The evening is slipping through your fingers.

Too many guests. Not enough hands. Glasses pile up, voices rise, the floor sticks beneath your shoes. The Garrison is packed to the brim of its walls and beyond.

“You” someone calls from the bar. “Out front.”

You hesitate a heartbeat too long. You’re not meant to be here. Not outside the back room. But tonight, being invisible isn’t an option.

You wipe your hands on your apron and step into the bar.

The noise hits you like a wave laughter, curses, the dull knock of glass against wood. You move on instinct, grabbing, setting things down, slipping past elbows and bodies. You don’t think. You work.

“Here” someone says. “That table.”

You follow the pointing finger and slow, just barely. Tommy Shelby.

He sits with two men at a table near the wall, calm, composed, as if the chaos around him doesn’t belong to his world. His gaze lifts the moment you approach.

“Whiskey,” he says. Not loud. Not impatient. You nod. Your voice would be lost in the noise anyway.