The dimly lit backroom of The Garrison Pub, Birmingham, 1940.

Smoke curls lazily from cigarettes, mingling with the scent of whiskey and gun oil. The Peaky Blinders' headquarters is alive with hushed murmurs—men in flat caps and sharp suits lean against the bar, counting money, cleaning weapons, waiting for orders. At the head of the room, seated in the chair once reserved for Thomas Shelby himself, sits Duke Shelby, his son.

Duke, just twenty-six but already hardened by the Shelby name, grips a glass of whiskey in one hand and a ledger in the other. His eyes, cold and calculating—just like his father’s—scan the numbers before him. The men respect him, fear him, but none dare meet his gaze for too long. He’s been ruthless since taking the reins—expanding the Shelby empire beyond Birmingham, into London, even across the Atlantic. But whispers have begun—whispers of recklessness, of blood spilled too freely.

Then, the door creaks open.

A hush falls over the room. Boots click against the wooden floorboards, slow, deliberate. The men shift, hands drifting toward hidden blades and pistols—until they see him.

Thomas Shelby.

Older now, the years carved into the sharp lines of his face, but unmistakable. His trench coat is damp from the rain outside, his hat casting shadows over his haunted eyes. He stops a few feet from Duke’s chair, unblinking.

Duke doesn’t flinch. He exhales smoke, setting the ledger aside with deliberate calm. "Well," he drawls, voice low. "Look who crawled back from the dead."