The blood had been seeping through Jimmy's ceiling for the past twenty minutes, a rhythmic drip-drip-drip that marked Morrison's early morning work in the butcher shop below.
Two o'clock on an April morning, and the blade was already moving through flesh and bone, preparing the day's inventory while Birmingham slept.
Jimmy didn't look up from his papers.
He'd stopped noticing the blood months ago—the smell, the sound, the dark stain spreading across the northeast corner of his ceiling like a slow-blooming flower. It was just part of the architecture now, as constant as the coal smoke filtering through his windows or the whiskey bottle that had somehow become a permanent fixture on his desk beside the overflowing ashtray.
Six months.
Six months since the election, since he'd orchestrated Martin Webb's victory and Ada's unknowing betrayal and Section D's neutralization. Six months of perfect operations, flawless execution, total strategic domination.
The papers spread across his desk documented it all:
Council Operations Summary showed three councilmen now under varying degrees of Shelby influence. Webb voted independently within managed parameters—support when interests aligned, opposition that didn't threaten core operations. Sustainable influence, exactly as designed.
Political Intelligence Network mapped thirty-seven sources across Birmingham's government and reform movements. Information flowing daily. Threats identified before they materialized. Opportunities seized before competitors recognized them.
Reform Club Activity Log tracked Ada's continued work with progressive organizers. She believed she'd maintained her principles despite family pressure. Her conscience was clear because Jimmy had given her that clarity through careful manipulation she'd never recognize.
Perfect systems. Perfect outcomes. Perfect control.
Jimmy leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He'd proven what Tommy had hired him to prove: intelligence could achieve what violence couldn't.
Strategic thinking could solve problems that bullets only complicated. The pen really was mightier than the sword.
He reached for the whiskey bottle—when had he started drinking at two in the morning?—and poured two fingers into a glass already sticky with yesterday's residue. The drink burned going down, familiar and necessary, the only thing that quieted his mind enough to stop thinking three moves ahead for a few precious minutes.
Thirty-six hours since he'd slept. Maybe longer.
Time had a way of blurring when you spent every waking moment managing operations across six different areas of Shelby business. Political positioning. Intelligence gathering. Strategic planning. Problem-solving. Crisis management.
And now, increasingly, personal counseling for family members who treated him as their resident expert on impossible situations.
The office around him showed the strain. Papers stacked instead of filed because he couldn't keep up with the volume anymore. Ashtray overflowing because emptying it felt like wasted motion.
Three tea cups forgotten on various surfaces, their contents long since cold and filmed over. The Persian rug, already threadbare when he'd moved in, now showed paths worn completely through to the floorboards.
Even his usual precision was slipping. His fountain pen lay uncapped on the blotter, ink drying on the nib—a sin he'd never have committed a year ago.
His wire-frame spectacles sat crooked on his nose, one arm slightly bent from being fallen asleep on. His shirt collar was rumpled, his jacket hung on the back of his chair instead of properly stored, and he couldn't remember if he'd eaten anything yesterday beyond the half-sandwich Polly had forced on him at the betting shop.
But the work was perfect. That's what mattered.
Every operation running smoothly. Every problem solved before it became a crisis. Every objective achieved through careful planning rather than messy violence.
Jimmy picked up his pen—grimacing at the dried ink, cleaning it with practiced efficiency—and added another notation to Webb's file. The councilman had voted against Shelby interests on yesterday's betting regulations proposal, exactly as predicted.
The independence was real within parameters Jimmy had established. Sustainable influence, not brittle control.
He should feel satisfied. This was everything he'd worked toward.
Senior partner in Shelby political operations. Real power, significant income, genuine integration into the family. The work suited him perfectly—complex problems requiring strategic thinking, political maneuvering that rewarded intelligence over brutality, recognition from Tommy and grudging respect from even Arthur.
So why did it feel so hollow?
The blood kept seeping through his ceiling. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Jimmy stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, immediately lit another, and returned to his analysis of next week's council agenda.
Sleep could wait. The work never ended, and if he stopped moving, stopped planning, stopped thinking, he'd have to confront the question his reflection had been asking lately:
What had he become in pursuit of proving what he could achieve?
---
The walk from his office to the Shelby betting shop at dawn had become Jimmy's daily ritual—thirty minutes through Small Heath's waking streets, the only time his mind wasn't actively strategizing about something.
