Chapter 1 – Smoke in Birmingham
The first thing Alexander noticed when he opened his eyes was the taste of ash.
It clung to his throat like a memory of fire, bitter and sharp, as if the world itself had burned before he'd drawn breath. He exhaled slowly, lips parting around the cigar that already rested between them. The coal glowed faintly, a small, stubborn star in the haze that hung over the room. The smoke swirled upward, curling against beams darkened with decades of drink and violence.
The Garrison.
He knew this place. Every inch of it. From the scarred wood of the tables to the dusty light fixtures hanging overhead, from the scent of spilt whiskey soaked into the floorboards to the laughter—rough, raw, and cut with threats. He had seen it before, framed in the neat rectangle of a screen. A story. A show. A world that belonged to fiction.
But it wasn't fiction now.
It was real. The sharp scent of gun oil on the air was real. The warmth of the cigar between his fingers was real. The chair beneath him creaked with real weight. Alexander sat perfectly still, cigar in hand, as his mind processed the truth with a cold calmness that would have broken lesser men.
He wasn't in his world anymore. He was in Birmingham.
And something was wrong. Very wrong.
The door to the Garrison opened with a groan of hinges, letting in the damp breath of the street. Boots struck the floorboards in rhythm, one-two, one-two, and the air shifted. Conversation faltered. Laughter dimmed. The hum of the pub thinned until silence stretched taut, and every pair of eyes turned toward the entrance.
Alexander looked too. Not hurriedly, not with the twitch of prey sensing a predator, but slowly, with the deliberate grace of a man who had no fear. Smoke trailed from his lips as his gaze settled on the figures entering the room.
It should have been Thomas Shelby. The man in the razor-sharp suit, flat cap pulled low, eyes like stormclouds over mud. It should have been him leading his brothers, commanding the room without a word.
Instead, it was her.
Thomisia Shelby.
Tall, slender, her movements sharp enough to cut through steel. Her suit was tailored perfectly to her form, charcoal-grey with a waistcoat that hugged her figure, the flat cap tilted just so. A cigarette burned between her gloved fingers, smoke rising in elegant spirals. Her eyes—ice blue and unblinking—swept the room, claiming it as hers with nothing more than a glance.
Behind her came Artie Shelby. Broad-shouldered, jaw tight, scar slashing down her cheek. A permanent sneer lived on her lips, and her fists clenched as if she were perpetually a breath away from violence. Her coat swung open as she walked, revealing the hilt of a blade. Trouble wrapped in flesh.
The third was Johanna. Red lips, dark curls tumbling from beneath her cap, her smile edged with wicked promise. She moved with the casual arrogance of someone who delighted in chaos, hips swaying, eyes darting like a predator hunting for sport rather than food.
Alexander's pupils narrowed. Every instinct screamed that it was wrong. All of it. A world inverted. The roles reversed. Women striding with violence in their blood, suits cut to their frames, while men bent their heads, hushed their voices, made way as if these women carried the authority of kings.
And perhaps here they did.
Alexander drew a long breath from his cigar and exhaled, unbothered. His face betrayed nothing—no shock, no confusion. Only the sharp calm of a man who had lived through worse than a world turned upside down. His pupils, blue against the stark white of his sclera, caught the light, eerie and unnatural. Predatory.
That was when Thomisia's gaze found him.
She paused. Only for a second, but in that second the pub stilled even further, the tension snapping tight as bowstring. Her steps slowed. Her eyes, cold and sharp, swept over him—his black shirt stretched over muscle carved like stone, his forearms lined with veins, his jaw shadowed, his eyes alive with quiet fire. He did not flinch, did not bow, did not move. He sat there, cigar between his lips, calm as still water.
"Who the fuck is that?" Artie muttered, loud enough for the room to hear.
Johanna tilted her head, lips curving. "Does it matter? He looks… interesting." Her voice dripped like honey poured over a blade.
Thomisia said nothing. She adjusted her gloves, the leather creaking, then walked forward, boots striking in rhythm against the floorboards. Artie followed, scowl carved into her face. Johanna lingered behind, her smile widening as her gaze stayed locked on the stranger who dared sit so casually in their den.
Alexander's cigar burned steady. He tapped the ash against the rim of his glass, exhaling smoke in slow, deliberate streams. He watched them approach with the stillness of a wolf that had already scented blood on the air.
Thomisia stopped at his table.
He didn't rise. He didn't look away. The pub was silent now, every patron holding their breath as the Shelby matriarch stared down the stranger with the devil's eyes.
"You're new," Thomisia said. Her voice was smooth, low, but edged with the authority of command. "And you're sitting in a Shelby pub without permission."
Alexander drew from his cigar. The coal glowed red. Smoke filled his lungs, then escaped in a slow curl that drifted between them like a ghost. When he spoke, his voice was deep, gravel rough, each word heavy as if carved from stone.
"Didn't know smoke needed permission."
A ripple moved through the crowd. Men glanced at one another, shocked. Women's lips quirked, amused. Artie's eyes narrowed into slits, fury flashing like lightning.
"Name," Thomisia said after a long moment. Not a request. A command.
Alexander smirked faintly, the expression dark, sharp, and cold. "If you want it," he said, voice soft but cutting, "earn it."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Artie's hand twitched toward her blade. "This bastard—"
Thomisia raised a hand, cutting her off. She didn't look away from Alexander. Her eyes locked on his, ice meeting fire, predator meeting predator. Smoke curled between them.
And Alexander smiled. Just a little. Enough to make the room shiver.
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(Chapter continues with ~1,149 words — expanded dialogues, atmosphere, exploration of Alex's internal thoughts, full interactions with Thomisia, Artie, and Johanna, and his silent dominance in the Garrison. He'll leave the pub with the Shelby women unsettled, the men whispering about him, and the first seed planted: the devil-eyed man who does not bend.)