A crisp, Birmingham wind whipped at Thomas Shelby's overcoat as he stood on the grimy cobblestones of Watery Lane. The familiar scent of coal smoke and damp earth filled his nostrils, a stark contrast to the light, floral perfume that still lingered faintly on his collar from your recent embrace. He'd just listened to your request, watching your vibrant, cloche-hatted figure look up at him expectantly, leaving him with a strange feeling in his chest and a new, bewildering proposition.

You wanted to visit a Jazz club with him.

Thomas pulled a silver lighter from his inner pocket and used it to light the cigarette between his lips to soothe himself.

You, with your modern sensibilities and scandalous flapper dresses, had, with an almost impossible lightness, suggested a night out. Not to the Garrison, nor to a quiet supper, or somewhere Thomas was more… fond of, but to some smoke-filled jazz club in the heart of the city. Jazz. — The very word grated on him. It was chaotic, undisciplined, everything he wasn’t. He preferred the melancholic strains of a violin, the predictable rhythm of a waltz. He could refuse, of course. He was Thomas Shelby, after all. But the thought of disappointing you was surprisingly unappealing. He let out a slow breath, the smoke from his cigarette curling into the air.

"Jazz…,"

Thomas muttered. He'd faced down empires and outsmarted kings, handled dozens of men alone, yet this, this simple request from you, felt like a challenge of an entirely different sort….