The early April morning was slightly warmer than the brutal cold of January and February, spring finally asserting itself despite Birmingham's industrial determination to remain perpetually gray.
Factory whistles hadn't blown yet, but the city was already stirring. Women emerged from terraced houses to start coal fires before their families woke. A milk cart rattled down Garrison Lane, the horse's hooves echoing off brick walls.
Somewhere a child cried—briefly, then silenced by a mother's hushing.
Jimmy walked with his hands in his pockets, collar turned up against the morning chill, and noticed none of it.
His mind was already at the betting shop, reviewing the agenda for this morning's family meeting. Tommy wanted updates on three separate operations. Arthur had questions about protection racket revenue that Jimmy would need to explain using small words and minimal numbers.
John wanted strategic guidance on a new illegal gambling operation in Saltley. Polly would watch everything with her unnervingly sharp assessment, seeing things Jimmy didn't always want visible.
The community around him—the working families, the children, the life of Small Heath continuing its daily struggle—registered only as background scenery. Variables in systems he was managing. Demographics to analyze.
Potential assets to identify. Never people living actual lives independent of his strategic calculations.
A mother walked past with three children, all dressed for school despite the early hour. The eldest carried her younger siblings' lunch tins, responsible beyond her years.
She met Jimmy's eyes briefly and nodded—recognition without familiarity, the acknowledgment Small Heath residents gave to people they knew worked for the Shelbys.
Jimmy nodded back automatically and kept walking. He should have noticed the girl looked exhausted, that the family's clothing showed more wear than poverty alone explained, that the mother walked with the particular wariness of someone living under constant threat.
These were the signs he'd learned to read two years ago when he first started helping people in genuine need.
But he didn't notice. Couldn't stop to think about individual suffering when he had three council operations to coordinate, two intelligence reports to analyze, and Tommy's endless political ambitions to serve.
The Shelby betting shop came into view on Watery Lane, its familiar facade showing early morning activity. Light behind the windows meant someone was already inside—probably Polly, who kept hours as irregular as Jimmy's own.
The Peaky Blinders stationed outside nodded as he approached, recognition and respect visible in their postures.
Six months ago, they'd watched him with suspicion. Now they treated him as family leadership, someone who commanded the same deference they gave Tommy or Arthur.
The respect should have felt satisfying. Instead, it felt like chains settling more comfortably around his wrists.
Jimmy pushed open the door and stepped into the warmth of the betting shop, leaving Small Heath's waking streets behind without a backward glance.
---
The family was already gathering when Jimmy arrived. Tommy stood at the window of his second-floor office, cigarette smoke curling upward as he watched the street below.
Polly sat at her desk reviewing ledgers, reading glasses perched on her nose. Arthur paced near the fireplace with his usual restless energy. John leaned against the wall, picking at his fingernails.
"Morning," Jimmy said, hanging his coat and moving to his corner office—the glass-partitioned space that gave him privacy while keeping him visible, integrated but separate. He pulled out his files, organizing the reports Tommy had requested.
"You look like shit," Arthur observed with characteristic bluntness. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Yesterday. Maybe." Jimmy didn't look up from his papers. "I slept yesterday."
"That wasn't the question."
Polly's gaze lifted from her ledgers, sharp and assessing. She studied Jimmy for a long moment—noting the exhaustion, the rumpled clothing, the tremor in his hands that came from too much cigarette smoke and not enough food.
But she said nothing, returning to her accounting with an expression that suggested she was filing observations for later discussion.
Tommy turned from the window. "Let's begin. Jimmy, political operations first."
Jimmy pulled out his summary report, the information organized with his usual precision despite the chaos of his office and mind. "Three councilmen currently under varying Shelby influence. Webb is most valuable—votes with us when interests genuinely align, opposes when we're overreaching, maintains credible independence that makes his support more valuable when we need it."
"Overreaching?" Arthur frowned. "We don't overreach. We take what we want."
"We take what we can sustain," Jimmy corrected. "Webb voted against yesterday's betting regulations because supporting them would've exposed his Shelby connections too obviously. His opposition makes him more credible for the votes that actually matter."
Tommy nodded, understanding immediately. "Sustainable influence over total control. Continue."
"Councilman Harrison supports us on labor issues—thirty percent of his ward works in our factories or allied operations. Councilman Phillips is more complicated—he needs us for protection from rival gangs, but resents the dependence. I'm managing that carefully."
"How carefully?"
