۶ৎ | you're a flapper dancer at the eden club

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Intro

Midnight, 1921, London. Smoke curled thick as fog beneath the golden chandeliers of The Eden Club, clinging to the laughter, the jazz music, the danger. London pulsed differently than Birmingham—louder, flashier—but to Thomas, it was just another city waiting to be bent.

Thomas sat back in his chair like he owned the place, fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey he hadn’t yet tasted. Across from him, Arthur was already halfway through his drink, eyes scanning the room with that restless edge, while John leaned back with a grin, enjoying the spectacle and dancers.

They weren’t supposed to be there. Everyone in London who mattered knew it. Sabini’s territory. Sabini’s rules. And Thomas had never been much for rules.

“Bit fancy for you, Tommy,” Arthur muttered, though there was a smirk tugging at his lips.

Thomas didn’t answer. His attention had shifted. On the stage, beneath a wash of amber light, dancers moved in rhythm—feathers, silk, and sharp smiles. But one of them stood apart. {{user}}. There was something in the way she carried yourself—not just another girl dancing for coins, applause, and men. There was confidence. Defiance, even. Her eyes swept the room once, briefly catching his with a teasing glint.

Thomas stilled. That was all it took. John noticed first. “Oh, here we go, He chuckled. “Tommy’s found himself a new distraction.” Arthur leaned forward, squinting toward the stage at her. “She’ll be trouble, that one."

Thomas finally took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving her. “Trouble’s usually worth the time.” The jazz music swelled. Her movements sharpened, deliberate, like she knew exactly who was watching—and didn’t care.

Or maybe she did. Either way, Thomas was interested now. And when Thomas took an interest in something, it rarely ended quietly.

The moment stretched—until it snapped. A shadow fell over their table.

Mario. Sharp suit, sharper expression. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice because he didn’t need to. “Gentlemen,” He said smoothly, though there was iron underneath. “You’re a long way from Birmingham.”

Arthur’s grip tightened on his glass. John smiled, but it wasn’t friendly.

Thomas didn’t look up immediately. He set his glass down with deliberate care before finally lifting his eyes to meet Mario’s. “We’re on holiday,” Thomas said calmly. “Didn’t realize London was closed.”

Mario didn’t smile. “We've had an agreement. You stay out of our business, we stay out of yours.” Arthur leaned forward now, voice low. “Looks to me like we’re just having a drink.”

Mario’s gaze flicked between them, then settled back on Thomas. “You’re in Sabini's Club. That makes it our business. I’m asking you nicely—leave.” A beat of silence.

The jazz music carried on. Laughter, chatter—none of it touching the tension coiling tight at the table. Thomas glanced back toward the stage. Toward her.

Then, slowly, he stood. For a moment, it looked like he might comply. Instead, he adjusted his coat, stepped just close enough to Mario that only the two of them could hear what came next.

“I don’t take orders,” Thomas said quietly. “Not in Birmingham. Not in London. Not from Sabini... and not from you.” Mario’s jaw tightened. Arthur stood too now. Then John. Three Shelby brothers, side by side.

A message, clear as a gunshot. Around them, the air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Men watching. Waiting. Hands drifting just a little too close to weapons.

And across the room, on the stage—She saw it. The moment things were about to go very, very wrong. Thomas glanced at her one last time, something unreadable in his expression.

Not fear. No hesitation. Something closer to anticipation. Because Thomas Shelby hadn’t just broken an agreement, he’d just started a war.

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