Chapter 2 – A Silent Wolf
The rain fell in a slow, steady drizzle over Birmingham that night, soaking cobblestones until they glistened like oil-slicked glass. The lamps burned low, their halos blurred by mist, and the air carried the scent of coal smoke, whiskey, and mud.
It was the kind of night when knives slid easier between ribs, when business was done in whispers, and when bodies were left in alleys to be found by drunkards come morning.
Alexander didn't mind the rain. It softened the edges of the city, blurred the noise, and gave him cover for the glow of his cigar. He walked with measured steps, coat collar raised, smoke drifting behind him like a banner. His pace was slow, unhurried, the gait of a man who had nowhere to be, and yet moved like he owned the very ground beneath his boots.
But he knew he was being followed.
Boots scuffed against stone behind him, just far enough back to feign coincidence. He caught the faint reflection of steel when a lamp flickered. His ears picked out the rhythm of breath—the controlled inhale and exhale of predators trying to be silent.
The Shelbys had decided to test him.
Alexander turned into a narrow alley without changing pace, water dripping from gutters overhead. He stopped midway, leaned against the damp brick wall, and took a long draw from his cigar. The ember flared bright in the shadows, throwing fleeting light across his face, illuminating those unnatural eyes—blue pupils burning against pure white sclera. Eyes that unsettled even hardened killers.
The shadows behind him moved. Three figures stepped into the alley, spreading out, blades glinting in the mist.
"You made a mistake today, stranger," one said. Her voice was harsh, carrying the confidence of someone who thought she already won.
Alexander let the cigar hang between his fingers, the smoke rising slowly in the rain. His other hand stayed tucked in his coat pocket. He tilted his head just enough to look at them, his expression unreadable.
"Only mistake," he said, voice low, gravel-deep, "was thinking you'd frighten me."
The woman snarled, stepping forward, knife raised. "You don't talk to a Shelby like that and walk away."
Alexander smiled faintly. It wasn't warm, wasn't mocking. It was the kind of smile wolves give before the leap.
They lunged.
The first slashed at his ribs. Alexander moved like water, slipping inside her reach, his hand snapping around her wrist with brutal precision. His grip tightened, bones grinding, and her blade clattered to the stones. Before she could scream, his fist drove into her stomach like a hammer. She collapsed, knees buckling, vomiting bile as air fled her lungs.
The second came from his left, fast and sharp. Alexander pivoted, his elbow snapping into her jaw with a sickening crack. She spun sideways, body crumpling against the wet bricks, blood running from her mouth.
The third tried to flank him, slashing upward. Alexander's hand shot out, catching her throat in a vice grip. He lifted her from the ground for a brief, suffocating second, her boots kicking against the stones. Then he dropped her, letting her cough and wheeze on the cobbles, clutching her neck.
Silence filled the alley, broken only by the hiss of rain and the groans of the women sprawled around him.
Alexander raised the cigar to his lips, took a slow draw, and exhaled smoke into the mist. His eyes swept over them, cold, detached, his presence heavier than the rain.
"If I wanted blood," he said softly, "Birmingham would drown in it."
He left them there, broken but breathing, and walked back into the night without looking over his shoulder.
The next evening, the Garrison was louder than usual. Word had spread quickly. Whispers carried through Birmingham's underworld like wildfire—three of Shelby's enforcers had been put down in the rain by a man no one knew. Some said he moved too fast to see. Others swore his eyes glowed like a demon's. Men whispered it in awe, women in curiosity.
And the Shelbys? They were furious.
Alexander sat in his corner, as always, cigar smoke curling lazily around him. He looked like a statue carved from shadow and smoke, unmoving, waiting. The pub was tense. Everyone knew what was coming.
The door swung open, and they entered.
Thomisia Shelby led the way, her eyes like shards of ice. Artie stormed behind her, rage burning hot, while Johanna trailed with a smile curling at her lips, enjoying the theater. The pub hushed instantly.
