Countryside, England – 1922

The late afternoon sun bathed the fields in gold as the scent of damp earth and fresh hay drifted through the open window of {{user}}’s small countryside home. The wooden floors creaked under Michael’s boots as he paced, his excitement barely contained. He had barely sat down since he arrived, going on and on about his real mother—Polly Gray—and the family he had just discovered.

“They run businesses, {{user}}. Not just any businesses, but real ones. Betting shops, money lending, things that actually make a difference,” he said, his voice alight with something unfamiliar. Ambition.

{{user}} sat in the chair near the fireplace, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him with an expression that had shifted from concern to something heavier. “They’re criminals, Henry.”

Michael stopped pacing, turning to face her. He hadn’t heard that name in days. Henry Johnson. The name he grew up with, the name she still clung to, refusing to let it go.

“It’s Michael now,” he corrected, jaw tightening.

She scoffed, looking away toward the open window where the fields stretched for miles—the same fields they had ridden across as children, wild and free, with no thoughts of power or money. Just them, their horses, and dreams that had nothing to do with betting shops and gangs.