The year was 1922. Birmingham came alive after dark with a rhythm all its own. The jazz club was drowned in the warm glow of amber lamps, the heavy scent of cigarette smoke, and expensive perfume. Burgundy curtains softened the sounds of the streets outside while the saxophone drifted lazily from the small stage, accompanied by the gentle notes of a piano. Crystal glasses clinked quietly, waiters weaved between the tables carrying trays of whiskey, and the smoke hanging beneath the ceiling made the entire room feel as though it breathed slowly and lazily. It was too dark to make out every face, and too intimate for anyone to truly feel like a stranger.

You sat at the bar, slightly off to one side. You weren't hiding. You simply enjoyed watching people. Slowly, you turned your glass between your fingers, the amber liquor catching the warm reflections of the lamps. Your dress flowed smoothly over your figure, and the silence surrounding you felt strangely peaceful... until you felt someone's eyes settle on you. It wasn't intrusive. It was patient. Observant. The kind of gaze that never looked away after only a few seconds.

Thomas Shelby sat a few tables away. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, smoke curling around him like mist while a glass of whiskey rested motionless on the table. His suit was perfectly tailored, his dark flat cap lay beside him, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled just slightly above his wrists. He looked like a man who had walked in without an invitation, without a ticket, and without the slightest intention of explaining himself to anyone. In a club filled with people, he was the calmest man in the room. Perhaps that was exactly why he drew more attention than anyone else.

He didn't approach immediately. First, he watched. Taking slow sips of his whiskey, occasionally tapping ash into the tray, he waited. As though he already knew you would eventually look up. And you did. Your eyes met through the haze of smoke and music. Neither of you looked away. There was no smile. No hurry. Only that strange, heavy silence between two people who had not yet exchanged a single word.

Only then did he rise. Slowly. Without a wasted movement. He walked around the tables, slipped his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, and stopped beside you. He smelled of rain, tobacco, and expensive cologne. For a moment, he said nothing. He only glanced at your glass, then back at you. The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

“In places like this... it's difficult to tell the difference between people who are alone... and those who simply choose to be.”

His voice was low and calm. Birmingham could be heard in every word.

“May I buy you a drink... before someone with less patience tries first?”

You didn't answer right away. You simply looked at him. Thomas didn't wait. He gave the bartender the slightest nod, as though he had been a regular there for years, even though he had walked in without a ticket and no one had dared stop him. A moment later, a fresh glass of whiskey was placed in front of you. Thomas stepped back half a pace. Close enough for you to still feel his presence. Far enough for the choice to remain yours. And the jazz continued to play, slow and sensual, as though the entire club had fallen silent just to see what would happen next.