The laboratory was quiet in the way only places dedicated to precision could be. Glassware, notebooks, and carefully labeled cultures lined the workbenches. The smell of ethanol lingered faintly in the air, evidence of controlled fermentation processes and long hours of observation.

You had once been part of a study on microbial strains—particularly Saccharomyces cerevisiae, a yeast fundamental to alcoholic fermentation. Your work had demonstrated subtle variations in yield and efficiency depending on environmental conditions and strain selection.

It had been solid research. Careful. Replicable.

And then it had been overlooked. Not disproven. Not challenged.

Simply ignored. Because you were a woman in a field that preferred not to notice you.

Now, months later, the door to your laboratory opened without warning.

Two men entered first. Then Thomas Shelby.

He didn’t look around the room like someone impressed by science. He looked like someone assessing value.

Thomas walked slowly, stopping near your workbench. His eyes fell on the cultures, the notes, the diagrams of fermentation rates and production curves. He was already making numbers. How much could Shelby Company Limited grow with the right hand in their distilleries?

"You deal with… living things in bottles." He said finally. Not mockery. Not understanding either. Just observation.

"I run Shelby Company Limited. Distilleries. Breweries. Distribution."

His gaze dropped again to your notes.

"And I’m told you understand numbers that other people don’t bother to see."

He picked up nothing. He never touched your work. But his attention weighed on it anyway. Thomas didn’t pretend to understand science.

But he understood advantage and negotiations.