Well… shit.
My new task was to kill Billy Kimber.
I stared at the words for a long moment, letting them settle in my head. Part of me wanted to laugh, because of course the system would jump from "earn reputation" to murder the king of the races like it was just the next step on a list.
But the reward…
The reward was insane.
Stat points meant real power—my power. Not favors, not family name, not borrowed muscle. And a thousand pounds? With that kind of money I could make serious moves. Property. Men. Bribes. A proper operation.
And there was no time limit.
That was the best part.
No clock hanging over my head, no forced rush. Things were still unfolding the way they were supposed to—like the story I remembered—and that gave me room to play it smart.
A long game.
If I was going to kill a man like Kimber, I wasn't doing it like an idiot.
First, I needed a gun.
There was still time to test myself too—see if my increased agility helped. I'd been a decent shot in the war, but this body wasn't my old body. Different hands. Different balance. Different instincts.
Acquiring a revolver wasn't hard. I was a Shelby. We had contacts for everything. A few quiet words, a bit of money, and I had a solid piece in my hand.
I kept it under my coat after that.
From now on, it stayed on me.
Then I handled the other problem: my room.
I was done with that ratty box. Done looking like the brother who'd been left behind. If I wanted influence, I had to look like I belonged where decisions were made.
I found a place not far from the Garrison—a one-bedroom. Nothing fancy, but clean. A door that locked properly. A table that didn't wobble. A room I could actually use.
A base.
By the time I'd washed up and changed, the light outside was dying. I could feel hunger in my body from the day before—like the perk changes had left a fire burning in my stomach—but I ignored it. There were bigger things moving tonight.
I headed for the Garrison.
When I walked in, the place was alive.
Men were singing.
For a second I just stood there, listening. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard men sing in this pub like that—not properly, not together. It made the whole room feel warmer than it should've been.
Then I pushed toward the back.
John and Arthur were already there with a few runners, sitting around the table. Cards were out. Glasses half-full.
Arthur slapped the deck down.
"Shuffle the cards, Johnny boy."
John snorted and started shuffling. Arthur spotted me and grinned through the bruising, like pain was just another drink in his glass.
"Come sit down, eh, Jack. Grab a whisky."
I sat, taking the glass when it was shoved my way. The warmth hit my throat and spread into my chest.
Then Tommy walked in.
The room didn't go quiet, but it shifted. Even the air seemed to tighten slightly, like it was paying attention.
Grace was behind the bar. She looked up as Tommy entered.
"Whisky?" she asked.
"Just beer," Tommy replied.
Arthur frowned. "Why not whisky, Tom? You expecting trouble?"
Tommy didn't answer. He just sat, calm as ever, like Arthur hadn't spoken at all.
John leaned back, watching the singers out front. "Jesus Christ, Tommy. What the hell made you let them sing, eh?"
Arthur laughed. "Yeah, what made you change your mind?"
"It's about time," John added, smirking.
Tommy finally looked at him. "Time for what?"
John's grin widened. "Time you took yourself a woman."
Tommy's mouth twitched—barely. "Just play your hand."
Arthur snorted. "He's blushing, see."
Tommy didn't react.
Then a car pulled up outside.
Everyone's head turned toward the entrance.
"Coppers," John muttered instantly.
Tommy shook his head once. "No."
The singing out front faded, like the room felt something coming before it arrived.
A man walked in with a pistol already drawn.
Everything went quiet.
He held the gun up like he was ready to use it on the first person who breathed wrong. His coat was decent. His confidence wasn't.
"Is there any man 'ere named Shelby?" he called, voice strange—half-posh, half-forced.
Then he fired a shot into the air.
The crack echoed off the walls, sharp enough to make a couple men flinch.
"Is there any man 'ere named Shelby?" he repeated, louder.
Tommy stood.
Not fast. Not panicked.
Just stood, like the room belonged to him and this man was the one trespassing.
Tommy glanced toward the bar. "Harry," he said calmly, "get this man a drink. And everyone else—out."
The pub obeyed.
Not because Tommy shouted.
Because Tommy didn't need to.
Within moments, the front of the Garrison emptied out, the singers pushed away, chairs scraping, footsteps hurrying. The air changed again—business now. Serious.
A table was set in the back room.
Me, Tommy, John, Arthur—on one side.
Billy Kimber and his men entered like they owned the building.
Kimber walked like a man who never got told no. Loud suit, loud face, loud everything. The men around him had that same energy—confidence built on numbers.
Grace came in to serve whisky.
Kimber's eyes locked onto her immediately. He didn't even pretend to be subtle.
Tommy watched it for half a second, then spoke without raising his voice.
"Grace. Go home."
Grace stiffened. "But, Mr—"
"I said go home," Tommy repeated, and his look made it final.
Grace's jaw tightened, but she turned and left.
