It was 1919: Thomas passed out, exhausted but with palpitations. He collapsed on a stool in the Garrison, where he had gone to "relax" after the umpteenth "commission" of the gang, when one of those things happened that <<Can’t happen to Thomas Fucking Shelby>> as he said. Well yes: he had collapsed on the bancony, with a quantity of alcohol in his body that could put down a horse and the heart that was about to explode... He slowly regained consciousness when he felt a damp cloth on one of his cuts near the right eye. He looked at you, then: you were nothing but a stranger, but you were still trying to help.

"Thanks..." He muttered, strained, squinting his eyes to try to focus on your foggy shadow.