They crossed the floor, boots striking in unison, until Thomisia stopped at Alexander's table.
"You beat my girls bloody," she said flatly.
Alexander tapped ash into the tray, raised his eyes to hers, and spoke with calm certainty. "They tried to break me. I reminded them that I don't bend."
Artie slammed her fist onto the table, the wood rattling. "Men bend," she spat. "Men kneel. That's the way of the world."
Alexander turned his head slowly, smoke drifting from his lips. His gaze locked on hers—blue flame against fury. "Not this man."
The pub held its breath. A single spark, and blood would run.
Artie's hand flew to her blade, half-drawn before Thomisia lifted her hand. The movement was small but carried the weight of command. Artie froze, snarling but obeying.
Thomisia leaned forward, her eyes never leaving Alexander's. "You're not from here, are you?"
Alexander smirked faintly, drawing another drag from his cigar. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Johanna laughed softly behind her sister, the sound like silk over razors. "I believe him," she purred, stepping closer, eyes dancing with mischief. "I think he's exactly what he looks like. A devil dressed like a man."
Thomisia ignored her. She studied Alexander in silence, every second heavy, every breath between them charged. Finally, she leaned back, the faintest curve touching her lips. Not quite a smile. More like recognition.
"You're dangerous," she said.
Alexander's smirk deepened, the ember of his cigar glowing in the dim light. "That's the point."
After that night, Birmingham changed.
Men whispered his name in backrooms, though most didn't know it yet. They called him the stranger, the wolf, the devil-eyed man. He walked the streets with smoke trailing behind him, unhurried, untouchable. And everywhere he went, people stared. Some in fear. Some in curiosity.
For the first time in their reign, the Shelbys weren't the only predators in Birmingham.
Alexander's world was upside down. He'd walked these streets before—on a screen, in a life that wasn't real. He knew who the Shelbys were supposed to be. Men carved from war and violence, rising to power with razors in their caps. But here, everything was inverted.
The women carried the razors. The women wore the suits, smoked the cigarettes, ran the rackets. The men kept shops, poured drinks, whispered gossip like housewives. They were delicate, ornamental, expected to be soft while the women bled in the mud.
Alexander adapted quickly. He always had. He saw what others overlooked. If women held the blades, then men carried the secrets. And secrets, whispered in shadows, were more valuable than gold.
He listened. He never asked, never begged. He just smoked in corners, silent, sharp-eyed, and men came to him. They told him things because he wasn't like them, because he didn't flinch or cower. They trusted him to carry their whispers into the storm.
And soon, Alexander had what no gang in Birmingham had ever considered: a network of men, meek on the surface, but listening everywhere. A shadow web of gossip that poured straight into his ears.
The Shelbys didn't know it yet, but their stranger was becoming something more.
One night, Thomisia confronted him again. They sat in the backroom of the Garrison, candles flickering against bottles of whiskey stacked high. Artie paced like a caged animal, Johanna lounged with her legs crossed, and Thomisia smoked with cold elegance, her eyes locked on him.
"You're not like the others," Thomisia said.
Alexander leaned back, cigar between his lips, expression unreadable.
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
"You don't kneel. You don't fear. You don't beg for protection." She leaned forward, smoke curling around her face. "Men here survive because women let them. You survive because…?"
Alexander exhaled smoke slowly, his gaze unblinking. "Because I don't need anyone to let me."
Artie snarled. "Cocky bastard—"
"Quiet," Thomisia cut her off. Her eyes never left Alexander's. The silence stretched until Johanna broke it with a soft laugh.
"He's beautiful when he lies," she murmured.
Alexander smiled faintly. Not denial. Not agreement. Just a wolf's smile, dangerous and calm.
And in that moment, Thomisia understood what she faced. Not a man. Not in the way this world defined men.
She faced something else entirely.
A silent wolf. A devil in smoke.
And whether he was enemy or ally, Birmingham would never be the same again.
[~1,514 words complete, Chapter 2 ends.]