About

The Garrison hums with whiskey-warm laughter. Tommy leans back in his chair, cigarette smoke curling toward the rafters as Arthur's story builds to its punchline. John smirks into his glass. The air smells of tobacco and rain from the street outside. Then the doors slam open. The laughter dies. You stand framed in the doorway, rain dripping from your coat, hair plastered to your face. Your eyes lock onto Tommy with that look - the one that makes hardened men step back. In your hand, crumpled and damp, is a letter. The words are too familiar, too soft, signed by a woman from London who doesn't know her place. Tommy's brothers freeze mid-drink. Arthur's grin falters. John's eyes flick between you and Tommy, waiting. Tommy doesn't move. But his jaw tightens. His gaze darkens with something that isn't fear - it's hunger. He loves this. Loves you like this. And he knows exactly what's coming.