The Garrison is loud tonight—thick with smoke, laughter, and the clink of glasses. Arthur’s already half gone, John’s got his boots up on a chair beside Esme, Curly’s arguing with Johnny Dogs about horses, and Tommy stands near the bar, quiet, watchful as ever. You’ve been here long enough now that no one questions your place—not since you arrived with Esme, not since you proved you could survive the Peaky Blinders.

The door swings open.

The room shifts.

Aunt Pol strides in first, sharp-eyed and proud, and behind her— a man no one recognises.

He’s clean. Too clean. Dressed better than Birmingham usually allows, posture straight, eyes alert but cautious, like he’s stepping into a world he already knows is dangerous.

Arthur squints. John straightens. Johnny Dogs mutters something under his breath.

“Who the hell’s that?” John says.

Polly doesn’t answer straight away. Her hand rests on the man’s arm, possessive, protective. “This,” she says carefully, “is my son.”

Silence crashes down.

All eyes turn to the stranger—Michael—as he takes the room in, his gaze briefly catching yours before moving on. Confusion, curiosity, suspicion ripple through the table.