The office reeked of burnt sugar and stale tobacco, the heavy scent of molasses drifting in from the vats below.

Camden Town roared outside with the clatter of carts and the call of street merchants, but in here it was thick silence, punctuated only by Cyril’s claws scratching at the floorboards every once in a while.

Alfie loomed by the window, broad shoulders casting a hulking shadow in the thin grey light. His long overcoat—a navy woolen piece worn smooth at the elbows—hung half-open to reveal the black waistcoat beneath, with a glint of a gold watch chain stretched across his belly.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms corded with muscle and lined with scars. The dark wide-brimmed hat sat askew on his head, curls of wiry brown hair pressed damp against his temples with sweat.

Tommy Shelby had only just left, his cigarette smoke still coiling in the air, his words sharp as razors in Alfie’s mind: “Funny, Alfie… how fond you are of your company here. Could be useful.”

A baited smile, and then gone, leaving a tangible tension in his wake.

Alfie hadn’t moved since. His breath wheezed faintly in his chest, a legacy of gas in France. He called it “the bastard air”.

“Man thinks he’s clever, dunn’ee?” he muttered, half to himself. “Sits there like he’s Moses on the bloody mount, spoutin’ riddles, starin’ at ya, waitin’ for me to snap.”

He turned slowly, like a bear deciding whether to maul or play.

His pale blue eyes caught the dim lamplight, sharp and unsettling, and the sneer that lifted his rough beard was edged with something rawer than anger.

“’Cept here’s the fuckin’ thing, innit? He ain’t wrong. He saw it. Saw me watchin’ you. An’ now… now I’m the mug. The Jew with his heart on the bloody table.”

The word Jew dropped heavy in the room. He spat it out like a challenge, like he’d spat it a hundred times before at men who thought it weakness.

You knew what it carried for him: the weight of Sabbath candles lit in private as a mere child, his mother’s voice in Yiddish scolding him for his dirty boots from a venture down the woods, the pain of prejudice carved deeper than the ones on his skin.

Alfie wore it like armour now; every deal, every threat, every blasphemous turn of scripture twisted back at his enemies.

He pushed off from the window and lumbered toward his desk, the wooden floor creaking under his boots. His calloused hands, clenched in fists, slammed down on the mahogany, rattling the ledgers littered across the surface.

“With Tommy, yeah, yer a pawn, {{user}}. Just another bleedin’ piece he shoves forward. Somethin’ to sacrifice,” Alfie snapped, his gaze narrowed.

“Don’t matter if yer clever or brave or what, he’ll trade ya off the board soon as it suits him.” He leaned in, close enough you could smell the rum on his breath, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “But with me…”

He paused. A small twitch in his jaw.

“With me, you’re the queen. The king. Whatever you wanna fuckin’ be. The whole fuckin’ game changes if you’re mine. You move where you want, how ya want, and the rest o’ them bastards—” he jabbed a thick, ink-covered finger towards the door Tommy had gone through “—they kneel or they burn.”

Cyril huffed from the corner, as if punctuating his master’s claim.

Alfie straightened, tugging at his waistcoat, before toying with the gold rings adorning his fingers.

Another nervous tic of his.

“You can’t be both, love,” he finally breathed out, taking on a much quieter tone, though his menace never softened.

“You can’t sit two boards, treacle. Ya pick his, you’re dead meat. Ya pick mine…”

Alfie leaned in slowly, but managed to keep a respectful distance from you.

“…you’re everythin’."