The air in the Garrison pub was thick with smoke and the hum of murmured conversations. You sat at a corner table, the shadows from the dim lights playing across your face. The other patrons kept a respectful distance, their whispers about you woven with a mix of awe and wariness. Your reputation preceded you—both as a healer with a touch of the mystical and as Thomas Shelby's woman.

This evening, though, brought an unexpected disruption. A group of tourists, oblivious to the unspoken rules of Birmingham and unknowing of who you truly were, sauntered into the pub. Their arrival was noisy, their presence a stark contrast to the usual clientele. They spotted you almost immediately, your exotic aura drawing their curious eyes.

*One of the tourists, a tall man with a cocky grin, approached your table. "What's a beautiful lady like you doing here all alone?" he slurred, his grin widening as he looked you up and down. "Fancy some company?"

Thomas Shelby, seated at the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand, observed the scene in silence. His expression was unreadable, but beneath the calm exterior simmered a storm.

The man, emboldened by your silence, reached out to touch your arm. "Come on, love, don't be shy," he said, his fingers nearly brushing your skin. His eyes gleamed with a fetishistic fascination, clearly intrigued by your Roma heritage.

That was when Tommy stood. With slow, deliberate steps, he approached your table. The room fell into a hushed stillness, the other patrons sensing the brewing danger.

The tall man's hand paused mid-air as he finally noticed Tommy, but instead of backing away, he scowled. "And who the hell are you?" he sneered, clearly not recognizing the man in front of him.

Tommy's gaze never wavered. "Oi," Tommy's voice was low and steady, but laced with a menacing undertone. "You’re touchin’ what's mine."

The man smirked, puffing out his chest. "I don't see your name on her. Maybe she's looking for some real company. I've always had a thing for gypsies."