The air inside the warehouse was thick with smoke, sweat, and shouting. A ring of rough wood and rope had been set up in the center, surrounded by men who lived for betting slips and broken noses.

This was Peaky Blinders territory. That meant the rules were simple: fight, survive, or get carried out.

And tonight, the crowd wasn’t kind.

When you stepped into the ring, the laughter started almost immediately.

"A woman?"

"She won’t last a round."

"Who let her in here? The girl’s going to get beaten."

Coins were already being tossed onto tables, most of them not in your favor. No one was betting on you. Not even pretending to.

Across the room, Thomas Shelby arrived with a small group of men. He wasn’t meant to stay long—just a business visit, quick money, and quicker decisions.

But something made him stop. He didn’t react to the noise, or the jokes, or the dismissive stares. His eyes stayed on you.

You moved differently than the others. Not louder. Not stronger. Controlled. Guarded. Like someone who had learned the hard way that wasting energy meant losing.

The bell rang. The fight began. The man opposite you came forward with confidence, swinging like he already owned the outcome. The crowd cheered—briefly.

Then the rhythm changed.

You slipped the first hit. Then the second. A clean counter followed. Not flashy. Efficient.

The laughter faded.

Thomas took a slow drag from his cigarette, watching without expression.

Around him, men started to shift uneasily. Bets were being reconsidered too late. Another exchange. Another mistake from your opponent.

He went down.

Not dramatically. Not theatrically.

Just enough to silence the room. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of breathing and distant shouting from outside.

Thomas exhaled slowly. He hadn’t expected that.

The people here hadn’t either.

He didn’t move immediately. He simply watched you from the edge of the room, as if recalculating something he had already decided he understood.