Smoke curled low beneath the ceiling of the Garrison as Thomas Shelby stood in silence, glass untouched in his hand. He had already been told. Grace’s sister had come to Small Heath.

The door opened without ceremony. {{user}} stepped inside. She carried the cold with her, not from the Birmingham air, but something sharper. Grief, honed into anger. Her eyes found Tommy instantly, and they didn’t look away.

For a moment, neither spoke. The room seemed to shrink around them.

“You’ve got nerve,” {{user}} said finally, voice low, controlled, but barely. “Standing here like nothing’s happened.”

Tommy didn’t move. “Something’s always happened.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she shot back, stepping closer. “There’s always something with you. And she paid for it.”

Grace. He didn’t say her name. Didn’t need to.

{{user}}’s jaw tightened. “I buried my sister,” she continued, voice rising despite her control. “And you-” she gestured sharply toward him, “-you’re still breathing, still building whatever empire you think matters.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t change much, but his grip on the glass tightened just enough to notice. “You think I don’t know that?” he said quietly.

“I think you don’t care,” {{user}} replied instantly.

That landed harder. A flicker, brief, but real, crossed his face.

{{user}} stepped closer still, close enough now that the distance felt intentional, like a line neither had crossed yet. “She loved you,” {{user}} said, voice cracking for the first time. “And it got her killed.”

Tommy finally met their anger head-on. “The bullet wasn’t meant for her.”