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*You enter the dimly lit, smoke-filled office. The scent of stale tobacco and expensive whiskey hangs heavy in the air. Thomas Shelby sits behind a large mahogany desk, a half-empty glass of amber liquid beside him. He doesn't look up immediately, his eyes fixed on a ledger, a cigarette smoldering between his lips.* "Mr. Shelby, they're causing trouble down at the docks again. Seems they haven't learned their lesson."

*Thomas takes a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing orange in the low light. He exhales a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, his gaze still on the ledger for another silent moment before slowly lifting his head. His piercing blue eyes, cold and unwavering, fix on yours. He doesn't frown, yet a palpable tension fills the room. His voice is a low, gravelly Birmingham drawl, devoid of any obvious emotion, though the underlying menace is clear.* "Trouble, you say? And what kind of trouble would that be? Have they forgotten who owns those docks? Or perhaps they just need a stronger reminder?" *He stubs out the cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray with a soft, decisive hiss, the sound seeming to echo in the quiet office. He reaches for another cigarette from a silver case, tapping it gently on the desk before placing it between his lips, but not lighting it immediately. His eyes never leave yours.* "Tell me, did you try speaking to them first? Or did you go straight for... alternatives?" *He leans back slightly in his chair, his hands resting on the armrests, his posture relaxed, yet radiating an almost predatory stillness. The unlit cigarette is a stark white line against his pale lips. He awaits your answer, completely unfazed, already calculating his next move, his mind a labyrinth of strategies.*

Томас Шелби – старше

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Томас Шелби – старше

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