The Razor Edge

I can feel the weight of the cap on my head, the way it pulls at my brow. The damp air clings to my coat, but I don't mind. It's part of the look, innit? The look that says, "I'm here, and I'm not afraid to let you know it." This isn't a dream. This is real. At least, it's real enough in my head.

A pint of bitter sits in front of me, untouched. I don't need to drink it to feel the fire in my belly. The kind of fire that burns in men who have known loss, who have tasted violence, who live on the edge of something darker than the moonless nights in Birmingham.

I am one of them—the Peaky Blinders. The razor gang. The ones whose names are whispered in fear down every back alley in Small Heath. People call us a myth, something to frighten their children with. But I know better. I know that it's not a myth. It's a bloody reality, and I am its beating heart.

It started like this, quiet at first. I was just a lad, eyes wide to the world, watching from the corners of the street. The men who walked by me, with their long coats and gloved hands, their faces carved from stone, all had that look. The one that said, "Don’t mess with me. Or you'll regret it." I wanted that. I needed that.

You see, I wasn’t born with much. No money. No family name. Just the streets. And on those streets, the Peaky Blinders were kings. They ruled with sharp suits, sharp minds, and even sharper razors tucked inside their caps. The way they walked—like they owned the whole bloody city—wasn't something I could ignore. I watched them closely, day in and day out, and slowly, I began to see the truth.

In this world, power is everything. If you don’t have it, you take it. If you can’t take it, you make it. And when you’ve got the Peaky Blinders in your corner, you don’t have to be born into power—you carve your own.

It wasn’t long before I found myself in the thick of it. Just a couple of lads, trying to make a name for ourselves. But names mean nothing if you don’t have the means to back them up. So, I did what I had to do. The first cut is always the hardest, they say. I found that out in my own way.

I remember the first time I slipped a blade across a man’s throat. The rush of it—the way his eyes went wide, the blood splattering onto my hands like a terrible promise. I don’t know why it didn’t bother me. Maybe it should have. But in that moment, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be.

The Peaky Blinders aren’t just a gang. They’re a family. A family that keeps its secrets tight, that trusts no one but their own. Tommy Shelby is the boss, the one who calls the shots. He’s got that cold, calculating look in his eye, the same look I see when I stare into my reflection. But it's not just him—there's Arthur, with his temper that can light a match, and Polly, with her iron will and sharp tongue. There's the lot of us, all cut from the same cloth, but each of us carrying our own burden, our own ghosts.

I’m not a hero. Not by any means. I’ve done things I’m not proud of—things that make me question whether I'm still human, or if I've crossed into something else entirely. But when you're born in the gutters of Birmingham, when you're raised to believe that your worth is measured by your ability to survive, you make peace with your demons—or at least, you learn to ignore them.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. There’s a power in knowing that you control the streets. The way people look at you, half in fear, half in respect. The way they step aside when you walk past. It’s intoxicating. It’s a kind of freedom that you can’t find anywhere else. No one messes with you. No one dares.

But there’s a price. There’s always a price.

The Peaky Blinders aren’t just about crime. They're about loyalty. About family. About honour—although, in our world, honour is a tricky thing. It’s not about doing what’s right. It’s about doing what’s necessary. And when you’re deep in the game, sometimes you need to make the hard choices. I’ve made plenty of those. I’ve betrayed people I once called friends. I’ve crossed lines I never thought I’d cross. And I’ve buried enough bodies to fill a graveyard.

But at the end of the day, we all have a role to play. I’m no different. I’m not a soldier. I’m not a strategist. I’m something in between. A hitter. A fixer. Someone who gets the job done when the rest of the world turns its back.

I can hear the clink of glasses behind me. The chatter of men and women who are oblivious to the war that’s always on the horizon. They don’t know what it’s like to carry the weight of this life, to live with a target on your back every waking moment. But then again, they don’t need to know. They don’t need to understand. Not unless they’re standing on the wrong side of a Peaky Blinder.

I’m not sure how long I’ll last in this world. None of us are. You don’t live this life without making enemies—ones who are just as ruthless, just as hungry as you are. But while I’m here, while I still walk these streets, I’ll wear my cap with pride. I’ll take what’s mine. And I’ll make sure that everyone knows that the Peaky Blinders aren’t just a name. They’re a force.

I stand up from the table, adjusting my coat, feeling the weight of the razor under my fingers. It's time. There's always something to be done. Always another deal to be struck, another rival to silence, another man to remind of what happens when you mess with the wrong people.

As I step into the night, the fog rolling thick around me, I smile to myself. I am a Peaky Blinder. And that means something. It means everything.

And if anyone dares to question it, they’ll find out just how sharp my cap really is.