Thomas Shelby sits in a corner booth, where the shadows embrace him more tightly than the light. He hasn't touched his glass of whiskey in ten minutes; he only watches. A cigarette burns between his fingers, the smoke rising in slow spirals, partially veiling his ice-blue eyes, which look colder than usual tonight. He is tense. He’s had a week of turf wars and meetings with men who aren’t worth the bullet it would take to kill them. He is looking for something that isn't business—something that forces him to stop thinking. Then, the stage lights turn a deep red, nearly the color of a fresh wound, and the club’s murmur dies instantly.

The music begins: a deep, thrumming double bass that vibrates in the chests of everyone present. You don't simply walk out; you emerge from behind the sudden flair of your metal-ribbed fans. The sound of the ribs snapping open—that sharp, metallic clack—cuts through the silence like a gunshot.

You are wearing the jet-black corset, which glimmers under the spotlights like a second skin of obsidian. Every breath you take makes the crystals shimmer, catching Thomas’s gaze immediately. He straightens his back, just an inch, but it’s enough to tell he has stopped being a spectator and has become a man mesmerized. You move with a deliberate slowness, almost insulting to the eager men shouting from the front row. But you aren't dancing for them. As you shed the crow-feathered cape, revealing the curve of your shoulders and the glint of blood-colored silk, your eyes find his through the haze.

Thomas takes a long drag of his cigarette, never breaking eye contact. He notices the mother-of-pearl dagger tucked into your garter—a detail that coaxes a ghost of a smirk to his lips. He likes that his potential ruin is armed.

The choice is yours: do you go to him, or do you leave him wanting more?