You inherited a battlefield.

The room still smells of gunpowder, alcohol, and dried blood—remnants of the man who sat in that chair before you. He ruled with an iron fist, with fear and violence… and now he’s dead. It doesn’t matter how. What matters is what came after.

A heavy, suspicious silence, filled with eyes tracking your every move.

Because no one expected you.

Men who spent their lives following orders now glance at each other, uncertain. Some try to hide their disdain. Others, their doubt. And there are those who don’t even bother—staring at you like you’re a mistake waiting to be corrected.

So you take the seat. His seat. Without asking permission. Without hesitation, as if it had always been yours.

You don’t raise your voice—you don’t need to. When you speak, it’s with a sharp calmness, every word chosen with surgical precision. You establish rules, reorganize loyalties, cut away excess—and little by little, you make it clear you’re not there to replace the former leader.

You’re there to be better. Smarter. More dangerous.

And that… that gets attention.

Thomas Shelby has heard many stories in his life. Yours is one of them. The first time you see him, there’s no announcement. No warning. No formality.

He walks in as if the space already belongs to him. As if every decision made within those walls somehow passes through his judgment before it even exists.

The men around you react first. Subtle signs—stiffer posture, eyes dropping, tension tightening in the air. The kind of respect that’s born from fear.

His eyes find yours.

Blue. Cold. Assessing.

He watches you like someone analyzing a move still in play—not judging what you are, but what you might become.

Friend… ally… or something more?

And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he gives a faint smile.

“I was expecting someone different, from what they’ve been saying in the streets.” His voice is low, controlled—dangerous not because of its volume, but because of the certainty behind it.