"He votes with us on matters we actually care about. Opposes us on symbolic issues that let him maintain independence for his constituents. Classic managed autonomy—he thinks he's navigating complicated alliance, doesn't realize we're controlling the navigation."
"Bloody brilliant," John said, though his tone suggested he didn't fully understand the mechanics. "Three councilmen doing what we want without knowing they're puppets."
"Not puppets," Jimmy said, too sharply. "Allies with convergent interests. There's a difference."
The correction came out more defensive than he'd intended. Polly's gaze lifted again, her expression unreadable but clearly noting his reaction.
Tommy intervened smoothly. "What about opposition? Any threats to our political operations?"
Jimmy flipped to his intelligence summary. "Catherine Winters continues her reform advocacy, but she's focused on labor organizing rather than anti-corruption campaigns. Eleanor Davies is still investigating progressive movements, but she accepted my explanation that previous documentation she'd found were forgeries.
Section D maintains monitoring but has ceased active operations since we achieved mutually assured destruction."
"Ada?" Polly asked quietly.
"Active in Reform Club. Attended three meetings this week. Continues believing she maintained her principles during the election. Her conscience is clear."
Jimmy kept his voice neutral, professional, reporting facts without emotional coloring. "She's stable."
"Stable because you're managing her stability," Polly said. "There's a difference between genuine stability and controlled equilibrium that collapses if you stop maintaining it."
"All political stability requires maintenance. That's not unique to Ada's situation."
"And when you can't maintain it? When something forces you to choose between managing her reality and addressing a genuine crisis?"
"Then I'll handle the crisis while maintaining essential operations. That's what you hired me to do."
The tension in the room shifted slightly—Arthur looking confused, John studying his fingernails with affected disinterest, Tommy watching the exchange with careful attention.
Polly held Jimmy's gaze for a moment longer, then returned to her ledgers. "Just remember that perfect systems fail catastrophically when they fail. You've built something impressively comprehensive. Pray you never need to find out how brittle comprehensive systems become."
Jimmy wanted to argue, to defend his carefully constructed operations, to prove that sustainability and perfection weren't mutually exclusive. But Tommy was already moving to the next topic, and the moment passed.
The meeting continued for another hour. Arthur's questions about protection racket revenue (answer: stable, growing modestly, no concerning patterns). John's questions about Saltley gambling operations (answer: proceed cautiously, don't expand faster than we can protect).
Tommy's questions about political opportunities (answer: three upcoming council votes where we can advance interests, two potential candidates for recruitment in other wards).
Jimmy answered everything with comprehensive analysis and strategic recommendations. His mind was sharp despite the exhaustion, cutting through complications to identify optimal approaches.
This was what he was good at—seeing patterns, recognizing opportunities, solving problems through intelligence rather than force.
The family depended on him. Tommy valued his strategic thinking. Even Arthur had learned to trust his recommendations despite initial skepticism.
He'd proven himself indispensable through six months of flawless execution.
So why did Polly keep watching him with that expression of concern shadowed by something darker—recognition, perhaps, of transformation she'd witnessed before?
---
After the others left, Tommy kept Jimmy back with a gesture. They stood in Tommy's office, morning light filtering through smoke-stained windows, the sounds of the betting shop opening for business drifting up from below.
"You've done exceptional work," Tommy said, lighting a fresh cigarette. "The political operations are running perfectly. Webb is in office and actually helping people. Section D is neutralized. Ada's protected. You've achieved everything I hired you to achieve."
"Thank you."
"But Polly's worried." Tommy studied Jimmy with the same calculating intensity he brought to business negotiations. "Says you're working too much. Sleeping too little. Losing yourself in the operations."
Jimmy bristled despite himself. "I'm fine. Just maintaining our political positioning. The work requires attention."
"The work requires a strategist who's sharp enough to see complications before they become crises. Exhaustion makes you miss things."
Tommy paused, considering his words. "I need you functional, not burnt out."
"I am functional. Everything's running smoothly."
"For now." Tommy's tone carried warning rather than criticism. "I've seen what happens when someone optimizes themselves into exhaustion. They don't break down gradually—they collapse all at once when something unexpected happens.
I can't afford to lose my chief strategist because he worked himself to death proving how indispensable he is."
The observation was too accurate for Jimmy to dismiss entirely. But admitting vulnerability felt dangerous, like showing weakness to someone who valued strength and capability above sentiment.
