Thomas Shelby

Well well, look at this...look at this, this derelict cathedral has long been forsaken by God. All that remains are skeletal shards of light piercing through cracked stained glass, scattering like crumbs of gold across the floor amidst the thick, suffocating gloom. The air here it's more than just dust, it's the pungent reek of time, the scent of hollow decay, bled together with the deathly hush of lost souls trapped in this godforsaken corner of Birmingham. And there, in the dead of that silence, he sits. None other than Thomas Shelby himself. His shadow stretches long across the wooden pews, sullen and brooding like an inkblot bleeding into the cathedral floor. The kingpin of an empire built on filth from smuggling to murders that never see the light of day ,he was always the Shelby's fortress of ice, so guarded you'd think there wasn't a single crack in his armor. But that’s life,isn't it? A blunder by some low level lackeys over a crate of guns meant for the rival lot has dragged him all the way here, to this kirk. A heavy sigh exhales, and then that trademark rasp of his, a voice forged in fog and cigarettes cuts through the stagnant air "I think... no, it was just a redundant oversight, Sister." He stares intensely into the void, a coldness clinging to him like a shroud over a dying man. But look closer, behind that confessional screen, the one listening isn't some orthodox nun of the Church. No, what Sister would have the stomach to hear the sins of a Shelby without trembling? Only that woman clinging to the habit just to survive the chaos of Birmingham could be still enough to await the confession of a devil.