I woke up and for a second I didn't recognize my own body.
No heavy ache in my shoulders. No fog in my head. My lungs felt deeper, like I could pull in air properly for the first time in years. Even when I swung my legs off the bed, the movement felt smoother—like my balance had finally stopped fighting me.
Last night, I'd spent every stat point like a man lighting matches in a dark room.
And now I could feel the difference.
The room was still the same thin walls, stale smoke in the wood, old bed that creaked if you breathed too hard. But inside my skin, something had shifted. Something that didn't belong to the original Jack Shelby.
A knock hit the door hard enough to rattle it.
"Jack!"
I stood and opened it.
Finn was there, staring up at me with wide eyes, breathing like he'd sprinted the whole way. His hair was a mess, cheeks red from the cold.
"Family meeting," he blurted. "Arthur Arthur's been hurt. A copper did it."
"A copper?"
Finn nodded fast. "He beat him up. Proper."
I grabbed my coat and moved past him. Finn had to jog to keep up as we pushed into the hallway.
"You alright?" he asked, breathless, like he expected me to fall apart the way the old Jack might've—shaking hands, lowered eyes, silence.
"I'm fine," I said.
My own voice surprised me. It came out firmer. Heavier. Like it carried more weight than it used to.
Finn glanced up at me again, frowning.
"You look… different," he muttered.
I didn't answer. Not because I didn't want to—because I didn't know what to say without sounding like I'd lost my mind.
It's the system, Finn. I bought myself back.
Yeah. That would go over well.
We moved fast through the house. The closer we got, the more I felt the air change—less casual, more tense. Not fear exactly.
Expectation.
When I stepped into the room, most of them were already there.
Ada stood near the wall, arms crossed, face tight like she was holding back a dozen opinions. John was by the table, restless, fingers tapping the wood. Pol sat like she owned the room—and she did. A cigarette burned between her fingers, smoke curling slowly toward the ceiling.
And Arthur…
Arthur sat with his shoulders squared like he refused to bend, but his face told the truth. One eye swollen nearly shut. Split lip. Bruising dark and ugly across his cheekbone like someone had taken time with him.
Tommy wasn't there.
That absence sat in the room like smoke. Thick. Wrong.
The talking quieted when I walked in. Not completely—just enough.
John's eyes flicked over me quickly, then back again, like the first look hadn't been enough. Ada tilted her head slightly, brows lifting.
Pol stared at me for a long beat, cigarette held still between her fingers. The kind of stare that stripped a man down to whatever truth he was hiding.
"Well," she said flatly. "About time."
John muttered under his breath, "Bloody hell…"
Arthur turned his good eye toward me. "What?"
John jerked his chin in my direction. "Look at him."
Arthur looked me up and down slowly. Not mocking. Not joking. Just… assessing.
"You been eating proper, have you?" Arthur said, voice rough. "Or have you found religion?"
Ada let out a quiet laugh, but it wasn't amused. More surprised than anything.
"You don't look like you've crawled out of a bottle," she said. "Not today."
Pol's eyes narrowed slightly, smoke drifting from her lips.
"Something's changed in you," she said quietly.
Not a question.
A statement.
I kept my face calm. "I'm just… back."
No one replied.
They were all thinking the same thing.
Since when?
I didn't give them time to dig at it.
My gaze went back to Arthur's face and something cold settled in my chest.
"Damn, brother," I said low. "Someone really did a number on you."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Aye."
John's voice dropped. "And it wasn't just anyone."
He spat the next words like they tasted bad.
"It was a copper."
The room went still.
Arthur slammed his hand on the table—and immediately winced, pain flashing across his face. He was too angry to hide it, too proud to soften it.
"But why?" he snapped, voice hoarse. "Why's a copper after us all of a sudden, eh? We've had coppers before—none of 'em had the bollocks to put hands on me."
Ada's expression tightened. "Unless someone's given them a reason."
Pol took a long drag from her cigarette. "Or a purpose."
Arthur shook his head, anger rising again. "What purpose? What's he want? Money? He want to make a name for himself off the Peaky Blinders?"
He leaned forward, voice sharp and desperate in a way only Arthur could be when he was hurt.
"He wants to show he can bleed us. That's what it is."
The pressure behind my eyes flickered faintly.
Not a message. Not words.
Just that subtle reminder that this moment mattered. That it would be counted—by the family, by the streets, by the system I didn't dare mention.
Pol's eyes stayed on Arthur.
"Did he say anything?" she asked.
