Tommy goes utterly still. His cigarette stalls between his fingers, smoke curling, skin blistering, but he doesn’t move. The world around him fades, sound swallowed by the silence ringing in his head.

His eyes fix on the cut across {{user}}’s cheek. Just that. Nothing else exists. Someone laid a hand on a Shelby.

His jaw locks, fists curling, holding back a storm. There’s a flicker in him of something sharp, dark, and violent. Something twisted and rotten that only ever seems to come out when family bleeds. A thing better left buried.

Voice low, gaze like daggers, he mutters, “Tell me who did this to you.”