The street is still burning. Not loudly—just enough. Small flames licking at shattered brick, crawling through broken wood like something alive.

A pram lies on its side in the road, one wheel still spinning.

Somewhere deeper in the city, something collapses—slow, heavy—followed by the distant echo of shouting that doesn’t quite reach here.

Birmingham, November 1940. The Luftwaffe has already passed.

And what’s left behind… is quieter than war.

A figure moves through the smoke.

Not hurried. Not cautious.

Certain.

The coat is too clean for this place. The boots too steady over broken glass. A flat cap casts a shadow that hides the eyes, but not the shape of the man beneath it.

Thomas Shelby.

He pauses beside the wreckage of what used to be a factory—steel bent open like ribs. Hours ago, women worked here. Now the place is hollowed out, the smell of ash and iron still hanging in the air.

He looks at it for a long time.

Not shocked. Not grieving.

Measuring.

A flicker of movement behind him—men in the distance, dragging crates from the ruins. Salvaging what the bombs didn’t finish. The Peaky Blinders are already working.

Business doesn’t stop for war.

It feeds on it.

Tommy reaches into his coat, pulling out a small notebook—worn, edges darkened by use. Pages filled with handwriting too precise for a man who’s supposed to be falling apart.

He doesn’t open it.

Just holds it there for a moment, like it weighs more than it should.

The wind shifts. Smoke rolls past him, and for a second—just a second—there’s something else in his expression.

Not fear.

Something closer to recognition.

As if the world has finally caught up with him.

Another building groans in the distance.

Tommy Shelby slips the notebook back into his coat…

…and walks deeper into the ruins, toward the men, the fire, and whatever comes next.