Rain swept through Birmingham like judgment.
It cleaned nothing—just pushed the dirt deeper into the cracks. The city writhed beneath the downpour: smoke mixing with storm, steam rising from alleyways, and men moving with collars up and secrets tucked tight beneath their coats.
James stood on the balcony outside Polly's old room, watching the storm roll over the rooftops. He felt it again—the quiet. The moment before something breaks.
Behind him, the sound of a car engine rumbled up to the house.
Polly stepped beside him, her voice unreadable.
"He's here."
James didn't ask who. He already knew.
The front door opened with a practiced knock.
Chester Campbell entered the Shelby home like he owned the floor beneath his feet. Umbrella folded, coat dry as bone despite the weather, his gloved hands behind his back like a preacher about to deliver hell.
Thomas Shelby rose slowly from his chair. "Inspector."
Campbell smiled without warmth. "Thomas. Always a pleasure to crawl through the muck."
He noticed James instantly.
And paused.
"Ah," Campbell said. "And who's this tall, brooding shadow?"
Tommy poured whiskey. "James Shelby. New addition."
Campbell's brow lifted. "Another one? Arthur Senior really got around, didn't he?"
James stepped forward, calm as still water. "Inspector."
Campbell turned fully to face him. Studied him.
"You don't speak like a Brummie. Don't move like one either. Military?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"France. Cambrai. Passchendaele. And places you've only read about while stirring sugar into tea."
Arthur chuckled in the corner. Polly shot him a glare.
Campbell smiled, thin and sharp. "You're either very brave or very stupid, Mister Shelby."
"I've been both. At the same time."
Tommy stepped in, voice smooth. "What do you want, Campbell?"
"I want peace," the inspector lied. "The kind that requires understanding. Respect. Boundaries."
He turned again to James.
"And I like to know when a new player enters the game. Especially one with mystery dripping off him like cologne."
James stared back. "Then take a deep breath. I'll be around for a while."
After Campbell left—vanishing into the rain like the shadow of a gallows—the house exhaled.
Tommy poured himself another drink.
"He'll dig."
James nodded. "Let him."
Polly spoke softly, watching the door. "He already knew too much. And you rattled him."
John entered with a bottle, laughing to himself. "I saw the look on his face. Couldn't decide if he wanted to hang you or recruit you."
Tommy didn't laugh. He leaned on the table, eyes dark.
"Campbell plays long games. He'll find where the cracks are."
"And if he can't find them," James said, "he'll make them."
That night, James walked the city alone.
Not for fear.
For calculation.
He followed Campbell's path in reverse—through side alleys, abandoned pubs, churches still lit in the dead of night. He watched the men who followed orders. He saw the informants. The crooked coppers. The scared ones. The greedy ones.
He saw Campbell's web being spun.
And he saw where it didn't reach.
An idea began to form.
Not a betrayal.
But a move.
Because Tommy Shelby ruled the streets.
But James knew how to rule the shadows.
The next morning, a note arrived for Tommy.
In it, Campbell wrote only two words:
"Your brother."
And nothing else.
Tommy looked up at James across the table.
"He's going to test your loyalty."
James sipped his tea.
"Then let him."