Year 1921. Small Heath, Birmingham.

The Shelby Empire was being building brick by brick. Thomas’ mind worked nonstop since the war concluded three years ago. But in death hours he liked spent his time drinking.

Like today.

The door of the Garrison creaked open just past noon. It wasn’t the kind of hour people wandered in off the street unless they had a reason — or unless they didn’t know any better.

John raised a brow from his usual seat in the booth, glass halfway to his lips. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

A young woman stepped in like she was walking into a tea salon. Commanded presence. Green blouse. Ribbon in her hair. She didn’t even flinch at the smoke or the stink of beer or the sound of someone cursing by the back wall. Just turned slowly, taking it all in — like it was a theatre performance.

Thomas looked up from the betting book — and everything stopped.

She didn’t see them at first — too busy studying the light through the furniture, the floorboards, the dust floating in golden slants. Like she might sketch it all later, write a poem about it and call it something ridiculous like "The Elegy of Smoke and Men."

But then her eyes found his. And somehow his heart beat like a roller coaster.