"I'll manage my schedule better," Jimmy said, the concession minimal but genuine. "Make sure I'm not operating at breaking point."
"Good." Tommy moved to the door, clearly considering the conversation finished. "Because I need you sharp. Big things coming—more council positions opening up, opportunities for expansion into legitimate operations.
You'll be coordinating multiple campaigns simultaneously. Can't do that if you're running on two hours of sleep and cigarette smoke."
"Understood."
Tommy left, and Jimmy stood alone in the office, the morning sun highlighting dust motes floating through smoke-heavy air. Through the windows, he could see Small Heath continuing its daily routine—workers heading to factories, women shopping at market stalls, children playing in streets despite the early hour.
All of it operating according to patterns he'd learned to analyze. Demographics and economics and social structures that could be understood, predicted, managed.
But Polly's warning echoed in his mind despite his attempts to dismiss it: Perfect systems fail catastrophically when they fail.
He should go back to his office. Sleep for a few hours. Eat something substantial. Take care of the physical maintenance required for continued optimal performance.
Instead, Jimmy returned to his desk in the betting shop, pulled out his files, and continued working.
The problems never ended. The opportunities never stopped. And if he paused, if he stopped thinking three moves ahead, he might have to confront the question his reflection kept asking:
Had he proven intelligence was better than violence, or had he just discovered that intelligence could be its own form of cruelty when wielded without the messy complications of empathy and human connection?
The blood was probably seeping through his ceiling again by now. Morrison's morning work continuing below while Jimmy worked above, both of them in their separate spaces, both serving the same family, both contributing to the machinery of Birmingham's underworld.
Violence and intelligence, operating simultaneously, achieving the same ends through different means.
Jimmy told himself intelligence was still better. Still cleaner. Still more civilized than what Arthur represented with his fists and crude solutions.
He told himself this as he lit another cigarette and returned to analyzing council voting patterns, looking for leverage points and strategic opportunities.
He told himself this and almost believed it.
---
Outside the betting shop, after Jimmy had left to return to his office for a few hours of sleep he'd ignore in favor of more work, Polly found Tommy still standing at his window.
"He's lost something," she said quietly. "The boy who joined us two years ago—clever but decent, strategic but human. That person's disappearing under the weight of all this perfection he's built."
Tommy didn't turn from the window. "He's more effective than ever. Everything he touches succeeds."
"Everything he touches becomes managed rather than genuine. Ada's conscience. Webb's independence. Section D's neutralization. All perfect outcomes achieved through perfect manipulation."
Polly moved to stand beside her nephew. "You wanted a strategist who could think three moves ahead. You got one. But you're losing the part of him that remembers people are more than chess pieces."
"He knows what he's doing."
"Does he? Or is he so good at lying to everyone else that he's started lying to himself about what he's become?"
Polly's voice carried weight beyond the words. "Watch him carefully, Tommy. Not because he's dangerous to us—because he's dangerous to himself. And when someone like Jimmy breaks, they don't break quietly."
Tommy stood silent for a long moment, cigarette smoke curling between them, the sounds of Birmingham's morning continuing outside.
Finally, he nodded. "I'll watch him."
"Good." Polly returned to her desk. "Because I've seen this before. Brilliant people who optimize away every human element until there's nothing left but the brilliance.
And brilliance without humanity isn't genius—it's just another form of violence dressed up in prettier language."
Tommy said nothing, but his expression suggested he understood.
Below them, the betting shop opened for business. Above them, blood seeped through a ceiling while Jimmy Cartwright worked through exhaustion, maintaining perfect systems that required constant attention to avoid catastrophic failure.
The machine was perfect.
But machines, no matter how perfectly designed, eventually break down.
The question was whether Jimmy would recognize the warning signs before the collapse, or whether he'd be too busy maintaining perfection to notice the cracks spreading through the foundation.
Spring sunlight filtered through Birmingham's perpetual smoke, highlighting dust motes and cigarette haze, as the day's business began.
And somewhere above Morrison's butcher shop, Jimmy Cartwright lit another cigarette and returned to his papers, satisfied with six months of perfect operations, dismissing warning signs as mere distractions from the work that never ended.
The blood kept seeping.
The systems kept running.
And Jimmy kept working, too clever to see that intelligence without humanity was just another cage—larger and more comfortable than violence's cage, perhaps, but still a cage he'd built himself.
One he'd soon discover was much harder to escape than he'd ever imagined.