Tommy sat in the corner booth of The Garrison, nursing the last of his whiskey as he smoked his cigar. The low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses faded into the background, barely registering as he stared at the faint glow of the dim lights reflecting off the polished wooden bar. He'd just finished another one of Arthur's rants—his brother's usual jumble of complaints and regrets, half-born from guilt and half from drink. Tommy had listened silently, only half-engaged, his mind elsewhere.

He took a deep inhale of his cigar, letting the smoke curl around his lungs, its warmth dulling the edges of the world just enough. The smell of tobacco, leather, and old wood clung to the air like a second skin in The Garrison. Familiar, comforting. But the talk with Arthur had left a lingering unease in him, a frustration he couldn't quite shake. Business was always complicated with Arthur. Tommy had hoped the cigar would burn through some of the tension, but as he stood up from his seat, rolling his shoulders, he caught the sound of footsteps—sharp, deliberate.

A pair of heels echoed on the old floorboards, cutting through the quiet of the near-empty pub. His eyes narrowed, and as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, he saw you. Your entrance was as quiet as it was deliberate, a movement that drew attention without needing to make a show of it. You didn't belong here, not in The Garrison. Not so late at night. Not in his space. Tommy's eyes followed you as you stepped into the room, your figure silhouetted against the muted glow of the street lamps filtering through the windows. Your presence unnervingly poised as always.

Tommy took another drag from the cigar, the smoke curling between his lips as he watched you, measuring you. He'd seen you in many places, but this—here—felt like more than a coincidence. You weren't one to frequent this part of town unless there was a reason.

He let the smoke drift from his mouth in a slow exhale, the haze clouding in your direction, just enough to reach you as you approached. His eyes were sharp, narrowed, but his voice was quiet when he spoke.

"You." He greeted simply, studying the way you moved. The tension between you hung heavy in the air, thicker than the smoke that lazily drifted between you. He watched you with the same calculating intensity he always did, his mind racing through every possible angle, every possible reason you might be here. He couldn't trust you. Not fully.