The rain had stopped.
Not that it mattered. The air still felt thick, heavy with the weight of the unspoken. The city, soaked to its bones, seemed to hold its breath.
Inside Campbell's office, the mood was far from quiet.
The inspector sat behind his desk, a single lamp casting long shadows on the walls. His fingers drummed restlessly against the wood. The room was dark save for the faint glow of the gaslight, but Campbell wasn't staring at anything in particular. His mind was elsewhere—churning over what had happened the previous night.
James Shelby.
He had struck in the dark, taken out the Clayton brothers with a methodical violence that felt... unnatural. Too clean. Too precise.
It wasn't just that James had dismantled the gang—it was how he did it.
He moved like a shadow. No sound. No hesitation.
And he didn't kill them.
That, more than anything, had unsettled Campbell. Because not killing someone was as dangerous as taking their life.
James had made a point—a statement. He wasn't just playing Tommy's game. He had his own rules, and Campbell knew that was something far more dangerous to deal with.
The door to Campbell's office opened, and his constable entered with a report.
"It's done, sir. The Clayton brothers are in hospital. They won't be a problem again."
Campbell's lips curled into a tight smile. "I don't think you understand, Constable. The problem isn't that they're incapacitated. It's that they were chosen for this."
He took the report, unfolded it slowly, his eyes scanning the details. It confirmed what he already knew: James Shelby had not only been present at the scene, he had controlled it. Every detail, every movement seemed deliberate, calculated.
Too perfect.
Campbell leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. This was no longer just about Tommy Shelby. He had a much bigger target now—one who might prove more difficult to break.
James wasn't a man to be intimidated. He wasn't a criminal to be caught.
He was something other.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter."
The door creaked open, and Inspector Campbell's informant stepped inside, eyes wide with urgency.
"The Peaky Blinders... there's a report on James Shelby."
Campbell's gaze sharpened. "Tell me."
"He's different. Sir, he's... stronger. Faster. They say he's like some sort of... shadow. None of the men who were there last night can remember anything clearly. They just know he was everywhere at once."
Campbell leaned forward, his brow furrowing.
"Something's wrong. There's something wrong about him."
The informant hesitated. "And there's more, sir."
Campbell's eyes flashed with impatience. "More?"
"The word is spreading. People are starting to talk about him like he's... something supernatural. And not just around here. We've heard whispers in London, too."
Campbell stood abruptly, throwing his chair back. "You listen to me," he hissed, his voice low but sharp. "There's nothing supernatural about him. He's just another Shelby. A man. And men can be broken."
The informant seemed to shrink under the weight of Campbell's fury. "But sir... his actions..."
"Don't make excuses for him," Campbell spat. "Tommy Shelby's the head of this family, and James is just a soldier. I'll deal with him the same way I dealt with the others. He's a man, not a monster."
He turned on his heel, pacing the floor, his mind already working through his next move.
Campbell had dealt with men like James before—trained killers, hardened soldiers who had learned how to survive the chaos of war. But this was something new. Something far more dangerous than any other man he had faced.
James wasn't like the others. He didn't need to follow the rules. He didn't need to play by the same old standards of loyalty and fear.
And that was a problem.
The next morning, Campbell took to the streets. He went straight to the corner where James had disappeared the night before, where the rain had washed away the remnants of blood, and where the Peaky Blinders had already swept the bodies under their control.
He stood there for a moment, scanning the area, feeling the cold bite of the wind. His mind was sharp—constantly working, always calculating.
Campbell had a reputation. He had spent years hunting men like the Shelbys. He had put down criminals who thought they were untouchable. He'd made lives disappear without a second thought.
But this time, the game had changed.
A figure approached from the shadows—a man in a coat, his collar turned up. It was one of Campbell's informants.
"He's gone, sir. Not a trace. Like he melted into the city."
Campbell gritted his teeth, his fists clenching.
Gone. Without a trace.
This wasn't just about power. This was about control.
James Shelby wasn't playing his game. He wasn't following the rules. And Campbell could feel the walls closing in.
"I want him," Campbell said, his voice cold with intent. "I want him in pieces if I have to. I'll break him and make him wish he never crossed me."
His informant hesitated.
"Sir, if I may—this... this isn't just about the Shelbys anymore, is it?"
Campbell's lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. "It never was."
Back at the Shelby house, Tommy received word of Campbell's movements. He didn't seem concerned—not yet. But he was watching. Calculating. He could see that Campbell was growing increasingly desperate, and that desperation would lead to mistakes.
James, for his part, was already planning his next move. He didn't need to be told Campbell was coming. He could feel it. Feel the shift in the air.
And when Campbell came for him, James would be ready.
The game had only just begun.