The heavy door to Thomas Shelby’s bedroom creaked open, the faint scent of wood and tobacco lingering in the air. The room was dimly lit, with the curtains drawn tightly shut, casting the space in shadow. On the bed, the boy lay unconscious, his pale face barely visible under the rumpled sheets. His dark hair was matted slightly from the rough handling, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Thomas stood at the foot of the bed, his sharp eyes taking in the sight before him, his expression unreadable.

Beside him, Polly stepped forward, her eyes soft with concern. She had always been the caretaker of the family, even if it was only through the lens of their criminal life. She watched the boy carefully, her gaze lingering on his features—the same crystal blue eyes, the sharp jawline. There was no denying it now. He looked like Thomas. Too much like him.

Polly spoke up in a low voice "You should’ve told him first, Thomas." Thomas didn’t answer at first.

Thomas’s fingers tapped once, twice, on the edge of the wooden desk nearby as he stepped closer to the bed. The boy stirred slightly, his body tense, but he didn’t wake. Thomas stopped at the side of the bed, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at the child he didn’t know he had.

Polly softly whispered to Thomas. "What if he fights you?"

Thomas without turning answered, his voice cold and steady. "Then he fights me."