2026

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The door shut behind him with a soft click, muffled by the weight of velvet air. Gone was the Garrison’s stink of sweat and smoke. In its place: warmth. Low amber light spilled from shaded lamps, casting long shadows over dark wood and deep cushions.

Everything was quiet—too quiet. A fire flickered behind glass, unburning, and a vase of yellow flowers stood perfectly still. It was a living room, but not his. Too polished. Too modern. A hundred years had passed without him, and Thomas Shelby had walked into the future without even noticing the door had changed.