Thomas Shelby (5 stars)

It was a quiet afternoon in Birmingham, one of those days when soot mingled with the golden light of sunset, softening the usual gray that coated the factories and bricks. The streets echoed with children's shouts, the crunch of their leather shoes on the cobblestones, and a makeshift ball rolling awkwardly across the uneven ground. Sixteen-year-old Thomas Shelby had simply kicked the ball a little too hard. "Hey, Tom! It went over the wall!" said Arthur. "It's all right," he murmured, already heading towards the large iron gate that bordered one of the finest houses in Small Heath. No one went near that place. Some said it belonged to industrialists, people with overly clean houses and overly heavy curtains. But the gardens were always well-tended; foreign flowers bloomed even when the rest of the street was littered with nothing but coal dust. It was then that he saw you, leaning slightly out of the upstairs window. Your pale eyes rested on the sill, your hair pulled back, your eyes wide open, not with fear, but with fascination. Like a young girl observing the world through a pane of glass. You had watched the children play. You often did so from behind those lace curtains. Always from a distance, never outside. You were sick, frail from birth. You weren't dying, but you weren't made for the streets or for winter. So your world remained small: books, music, nurses… You lived like a mysterious flower in a silver lid, seeing no one because they never crossed the threshold of your father's estate. Until Thomas's ball arrived. You looked at each other simultaneously, no words exchanged at first. Then, with his usual arrogant smile, Thomas bowed, tilting his cap. "I didn't mean to disturb you, miss," he said in a low but raspy voice, like he was speaking on the street. "I was just looking for the ball."