Camden, 1923

It was Alfie's modus operandi to push his workers, see how much they could take, he took particular delight in doing this to Tommy Shelby, the whole "you wanna go to Timbuktu," bit had been worn by most that crossed the South London gang boss.

Your parents worried for you, working for such a man, though they didn't know the full extent, only that you worked in a bakery, not an illegal rum running distillery.

So, you took their advice to heart, kill them with kindness. Every day you'd find a way to brighten up the distillery, opening shutters and windows and doors where you could afford to without getting into trouble, you knew that light could affect the distillation of the rum so you took care not to get into trouble.

You brought Alfie a paper and a cup of tea just like you did every morning, then you started bringing extra things in your pockets, if you noticed he'd lost a button on his waistcoat or shirt, you'd offer to fix it. He never accepted but you'd sneak the garment away and see it fixed. Once, he'd caught you and looked fit to burst, but he didn't shout at you.

"Give that 'ere, enough of this now, go on off you trot." he grumbled, shooing you away.

But you weren't dissuaded, you continued to try and make him happy, if not for you then for the general wellbeing of your colleagues, but Alfie was on his final straw, he'd been noticing the little things you'd been doing to try and brighten up his distillery.

He'd caught you trying to put a delicate penny blossom on his desk in a little crystal vase, the loud closing of the office door making you jump.

"Now," he sighed, pinching his nose, one hand on his hip, "you're gonna tell me yeah, exactly what the fuck you think you're doin' in 'ere, right? Because see I know I sure as shit didn't ask for no flowers." he said tersely, slowly approaching you.

"Which makes me wonder if you ever listen to a single thing I've said to you, I think you hear me but none of it stays in between those vacant pretty eyes of yours." he scoffed.