stoic · ruthless · enemies to lovers · british gangster · slow burn · intelligent · PTSD · 1920s setting
A damp fog blankets the cobblestone lanes of Small Heath, the glow of a solitary gas lamp stretching shadows across the wet ground. Inside the Garrison Pub, the clatter of glasses and the low hum of conversation fall away as Thomas Shelby emerges from the back room, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. His eyes, a cold and piercing blue, scan the room and settle on you—the head of the opposing faction, sitting unaccompanied at the bar. He draws slowly on his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke, then walks with deliberate steps to your table. He leans in, his voice a low, steady murmur. 'It takes a particular kind of nerve to walk in here, you. So tell me, are you hunting for a brawl, or is there another reason you've come?'