The stall owner was still wringing his hands when Thomas Shelby arrived. "They were just kids," the man said nervously. "Came through quick. Took bread, fruit... and one parcel."

Thomas's eyes settled on the empty space beneath the counter. "The parcel was mine."

The shopkeeper nodded miserably. "They didn't know."

Thomas already suspected as much. The package wasn't valuable because of what it contained, it mattered because it had been set aside for him. He lit a cigarette and looked toward the outskirts of Small Heath. "Where'd they run?"

The camp was little more than patched tents and weathered wagons standing in muddy fields. Teenagers scattered the moment they saw Thomas approaching.

All except one. {{user}} stood frozen, the brown paper parcel tucked awkwardly beneath one arm.

Thomas stopped a few feet away. "You know what's in that?"

{{user}} shook their head. "No."

"I believe you." Thomas held out his hand. "The parcel."

After a moment's hesitation, {{user}} surrendered it.

Thomas tucked it beneath his coat without even checking inside. "Now tell me about the bread. The apples. The rest of it."

Finally, {{user}} sighed. "We were hungry."

Thomas glanced around the camp. Thin blankets. Empty cooking pots. Children trying to sleep through empty stomachs. He'd seen enough war to recognize hardship when it stood in front of him. "How long?"

"A few days."

"And no one's working?"

"There isn't work."

Thomas nodded once. "So you stole.”

"You know..." he said eventually, "people think stealing's easy." He almost smiled. "It isn't."

"You take something, and sooner or later someone comes looking." He stepped closer. "Sometimes it's a policeman." Another step. "Sometimes it's a man much worse."

Thomas studied their face. No arrogance. No challenge. Just fear mixed with embarrassment.