The train pulled into Birmingham Station, its loud whistle cutting through the fog that clung to the early evening air. The air here was thick—heavier than the mountain winds Ahmad Faisal Ahmadi had grown up with. It was a weight he could feel on his skin, pressing down on him, as if the city itself was welcoming him into its dark, industrial embrace.
Ahmad shifted in his seat as the train slowed to a halt. His long coat, cut from the finest silk in Persia, flowed down to his ankles, covering his broad shoulders and the traditional Afghan tunic beneath. He looked out the window, watching the dirty streets of Birmingham roll past like a scene from a painting he couldn't quite understand.
"Sir, we've arrived," his bodyguard, Kamal, said softly, standing next to him. Kamal was a loyal man, with eyes as sharp as his knife. He had followed Ahmad from the war-torn lands of Kabul to the polished streets of London without a single complaint.
"Thank you, Kamal." Ahmad stood, adjusting the black turban he wore atop his head, a subtle nod to his roots. Even here, so far from home, he would not abandon the symbol of his people. It had become as much a part of his identity as the empire he now commanded.
Ahmad's eyes fell on the crimson envelope on the table in front of him. The Shelby family had sent it—an invitation. A call. A warning, perhaps.
"The Peaky Blinders…" he murmured, running a finger along the sharp edge of the letter. Tommy Shelby was a man of ambition, much like Ahmad himself. And that made him dangerous.
With a final glance out the window, Ahmad stepped off the train and into the world of Birmingham, the city that would either become his next conquest or his grave.
The Garrison Pub was quieter than usual when Ahmad walked in, though the stares from the patrons told him he was already the subject of conversation. His presence demanded attention, though whether out of curiosity or fear was yet to be determined.
The floorboards creaked under his boots as he made his way to the back of the pub, where a small private room awaited him. A lone figure sat at the table, his silhouette bathed in the soft glow of a flickering candle.
"Mr. Ahmadi," the voice was calm, calculated. Tommy Shelby looked up from his cigarette, smoke curling around him like a serpent. "You're not the first foreign businessman to come through Birmingham. But you're the first to walk into my territory and expect a warm welcome."
Ahmad smiled slightly as he took a seat across from Tommy. "I do not expect warmth, Mr. Shelby. Merely understanding. And perhaps an opportunity."
Tommy's eyes narrowed. "Opportunity?"
"The Continental," Ahmad began, his voice steady and deliberate, "is no ordinary hotel. It is a place where men of influence—men like you—can do business without interference. It is neutral ground. A sanctuary, if you will, for those who know the value of discretion."
Tommy leaned back, considering the man in front of him. His sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce through Ahmad, searching for weakness. "Neutral ground, you say?"
"Indeed." Ahmad's eyes did not falter. "The Peaky Blinders could benefit from such a place. A place where your enemies and your allies alike cannot lay a hand on you."
Tommy's lips twitched in a half-smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "And what do you want in return, Mr. Ahmadi?"
Ahmad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Influence. You control Birmingham. I control London. Together, we could control more. Much more."
For a moment, the room was silent. The only sound was the soft crackling of the candle between them.
Finally, Tommy spoke, his voice low. "You don't get power in Birmingham without blood. Are you prepared for that?"
Ahmad's smile grew wider, though it never reached his eyes. "Blood is the currency of men like us, Mr. Shelby. I've been paying in it my entire life."
The night was cold as Ahmad and Kamal stepped out of the Garrison. Tommy had given no clear answer, but the wheels had been set in motion. The Peaky Blinders were men of action, not words, and Ahmad would soon see if his proposal was accepted.
"Do you trust him?" Kamal asked, his voice a quiet rumble beside him.
"Trust?" Ahmad chuckled softly. "No. But trust is irrelevant in this business. It's about leverage. Right now, we have enough of it to negotiate. Soon, we will have more."
As they walked down the narrow streets, a shadow detached itself from the alleyway ahead. Ahmad's hand instinctively went to the dagger concealed under his coat, but Kamal was already a step ahead, his hand on his knife.
The figure stepped into the dim light of a streetlamp. It was Arthur Shelby, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his breath heavy with the scent of whiskey.
"Tommy told me to make sure you're the real deal," Arthur slurred, pulling a gleaming razor from his cap. "We don't like fancy foreigners thinkin' they can just walk into our city without a proper welcome."
Ahmad sighed, his patience already wearing thin. "I have no quarrel with you, Arthur Shelby. But if you insist—"
Before he could finish, Arthur lunged forward with a roar. Kamal moved faster than lightning, his blade flashing through the air, but Ahmad raised his hand to stop him. This was not his fight.
With a smooth, almost casual motion, Ahmad sidestepped Arthur's attack, using the larger man's momentum against him. Arthur stumbled forward, crashing into a pile of crates.
"You're drunk," Ahmad said calmly, watching as Arthur struggled to get back on his feet. "This is not how men of our stature resolve things."
Arthur snarled, wiping blood from his nose. "You think you're better than me, don't you?"
"No," Ahmad replied, his voice even. "But I am not your enemy."
Arthur hesitated for a moment, his wild eyes flickering with uncertainty. Then, with a frustrated growl, he shoved his razor back into his cap and staggered off into the night.
Ahmad watched him go, a faint smile playing on his lips. "The Shelbys are predictable, at least."
Kamal sheathed his knife, shaking his head. "One day, your patience will get you killed, sir."
"Perhaps," Ahmad mused, turning his gaze toward the horizon. "But not today."
As Ahmad and Kamal returned to their carriage, a cold wind swept through the streets of Birmingham, carrying with it the promise of conflict. The game had only just begun, but Ahmad knew how to play it better than most.
The Peaky Blinders were a force to be reckoned with, but they were also fractured, divided by internal strife and external pressures. Ahmad could see it in Tommy's eyes—the doubt, the weariness.
And that was where Ahmad would strike.
With London under his control and the Continental serving as the perfect front for his operations, it was only a matter of time before he expanded his reach. Birmingham, and perhaps even the entire country, would soon fall under his influence.
But first, he needed Tommy Shelby.
And to get him, he would need to play the long game.
End of Chapter 1