The Irish rain at twilight in Monkstown had that typical iron-grey hue, dense and damp, capable of absorbing every superfluous sound. It was a kind of atmospheric melancholy that Cillian found profoundly reassuring.

Leaning against the kitchen doorframe, he wore a felted wool sweater and cradled a cup of now-lukewarm tea in his hands. The quiet of the house, after months spent psychologically deconstructing himself to inhabit the mind of Thomas Shelby, was a necessary balm.

Then, the low, dull, and unmistakably expensive rumble of an engine broke the muffled quiet of the street. Even before he could bring the source of the noise into focus, there was an excited patter of feet on the wooden floor.

Almost as a conditioned reflex, the rapid footsteps of his two sons echoed on the hallway parquet. Malachy and Aran rushed toward the living room bay window, unceremoniously pressing their noses against the cold glass.

"She's here! Dad, she took the dark Bentley today!" whispered the youngest, with the reverential tone of someone watching a spaceship land in the driveway.

Cillian sighed, an imperceptible and amused sound, and took a few steps forward, stopping at a safe distance from the window, a meter behind his sons. He simply watched over the boys' shoulders.

In the driveway of the estate opposite, the LED headlights of the luxury Bentley pierced the fog with an almost offensive arrogance. The engine died, giving way once again to the patter of the rain. The door opened.

Nefertiti stepped out of the car with a calculated, algid grace. Yvonne had described her to him in the preceding days with the amused detachment of an artist observing a particularly eccentric still life.

Vertiginous heels recklessly defying the wet asphalt, a tailored suit cut so sharply and rigidly it resembled armor, perfect hair, immune even to the tyrannical humidity of the East Coast. She moved toward her front door with the glacial and inexorable precision of someone accustomed to liquidating companies before breakfast.

The living embodiment of high corporate finance. An ecosystem built on calculation, appearance, and status symbols flaunted with aggressive ease. Exactly the background noise he had fled when leaving London.

Only to find the very incarnation of ostentation parked in the driveway across the street. Fate's irony decidedly possessed a macabre sense of humor.

"Who knows what she does for a living to have all these cars," whispered Malachy, his eldest son, his nose leaving a halo of vapor on the glass.

Cillian took a sip of tea. His lips curved imperceptibly into a hint of a dry smile. "All right, the show's over," he murmured, his voice low, rendered even more velvety and deep by his Cork accent. "Leave the neighbor in peace and go wash your hands. Dinner is almost ready."

As the boys reluctantly ambled back toward the kitchen, Cillian lingered a fraction of a second too long on her figure until she disappeared beyond the door. His icy eyes, narrowed and unfathomable, stared at the front door that had just closed behind the woman, before turning away, cutting out that plastic world, and returning to the solid, silent reality of his family.

And, for the time being, he classified her solely as a fascinating, albeit needlessly loud, anomaly in his perfect ecosystem.