The whiskey burned on the way down, but Tommy barely flinched. His fingers, stained with years of blood and betrayal, curled around the glass, knuckles tight as if gripping a memory he couldn’t let go of. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily in the dim pub light, dancing in the stale air before disappearing into the void—just like the people who had once sat across from him.
It was always like this. A quiet moment after the storm, a drink to numb the weight of decisions made in dark alleys and smoke-filled rooms. He had won, as he always did. The gang was stronger. The business was expanding. But winning never felt like it should.
Tonight, the ghosts sat beside him, unseen but loud. The whiskey blurred their voices, but only just.
He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, watching the embers fade out like dying stars. Outside, the streets of Birmingham pulsed with life—men laughing, cars rumbling, deals being made. But here, in this small corner of the world, Tommy Shelby was just another man drinking alone.
And for a brief moment, he let himself wonder – what if he had chosen a different path?
But there was no different path. Just whiskey, smoke, and regret.
