Author's Note:Hey! If you've got any ideas, theories or things you'd like to see in this story, drop them in the comments. I'm always open to good input as it could help shape and improve the story.
Thanks for reading and supporting this fanfic.
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"You make your own reality."
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1919, Shelby House. Small Heath, Birmingham.
Three days in this world and every move reminded Finn that his 14 year old body lacked strength. He realized that he can't rush it, as the body needs time, years maybe.
His hands clenched, but his mind stayed sharp, his brain's not weak after all.
That's what I've got. He saw it clearly: the Shelbys' world ran on bets, blood and power, and it ran on smarts, not fists. But it wasn't fists that kept you alive. Not for long. It was brains.
I'll build from there, he vowed with his cap low and boots on. Starting today.
Downstairs, the house began to stir.
He heard the clink of pots and the low sound of voices coming from the kitchen.
Polly's sharp and not loud voice broke the quiet, "Finn, you up?". She wasn't the type to go for a second call.
"Yeah, Pol," he called while stepping into the kitchen.
She stood by the stove sorting through betting slips and notes while stirring a pot. Her scarf hung loose around her neck. Her expression was set, her mind clearly on the work in front of her.
She showed no warmth, only expectation.
"Water," she ordered while gesturing to a small bucket. "Then to the market for bread."
Finn took the metal bucket from the corner. His arms strained as he lifted it, not in an obvious way, but he could feel it. No power. He kept his face steady and walked to the back, filled the bucket from the pump, and returned.
He stopped near the door before heading out again. "Pol," he said, voice low. "Can I come to the shop today? Just to watch how it works."
Polly slowly looked over. She quietly studied him for a second. "Watch?"
He nodded once. "Just want to see how it's done. I'll stay out of the way."
She blinked slowly with her eyes narrowing. "What brought that on?"
He shrugged. "Just want to learn. I'm not asking to run anything."
She didn't answer right away. She folded one of the papers, tied it with string, then handed him a rag. "Sweep if you come. Don't touch nothing, and don't talk to the men."
And that was enough.
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The betting shop on Garrison Lane had its own rhythm.
The front door opened and closed every few minutes, and thick smoke floated through the air.
Men leaned over the counters, while coins dropped into jars and slips were passed between hands.
Everything moved fast but with loose edges.
Finn slipped in behind Polly with his cap low, his young body lost in the crowd of punters shouting, coins clinking and odds scratched sloppy on a board.
Finn's eyes darted as his hyper-learning kicked in, paying attention to the names being called and the bets shouted across the room.
And Monaghan Boy's name came up often, one of Tommy's fix.
He looked at how people folded their slips. Some were neat, while others had crossed-out numbers.
Details stuck with him; Sam, five bob; Joe, eight. Names and numbers thrown around with no structure. It was pure chaos.
He gripped the broom Polly had handed him while thinking, 'They're bleeding money like this.'
Arthur bellowed at the counter with his rough voice, half-laughing and half-serious. "Oi, six to one, pay up!"
John scribbled numbers quickly and carelessly. The betting slips piled up in a mess.
Tommy stood back with his pale eyes scanning everything. He didn't miss a thing. He was cold and distant.
Finn kept sweeping and dust rose around him. His mind moved faster than his hands. Slips got mixed up, and bets went missing. 'I could fix that,' he thought.
But he said nothing. He Just watched while Learning.
Polly moved through the noise collecting slips. "Bill, ten bob, now." Her voice was sharp and quick. And the punters didn't argue, they simply listened, and she ran the floor like a general.
Finn swept closer while watching how she worked. Names were rushed and Sums were messy. There was no proper system in place.
They need stacks, he thought, Maybe color-coded. He filed the thought away.
His hands gripped the broom tighter, he has no strength to lift crates like John, but he didn't need muscle. That's he's way in.
A big, red faced punter bumped him. "Move, lad!"
Finn stumbled, his broom slipping from his hands. His body folded under the shove, he was too weak to hold his ground. There was no fight in him, not yet.
He stood slowly while glaring. The man just laughed then walked off, and finn grabbed the broom again.
He started sweeping again. No sulking and no muttering. Just focus.
Dust piled in the corners, like the plans forming in his head.
Polly caught it. Her eyes flicked from the counter. "Finn," she said, her voice dry. "You're in the way. Out."
"Not done," he said. His tone was calm and firm, and the broom didn't stop moving.
Polly's brow lifted just slightly. "Then sweep faster," she said while turning back without waiting for a reply.
Finn felt something shift. It was small but real. She'd noticed him, not much, but it's enough.
'She's sharp', he thought. 'Shedoesn't miss a thing.'
He kept sweeping, his eyes on every slip, every name and number; Mary, ten bob. Tom, two pounds. His mind locked it all in. The bets weren't just coin, they were Shelby blood.
The shop got louder as the hours dragged on. His arms ached and his body got tired, but his brain didn't slow.
He kept watching, and kept learning. Slips were stacked wrong and odds changed too late, and punters slipped through cracks.
'I could fix this,' he thought. 'Could make it clean and Fast.' But not today, it's too soon. He hadn't earned that kind of trust.
Arthur passed by, loud as ever. "Finn, still here?" He grinned like it was a joke.
"Yeah, Arthur." Finn calmy nodded. He didn't grin back, and there was no kid energy. Just presence.
Later, as the crowd began to thin and Polly gathered the final slips, she passed near him.
"Finn," she said without turning, "get home."
He stood still. "I can come again tomorrow."
Polly looked at him, eyebrow slightly raised. "What, you like sweeping now?"
"I want to help. Learn properly."
She took out a cigarette, held it between her fingers. "You're not strong enough to lift the ledgers. And you're too soft to handle the drunks."
"I'm not asking for that," he said. "I just want to keep coming."
She watched him this time longer. Not with suspicion, but with quiet interest.
"You keep your mouth shut, you keep sweeping and you stay out of everybody's way. That's the deal."
He nodded.
"Good. Tomorrow, same time." Then she walked away, not waiting for a reply.
And he left the shop slowly.
The air was colder outside.
His arms were sore from holding the broom, and his knees ached. But his mind had filled with names, amounts, gaps and habits.
He could see things more clearly now; how Polly organized, where Arthur got distracted, how John mixed up slips and how no one noticed small changes in coin or odds.
He didn't need to tell anyone yet. He needed more time and more days like this.
Quiet. Unnoticed.
If he stayed long enough, they would see the difference.
Not because he said it, but because the work would show it.
This was step one. Observe. Record. Adjust.
And tomorrow, he would be back.