Kimber smirked as she went. "I've never approved of women in pubs," he said, like it was a moral position and not a weakness. "But when they look like that…"
Tommy's expression didn't change.
Kimber looked over us slowly, like he was counting us.
"You said you wanted a man called Shelby," Tommy said. "Well you've got four of 'em."
Kimber's mouth twisted. "I never did hear of ya. Then I did hear of ya—some little diddicoi razor gang. I thought to meself, so what?" He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. "But then you fucked me over."
His voice rose.
"Now you have my undivided attention."
He stared at the table like we were something he could buy.
"By the way," Kimber said, "which one am I talking to? Who's the boss?"
Arthur shifted like he was ready to stand.
"I'm the oldest," Arthur snapped.
Kimber laughed. "Right, you're the oldest." His eyes slid to John. "And you're the thickest."
John's chair scraped back a fraction. "You laughing at my brother?"
Kimber didn't care. Then his gaze moved to me and Tommy, slow and judging.
"I was told the boss is called Tommy." He squinted. "I'm guessing that's you."
Then he jabbed a finger in Tommy's direction, grinning like he'd won something.
"You're looking me up and down like I'm a fucking tart," Kimber added, voice full of pride.
Tommy stayed calm. "I want to know what you want."
Kimber snapped his fingers and a man with round glasses—thin face, nervous energy—leaned forward. He looked like a bookkeeper. A weasel in a suit.
"There were suspicious betting patterns at Kempton Park," the man said. "A horse called Monaghan Boy… you know it, Mr Shelby."
The conversation went back and forth. Names, races, numbers. Accusations wrapped in polite words.
I listened at first.
Then I tuned most of it out, watching Kimber instead. Watching his men. Watching where their hands sat, how their eyes moved, who looked confident and who looked ready to panic.
My fingers rested against the revolver under my coat.
Not drawing it.
Just reminding myself it was there.
Then Kimber finally exploded.
"I am Billy fucking Kimber!" he shouted, slamming his hand down. "You fixed one of my races, you fucking gypsy scum—without my permission!"
His spit flew when he talked. His eyes were wild with ego.
"I run the races," he kept yelling. "You fix my races and I'll have you shot against the post!"
Tommy stood.
And flicked a single bullet across the table toward Kimber.
One of Kimber's men pulled a gun instantly.
At the same time, I tightened my grip around my own weapon under my coat.
Tommy didn't flinch. He pointed to the bullet.
"Look at it."
Kimber's eyes dropped.
"That has my name in it," Tommy said. "It's from the Lee family."
A pause.
Tommy leaned in slightly. "You're at war with the Lees. They've been attacking your bookies, stealing your money."
Kimber's face didn't soften, but his attention sharpened.
"You need help," Tommy said.
The man with the glasses cleared his throat nervously. "Perhaps we should listen to what Mr Shelby has to say before we make any decisions."
Tommy nodded once, like he'd expected that.
"The Lees are doing a lot of talking," Tommy continued. "They're saying the tracks are easy meat because the police are busy with the strikes."
He kept his voice level, controlled.
"Now we have connections," Tommy said. "We know how they operate. Together, we can beat them."
The weasel-looking bookkeeper glanced at Kimber. "It's worth considering."
Kimber sat back, staring at Tommy like he hated the idea of needing anyone.
Tommy dipped his head slightly. "It would be an honor to work with you, Mr Kimber."
Kimber smiled like a knife.
"Nobody works with me," he said. "People work for me."
He pulled a coin from his pocket, flipped it, and let it drop to the floor.
"Pick it up, pickey."
For a second, the room went deadly still.
Arthur's chair pushed back. John started to rise. Even I felt my blood heat up.
Disrespect like that was a spark in dry grass.
Tommy lifted a hand—small gesture, but it stopped us.
He made us sit back down.
Then he bent slowly, picked up the coin, and placed it on the table like it meant nothing.
"Thank you, Mr Kimber," Tommy said calmly.
Kimber stood first, satisfied, and walked out like the room belonged to him.
The bookkeeper followed. "We'll be at Cheltenham," he said.
Tommy nodded. "As will I."
When they were gone, Tommy drained his whisky in one swallow.
Arthur leaned forward, anger burning through his bruises.
"Tommy… we can't mess with fucking Billy Kimber."
Tommy set the glass down gently.
"Get yourself a decent haircut, men," he said. "We're going to the races."
He looked at us—one of those looks that didn't allow questions.
I sat back, my mind already running ahead.
Kimber. The Lees. Tommy's plan.
And the system task sitting in the corner of my vision like a shadow:
Kill Billy Kimber.
No time limit.
Good.
Because after seeing him up close, I understood something clearly.
I really wanted to put a bullet in the cocky bastard.
I stood slowly, making my way out the garrison.
I need to get out of here, get fresh…
And yeah—Lizzie was waiting tonight.