Birmingham, 1930 — Arrow House

The rain lashed against the tall windows of Arrow House, casting flickering shadows across the polished floors and dimly lit corridors. It was nearing midnight, and a storm had rolled in over the countryside, thunder grumbling in the distance like an omen. Inside the grand estate, however, a different kind of storm was unfolding.

You had been in labor for hours—long, brutal hours filled with pain and fire tearing through your body. The cries echoed through the halls of Arrow House, sharp and guttural. Midwives moved around you, focused but tense, their hands busy, their brows beaded with sweat. The heavy scent of blood and linen filled the room. You gripped the headboard of the large bed, your hair plastered to your temples, your gown soaked through. Each contraction made your voice shatter the stillness of the manor.

“Push!” one of the midwives called out again, her voice calm but firm.

You let out a cry—loud, raw, primal.

Outside the bedroom, chaos had its own rhythm.

Thomas stood just beyond the door, fists clenched, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He was dressed in his white shirt and vest, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his cap long discarded. His cigarette had burned out minutes ago, forgotten between his fingers.

Polly stood in front of him, her hand on his chest. “No, Tommy,” she said firmly, eyes locking with his. “You go in there now, you’ll only make it worse. She needs focus. She needs space. Let the midwives do their job.”

Thomas didn’t reply. His jaw was tight, his eyes full of fear he couldn’t name. He had faced guns, betrayal, enemies in every shape. But this? This was different. This was his wife. His world. And she was screaming his name through those walls.

Finn sat silently on the staircase nearby, too young to fully understand, too old to not feel the tension. Ada stood beside him, arms crossed over her chest, her brows furrowed, but her gaze soft. John had a glass of whiskey in his hand, though he hadn’t touched it. Arthur paced alongside Thomas, dragging his hand down his face every few seconds. No one could sit still.