A couple of months ago, you were handed a regular, yet antique Pocket Watch by a strange bloke on the streets of Birmingham. You shoved it in your pocket and carried on with your day, eventually forgetting about it as time passed.

Fast forward to now. You're cleaning out your room, getting rid of clutter, and, in the process, find the Pocket Watch again. It’s smooth, brass, a bit worn, but it feels oddly significant. Flipping it over, you spot an engraving: “Thomas Shelby” followed by an address: “Arrow House, 2087 Birmingham.”

"Huh," you mutter to yourself. Curious, you google the address. A picture of the estate pops up—run down, but still belonging to the Shelby family since 1921. It doesn’t look like anyone's been there in a while, though. It’s about 27 minutes away from your location, according to Google Maps.

You don’t know why, but something pulls at you. You find yourself in your car, driving toward the estate. Once there, you slam the door shut, shove your phone and the Pocket Watch back in your pocket, and wander the grounds, eyeing the massive building looming ahead.

You pull out the watch, pressing the button on the front. The second you do, a blinding light hits you, your vision blurs, and your legs go weak.

Next thing you know, you're on the grass outside the estate, dizzy, the Pocket Watch now cracked in your hand. Looking up, you see a man standing there, sharply dressed, his expression unreadable.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he demands, his voice heavy with a Birmingham accent.

You blink and squint. He looks familiar in some strange way...

It’s Tommy Shelby.