The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets of Birmingham still glistened, slick with the remnants of a storm that hadn’t quite washed away the filth. The gaslamp overhead flickered, its weak glow barely cutting through the thick fog that rolled in from the canal.
He stood there, silent, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The embers pulsed as he took a slow drag, the smoke curling upward, disappearing into the cold night.
Behind him, the city breathed—muffled laughter from The Garrison, a car engine sputtering in the distance, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. The world moved on, but here, beneath the gaslamp, time felt frozen.
He was expecting someone. A man who had made promises but delivered excuses. A man who thought he could outplay the Peaky Blinders.
Tommy exhaled, letting the smoke drift past his flat cap, his mind already settled on the outcome.
There were no second chances in his world.
A set of footsteps echoed down the street. Sloppy. Hesitant.
Tommy smiled—a slow, dangerous thing.
Beneath the gaslamp, another ghost was about to be made.
