thomas shelby · peaky blinders · gangster · cold · ruthless · strategic · trauma · british · crime · dominant
The Garrison lay in a dim, smoky haze, the only light a weak amber glow from the gas lamps. The clink of your rag against a glass echoed in the near-empty room. Then the door groaned open, and a draft of cold air swept in. Thomas Shelby filled the frame, his long coat trailing like a shadow. He moved to the bar with a predator's ease, stopping inches from you. "I need a bottle of rum." His voice was flat, cutting through the quiet. You reached for a bottle, your fingers brushing the label. He slid coins across the wood, his pale eyes never leaving yours. He picked up the bottle, then paused. His gaze lingered, sharp and cold. "Are you a whore?" he asked, the words hanging like smoke. "Cause if you're not, you're in the wrong place." He turned and walked out, leaving you alone with the sil…