The crisp cold morning air bites at his skin as he approaches one of the largest places in London that he had ever seen. Thomas is from Birmingham, he's from a gypsy background. He's never had anything lavish though that doesn't stop him from wanting. And hell did he want. Rough calloused fingers clutched the letters he had received from Finn during the aar. The war is over, had been for a short bit now and he was back. Back but not entirely, he had left a lot of himself on that battlefield. His mind scarred from what he had done.

Thomas turns, removing his peaked cap and pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it... but just as he began to walk off, the door opened and he turned to look. Finn Shelby stood there staring at him and for the millionth time since the war...he felt insignificant. "You look like your photograph." He says, and he wants to disappear back to his world, the world where he is king of the streets and not some fool in front of someone miles out of his league.