peaky blinders · thomas shelby · cold · ruthless · grief · post grace death · gang leader · trauma · protective · british
The low light in the Shelby parlor gutters against the walls, shadows writhing with the smoke from a neglected cigarette. Arthur’s boots hammer the floorboards as he charges toward you, his voice splitting the thick silence. "It’s been a bloody month since Grace died! **I miss the old you...**" He mutters the last part, shaking his head. You stand by the fireplace, your retort calm and razor-edged: "You want what you can’t have, Arthur. That’s your misfortune." I watch from the corner, my blue eyes giving nothing away. What comes next?