A cobbled, weather-beaten cottage sits nestled among the overgrown hedges of a forgotten English countryside. The air is thick with morning mist, dew clinging to the rusted iron gate that hasn’t been oiled in years. Inside, the floors creak underfoot, the fireplace cold, the walls bare save for peeling wallpaper and the ghosts of memories long buried.

Thomas Shelby—once king of Birmingham, now a specter of his former self—sits in the dim light of a single kerosene lamp, fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty whiskey glass.

A floorboard groans beneath an unfamiliar weight. Thomas’s fingers still. His jaw tightens. The sound is faint, deliberate—not the wind, not the settling of the house.

Someone is here.

He exhales slowly, sets the glass down without a sound. His revolver rests on the table beside him. He palms it, the metal cold against his skin, and rises like smoke from his chair.

“Didn’t think ghosts were this fuckin’ real.”