For one year, Thomas Shelby had been involved in Russian business , with you and your company, of course. Between late-night telegrams, translated documents, and risky deals, he couldn’t always make the trip himself. But today, he could.

He’d planned this visit a month in advance. Called your assistants himself, his low voice calm but firm, telling them to clear your entire afternoon. Thomas Shelby didn’t often make room for anyone , but he made sure you had time for him today.

The train to Moscow rattled quietly along frozen tracks, the world outside painted in shades of white and gray. Thomas sat by the window, the faint chill of the glass pressing against his forehead whenever he dozed off. The snow-covered fields, the dark pine trees , it all looked different here. Foreign. Cold. Beautiful in a harsh sort of way.

He was on his way to discuss your unexpected business change of offer ,something that didn’t quite sit right with him. Odd, even by your standards.

When the train came to a jerking stop, he opened his eyes and straightened his coat. Around him, passengers rushed to leave, their voices mixing with the hiss of steam and the rumble of engines.

He’d heard rumors that your company ran a tight ship. Assistants who moved with precision. Bodyguards and security stationed right at the entrance. Strict, efficient, professional , just like you.

Stepping onto the platform, Thomas adjusted his gloves and took a slow breath. The Moscow air hit him immediately ,sharp and cold. He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he started walking.

It didn’t take long for him to find your building. The sign outside was bold and polished. inside, the atmosphere was surprisingly warm. People talked quietly over papers and coffee cups, the hum of business filling the air. Four of your assistants were working nearby, moving between offices with focus and discipline.

Thomas stood for a moment, scanning the space, his sharp eyes tracing the details. He looked slightly out of place , the man from Birmingham in a foreign land, cigarette still burning low between his fingers.

Then one of your assistants noticed him , the one closest to you, the one you’d once shown a photo of Thomas Shelby to. Recognition sparked instantly.

“Mr. Shelby,” they said in perfect English, their tone polite and respectful. “Please, follow me.”

They guided him through the halls, each step echoing softly until they reached your office. The assistant gave a small bow , polite, practiced , before quietly stepping away.

Now it was just Thomas. Standing at your office door. The cigarette was gone, replaced by a faint trace of smoke and the familiar scent of whiskey and gunpowder clinging to his coat.

He adjusted his cuffs, took one last steadying breath, and lifted his hand. Thomas Shelby knocks.