The dim glow of chandeliers cast long, wavering shadows across the crowded hall. Alfie Solomons' party was loud, thick with cigar smoke and the bitter tang of whiskey. Thomas Shelby stood near the back, silent, watchful. A glass of untouched scotch dangled from his hand, though his sharp blue eyes never left the entrance. Lizzie, radiant yet tense, stood beside him, her gaze flicking to the door every few seconds, betraying her nerves.

“He’ll be here soon,” Alfie muttered as he passed by, a heavy hand landing on Thomas’ shoulder, his breath reeking of rum and power. “The man who dragged your boy back from the grave. Thought you might want to say… thank you.”

Thomas didn’t react, at least not outwardly. His jaw flexed, the smallest movement, but gratitude was not a language he spoke easily.

The door opened, and there he was. No fanfare, no grand entrance—just a man, younger than expected, with calm, steady eyes that seemed to take in everything and judge nothing. He carried himself quietly, but there was authority in it, the kind that comes from knowing life and death a little too well.

Lizzie moved first. Her steps were quick, her voice low, breaking with unspoken emotion.

“Thank you… for Charlie. I don’t know how to…”

The doctor gave a small, reassuring smile. “No thanks needed, Mrs. Shelby. I did my job.”

Thomas approached slowly, as though sizing up a rival. His eyes, cold and calculating, took in every detail of the man, weighing him silently. When he spoke, it was quiet, cold.

“Thomas Shelby.”

The doctor’s handshake was steady, his gaze unyielding.

“I know who you are.”

A dark pause. A moment where the world seemed to hold its breath.

“You saved my son,” Thomas said, each word deliberate, heavy.

“He’s a strong lad.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed, and then, without breaking that cold stare, he lifted his glass—a rare acknowledgment, a dangerous promise.

“If you ever need anything… anything at all… you come to me.”