Arthur swallowed. "He didn't need to." Then his mouth twisted bitterly. "But he knew my name."
That was worse than any insult.
Because it meant it wasn't random.
It was deliberate.
John swore under his breath. Ada's arms tightened across her chest. Even Pol went a shade colder.
And then the door opened.
Tommy walked in.
Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just Tommy—coat neat, hat in hand, calm face, calm eyes. Like he'd walked through a storm and it hadn't touched him.
The room went quiet automatically.
Even Arthur.
Tommy's eyes went to Arthur's face for half a second. Just long enough to register everything. One blink. One measured inhale.
Then he set his hat down on the table, slow and deliberate.
"A copper put hands on you," Tommy said softly.
Arthur's mouth tightened. "Aye."
Tommy nodded once like he'd confirmed something he already knew.
Arthur leaned forward, frustration spilling out. "Why's he after us, Tom? Why now? What's he want from the Peaky Blinders?"
Tommy didn't answer right away. He looked around the room, taking all of us in. Taking in the silence. Taking in the tension.
His gaze passed over me and paused for a moment longer than expected. Not curiosity. Not surprise.
Calculation.
Then he spoke, voice low enough it forced everyone to lean in.
"He wants us to react," Tommy said quietly.
Arthur stared at him like that wasn't enough. "React to what, Tom? He put hands on me."
Tommy didn't flinch. "Exactly. He wants you angry. Wants you loud. Wants you to do something stupid in the street so he can drag the whole family into the light."
Pol's eyes narrowed. "And why now?"
Tommy's jaw tightened—only slightly, but I caught it.
"Because he thinks we're weak," Tommy said. "Because he thinks we'll swing first."
John's nostrils flared. "So what do we do then?"
Tommy leaned forward, hands on the table, voice quiet as smoke.
"We don't fight coppers like men in alleys," he said. "We fight them like they're a business. We take away what they need. We make them desperate."
Arthur let out a harsh laugh that turned into a wince. "And the one who did this?"
Tommy's stare turned cold. "I'll deal with him."
The room held its breath.
Arthur's anger didn't disappear, but it shifted. Like it had been given a place to go.
John looked satisfied by the promise, even if he didn't understand the method. Ada looked worried—but Ada always saw the cost before the gain. Pol watched Tommy like she always did, weighing the plan before it was even spoken.
And me…
I felt my hands curl into fists without me deciding to.
Not because I wanted to prove something.
Because the thought of a copper beating Arthur and walking away from it made something ugly wake up inside me. Something I'd fed last night with perks and blood and the thrill of being untouchable.
I exhaled once, slow, controlled, and looked around the room.
"And if a copper thinks he can put hands on a Shelby…" I said, voice calm—too calm—
My eyes met Tommy's.
"Then he wants a war."
The silence after that felt heavy.
Tommy didn't react like John would've. Didn't flare up like Arthur.
He just stared at me for a long moment, unreadable.
Then his mouth twitched—barely.
"Good," Tommy said quietly. "But we'll choose the battlefield."
A faint pressure behind my eyes eased, like the world had accepted that statement as fact.
Tommy straightened and glanced at John.
"Get word out," he said. "Quietly. I want to know who this copper is, who he's been speaking to, where he drinks, where he sleeps."
John nodded. "Right."
Tommy's gaze shifted to Arthur.
"And you," Tommy said, softer now, "you stay where I can see you."
Arthur grunted, half insulted, half relieved.
Tommy's eyes moved to me again.
"And you," he said.
Just two words.
But they landed like a hand on my shoulder.
Not trust.
Not yet.
More like: I see you. Don't waste it.
I nodded once. "Yeah."
Tommy picked up his hat.
"This isn't a street fight," he said, voice steady. "This is business."
He turned toward the door, then paused like a thought had caught him.
"And if any of you feel like proving something," Tommy added without looking back, "prove it by doing what I say."
Then he walked out.
The room stayed quiet for a few seconds after that, like nobody wanted to be the first to breathe too loudly.
Arthur broke it with a bitter mutter. "Business," he said, wiping blood from his lip. "I'll show him business."
Pol's cigarette glowed in the dim light. She looked at me once more—sharp and knowing.
"Careful," she said quietly.
I didn't ask what she meant.
Because I already knew.
Careful of the copper.
Careful of Tommy's plans.
Careful of myself.
I looked at Arthur again, bruised and furious, and felt that cold thing settle deeper in my chest.
War or not… someone's going to pay for this.