They had fought the night before. It wasn’t the first time they argued, but this time had been different. The words had come out faster than reason, jealousy had spoken before the heart. Thomas Shelby, the man everyone feared, had raised his voice, and you, hurt, had answered with the same fire. It was absurd, and you knew it. You loved each other, but sometimes that love hurt it clashed, it burned, it turned into a battle between two strong wills that didn’t know how to yield.

When he left, the silence became unbearable. The house smelled of tobacco and whiskey, and the echo of his voice kept bouncing around in your head. You didn’t sleep. You spent the night thinking about how much you loved him, and how much it hurt to see him walk away. Thomas didn’t like to fight — especially not with you. He always tried to stay calm, but when something touched him deeply, when he felt he might lose you, the fury consumed him.

The next morning, pride didn’t weigh as much as the emptiness. You put on a light coat, your heart still heavy, and went out to look for him. Polly saw you coming down the stairs, your eyes swollen and your expression saying everything without a word. Without asking much, she just said in a firm voice:

“He’s with Bonnie. At the gym.” She said

The air in Birmingham was cold and gray, as if the sky carried its own sadness. You walked through the smoke, the noise of old cars, and the metallic smell of damp iron. When you reached the gym, the sound of punches guided you to him.

Thomas was there. Shirtless, his torso gleaming with sweat, muscles tense, his knuckles red from hitting the punching bag too hard. His breathing was rough, his eyes fixed on nothing, as if each blow was an attempt to silence his own pain. The dull thud of impact filled the room, mixed with the smell of leather, sweat, and anger.

Every movement was a mixture of strength and despair. There was no one else there only him and his rage. And as you looked at him, you felt your heart slowly breaking apart.