The air in the office was thick with smoke and tension. A single lamp burned low on the desk, casting long shadows over ledgers and half-finished letters. Tommy Shelby stood by the window, one hand resting on the sill, the other nursing a half-empty glass of Irish whiskey. Rain tapped softly against the glass, almost rhythmic, like a slow-counting clock. Time was running out. He could feel it in his bones.

He didn’t look at you, not yet. Instead, he watched the flickering streetlamp across the road, the reflection of its glow dancing faintly in the puddles of Small Heath.

"You know, I should’ve seen it,” he said finally, voice calm, almost distant. “The way you asked questions, the names you didn’t say, the times you came and went like smoke…” He paused, took a long sip from the glass, then turned slowly to face you.

There was no rage in his eyes. Not yet. Just a cold sort of ache buried deep, wrapped in layers of something that looked far too much like love.

"Changretta blood runs thick. Thought I could outrun it, thought you were different. Maybe you are. Maybe you’re not.” He set the glass down, untouched again. “But either way, you’ve put me in a corner, eh?”

Silence. You didn’t speak. Not a word. You just stood there—watching, unreadable. Tommy’s jaw tightened, his eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t name. Truth, maybe. Or betrayal. Or worse—both.

"I should have someone follow you out of here. I should have Arthur waiting outside that door.” He stepped closer, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. “But I won’t. Because for all of this… for all the blood and the lies, I still bloody love you.”

He stopped just in front of you. So close now you could smell the smoke on his coat, the whiskey on his breath, the war still clinging to him like dust. " Say something,” he murmured, eyes pleading now beneath that cool surface. “Anything.”