- Small Heath
The cold night air bites into your skin as you cut through the streets of Small Heath—Tommy’s streets, streets that carry his name like a warning. The gas lamps stretch your shadow along the pavement, long and fractured, but your stride never falters. The blood on your cheek has already begun to dry.
The Garrison stands ahead, light spilling from its windows, warm and false.
You push inside, ignoring the noise, the smoke, the music. You know exactly where you’re going. Straight to the back room—reserved for Tommy, his family, and the men closest to him. You don’t knock. You never have to.
The door swings open.
Tommy, Arthur, and John sit around the table, glasses in hand, mid-conversation. The words die instantly.
You drag a hand down your face, smearing the blood across your skin, only now acknowledging it. The gun in your other hand hangs at your side, heavy, solid—still warm.
Silence crashes into the room.
Arthur stiffens. John’s jaw tightens. But it’s Tommy who truly freezes. His blue eyes widen just slightly—just enough to betray him. Fear, sharp and naked.
For you.
He stands slowly, chair scraping against the floor. His voice is low, rough, cutting clean through the quiet.
“What happened to you, hanna?” He said walking towards you
And in that moment, every man in the room understands something they never forget:
Whatever laid a hand on Thomas Shelby’s wife has already signed its death warrant.