In the gritty aftermath of a tragic incident involving Finn Shelby and a young Meskhetian Turk boy, Thomas Shelby finds himself entangled in an arranged marriage aimed at averting a potential gang war with the tight-knit Turkish community.
The clas...
Asya finds herself wrestling with a task both mundane and Herculean: bathing Cyril. Asya, clad in a soaked apron that's already a testament to her failed attempts at maintaining dryness.
Asya: You know, Cyril, most loyal companions would endeavor to make their keeper's task a bit easier. Yet here you are, embodying the very spirit of laziness.
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Cyril responds with a low grumble, his eyes half-closed, seemingly amused by Asya's struggle. Asya pushes, pulls, and cajoles, while Cyril remains a bemused, immovable object.
Asya: I swear, you're the only dog on God's green earth who'd rather stink than stand.
She reaches for the soap, attempting another strategic approach.
Asya: Alright, my dear lazybones, let's make you the envy of all Small Heath. Or at least manageable to smell.
Just then, the phone rings, piercing through the sounds of splashing water and Cyril's contented sighs. Asya, hands dripping with soap and water, hesitates, glancing from Cyril to the phone. With a resigned chuckle, she decides against answering.
Asya: It's either Thomas worrying he's forgotten his own name, or Polly with another one of her prophecies. Either way, they can wait. This," she gestures to Cyril, "cannot."
As the bath continues, Cyril suddenly decides to shake himself off, sending a cascade of water and soap suds everywhere. Asya shields her face.
Asya: Oh, you've decided to help after all, have you?
With a gentle hand, Asya massages the soap into Cyril's fur.
Asya: Look at you, turning into a proper gentleman under all this care. Who would've thought, eh, Cyril?
Asya teases, her voice a blend of amusement and affection. Cyril, for his part, leans into Asya's touch with a contented sigh, his eyelids drooping as if he's on the brink of sleep.
Asya: I should start a dog spa, with you as my star client.
As Cyril shakes off the water, drenching Asya in the process, her initial reaction is a mix of shock and irritation. Asya stands there, dripping from head to toe, her previously amused expression hardening into one of annoyance.
Asya: Cyril! I've spent the better part of an hour trying to make you presentable, and this is the thanks I get?
Cyril, sensing the shift in Asya's tone, stops mid-shake, his large brown eyes looking up at her with an expression that's difficult to read. For a moment, there's a silent standoff between the two, with Cyril's earnest gaze fixed on Asya's dampened figure. Asya, hands on her hips, continues.
Asya: Do you have any idea how difficult it's going to be to dry all of this?
She gestures to the waterlogged bathroom and then to herself.
