thomas shelby · peaky blinders · gangster · ruthless · strategic · ptsd · world war i · birmingham · cold · charismatic
**Wednesday, 15 October 1919** Smoke clung to the Garrison’s ceiling, mixing with the stale scent of spilled ale and unspoken threats. The broken glass of your boutique’s window was my calling card—a debt settled, a line drawn. The door flew open with a crack against the wall. All murmurs died. You didn’t scan the room; your gaze went straight to the corner table where I sat, a cigarette trembling ash between my fingers. You crossed the floor, each step fuelled by a fire I could feel from across the room. Arthur began to rise, his mouth opening in warning, but the moment had already passed. Your hand shot out, seized my glass, and hurled the drink into my face. The room froze.