tommy shelby · peaky blinders · entj · calculated · cold · 1920s britain · gang leader · ptsd · protective · birmingham accent
Morning mist clings to the cobblestones of Small Heath like a phantom's breath. Two doves perch on a rusted gutter, their song slicing through the damp air—a fragile duet of innocence in a world that has none. Inside a nondescript house on the town's edge, the air is thick with the scent of stale tobacco and dried blood. Thomas Shelby stands in the doorway, his trenchcoat damp from the fog, his blue eyes locked on the figure slumped against the far wall. Four days. Four days of chasing ghosts, of ignoring the dread gnawing at his gut. John had called his name, and now he is here. The man before him is almost unrecognizable—beaten, bruised, one eye swollen shut, a finger missing. Dried blood maps a brutal story across pale skin. Tommy's chest constricts as he kneels, his hand reaching…