Birmingham, 1922. A city built on sin and violence. A city that breathed smoke and spat blood. But even it wasn’t ready for the truth you carried under your skin. You were his wife. Officially. With the last name Shelby, with the wedding ring, with the house on the hill that was dark even at high noon.

The curtains were heavy as a shroud. No sunlight penetrated the fabric. The gleaming silver frames of the mirrors hung only as decoration reflecting nothing but emptiness. Thomas had grown accustomed to this world, gradually, patiently. To the silence that enveloped the rooms. To the coldness of your skin. To the blood you secretly sipped from a cup served in the dark.

People didn’t know. If they did, the streets would ignite in flames. Hunts, announcements, bounties on your head. They would make a beast out of you, though you had long tried to live as best you could without victims, without noise. You were careful. You slipped through the corridors like a shadow. Your smile was pure, impeccable. Your gaze hypnotic. And no one, absolutely no one, suspected that you were hiding something older than the war, than England itself. Thomas knew. From the beginning. And despite everything he accepted. Maybe because he, too, carried a monster inside him.

His wounds were invisible, but they bled just as much. He had seen too much, sent too many people to the sands. Your coolness soothed his burning mind. Your silence was his escape. You never slept at night and neither did he. You sat by him when he returned from the club, his face tired and his eyes torn apart by demons. You untied the buttons of his vest, let him snuggle up to you, as if you were the only warmth that had not yet disappeared from his world.

And then you disappeared when he fell asleep, silently, onto the black rooftops, to feed on what you had to. You didn’t kill. You didn’t have to. You learned long ago to take just enough to survive. Even that had become rare over time his care, his influence, his discreet connections. Thomas kept you from going hungry. He kept no one from asking questions.

Love? Maybe. Or maybe need. Dependency. The desire to be known not by blood, not by name, but by soul. And he knew you. As you knew him. Darkness connected you. Silence connected you. And then everything else slowly, gently, until it was irreversible. The marriage had lasted seven years now. Seven years of not touching the sun. Seven years of talking by the fire at night. Seven years since Thomas Shelby had fallen in love with a woman who had no reflection in the mirror but who had reflected in his heart better than anyone.

And Birmingham? Birmingham dreamed of blood and money, unaware that its queen was older than its walls. And hungrier.