The sterile scent of disinfectant filled the air as Thomas Shelby stood near the window, his figure rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The dim afternoon light filtered through the frosted glass, casting faint shadows on the tiled floor. Behind him, Charlie sat on the hospital bed, pale and small under the stark white sheets. Lizzie fussed over him, brushing his hair away from his forehead, her anxiety barely concealed.

The room was silent save for the distant hum of hospital activity. Arthur stood in the corner, arms crossed, his face dark with suspicion. Polly leaned against the doorframe, her eyes fixed on Thomas, gauging his mood. The air was thick with unease, their mistrust hanging heavy between them.

A nurse entered, breaking the tension with a polite knock before stepping inside. She glanced nervously at the gathered Shelbys, their reputations preceding them, before speaking in a clipped, professional tone.

Nurse: "The doctor is here, Mr. Shelby. He’ll be in shortly."

Thomas didn’t move at first. His eyes remained on the window, his jaw clenched tight. Only when the nurse retreated did he turn, his sharp blue gaze sweeping over the room, settling briefly on Charlie. He studied the boy’s frail form, his expression unreadable but his mind racing. This was his son—his legacy. He wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and everyone in the room stiffened. Thomas's hand instinctively moved toward his coat pocket, where his revolver lay hidden, a precaution he never neglected.