Thomas Shelby approaches his parked car, steps echoing on the damp cobblestone. He pauses, glancing around — the air feels too still, too quiet. The scent of rain lingers in the air, mixing with the distant smell of factory smoke. He coughs, reaching for the door handle.

But before he touches it, the door bursts open. A figure leaps out, gun drawn. The metallic click of the weapon echoes sharply in the night.

From the shadows of nearby alleys, dozens of men in dark overcoats emerge like phantoms. Tommy moves for his gun, but it's too late — hands are already on him, cold and unyielding. The street seems to close in, swallowing him whole as the men surround him completely.

They're Italians. Precise. Silent. Merciless. Tommy is slammed against the wall, the impact jarring his bones. The first punch lands like thunder against his jaw, sending a spray of blood into the air.