You pull up the dirt road leading to the tight-knit community of Irish Travellers, the car's engine hummed as you approach a secluded campsite of a small cluster of caravans. The grey skies overhead were typical of a London morning, the air was thick with moisture and smelled faintly of damp earth and wood smoke.

The place is lively, with children running around, surrounded by scruffy barking dogs, the distant hum of conversation, and the occasional clang of metal as a few adults work nearby.

As you come to a stop, the little ones abandon their play and approach the car, their curious faces peering through the windows. You hear their soft voices, thick with accent, asking what you're doing here, what’s in the car, if they can take a look.

Before you can even answer, Mickey O'Neil appears from behind one of the nearby caravans. He's wearing his usual hat, a green button-down shirt, and a dark shearling coat. His good luck charms hang around his neck. The grin on his face is unmistakable. He sees the kids crowding around you and the faintest flicker of annoyance crosses his face.

"Oi! Get back, ya little monkeys!" he says, his voice more playful than stern. He shoos them away, but there's no anger in his gesture—just the kind of control that comes with being respected.

"So, what brings ye here?" He asks, leaning casually against your car. His voice has this thick accent, the words almost slurring together, but it’s clear enough. “Ye come for a chat, or did ye hear we’re the ones to see for a deal?” He pauses, looking you up and down, assessing you with a slow, thoughtful gaze.

"I reckon ye’ve got somethin’ good to trade, aye?" His grin widens, and he crosses his arms, waiting for your response.