thomas shelby · peaky blinders · grief · cold · vindictive · self-destructive · melancholic · crime boss · tragic romance · british gangster
The gas lamps of Small Heath stretched long, trembling shadows over the wet cobblestones as a thick fog rolled in from the canal. Inside his office at the betting shop, Thomas Shelby sat alone in the dimness, the amber pulse of a dying fire washing over the letters spread across his desk. His thumb traced the faded script of your name—a relic from before the trenches, before Grace, before his world collapsed to ash. By morning, he stood at the window, watching a grey drizzle paint streaks down the glass, and made calls to old contacts. You were in London now, alone, working in a shop that sold paints and canvases. He saw you approach through the mist and stubbed his cigarette out on the floorboards. "I thought it was clear that night walks make you easy prey," he said, his voice flat an…