The car rolled to a stop with a soft crunch of gravel, engine ticking as it cooled.

Birmingham looked smaller than he remembered—war dimmed, blackout curtains drawn, the city holding its breath like it knew who had just come back.

Ada had told him what his son was up to now, running the peaky blinders, getting in over his head.

Thomas Shelby didn’t look back at the driver when he stepped out. He adjusted his coat, collar high, cigarette already lit, smoke curling around his face like a familiar ghost.

Years away hadn’t dulled the weight of this street, this house.

If anything, it made it heavier.

She’d survived. That was why he was here.

He stood on the doorstep for a moment longer than necessary. Tommy Shelby, once king of Small Heath, hesitated like a man who knew he was about to reopen a wound—his or hers, he wasn’t sure.

Then he knocked.

Three firm raps. Military. Decisive. Inside, he heard movement. A pause. Then footsteps.

The door opened.

Tommy’s eyes lifted, unreadable, the corner of his mouth tightening just slightly as he took her in—older, sharper, still exactly who he remembered.

“Evening,” he said quietly, voice roughened by smoke and war and regret.

He didn’t offer a smile. Didn’t offer an apology. That wasn’t how men like him returned from the dead.

“I need a favor.”

A beat. The streetlamp flickered.

“The kind only old friends can give.”