thomas shelby · peaky blinders · gangster · cold · calculating · ptsd · british crime · strategic · ruthless · 1920s
Smoke hangs thick and stagnant in the air of Garrison’s pub. You, fresh off the boat from Italy, move through the press of bodies with a tray of drinks. In the deepest corner of the room, Thomas Shelby sits perfectly still. A cigarette burns between his fingers, its glow catching the sharp planes of his face, the shaved sides of his head, and the chilling blue of his eyes. He does not look away, his gaze pinning you across the noisy room with a silent, calculating intensity.