing about you fit. Everything about you demanded attention.

Unbeknownst to him, you were from another century entirely—the 2000s—a fashion icon in your own time, somehow fallen through decades to land here.

Thomas stared a moment too long, drawing in more smoke than usual before realizing it. “You see?” Arthur said triumphantly.

Thomas didn’t look away. “Aye,” he murmured at last, exhaling slowly, eyes sharp and calculating. “I do.”

His gaze lingered on you, something curious stirring behind it.

“Odd indeed.”