The Garrison Pub – Two Days After the Fire
The atmosphere inside the Garrison was thick with tension. Every man seated around the long table bore the scars of war—some fresh, others buried under years of blood and silence. Whiskey glasses sat untouched. Cigarettes burned out in ashtrays.
At the head of the table sat James, arms folded, his back straight, jaw set. The explosion of the warehouse had rattled the Italians, but it hadn't slowed them.
Tommy laid a folded map across the table, weighted down with a loaded revolver.
"They've started pulling in from London. Changretta's brought over six more from New York—hired muscle with no names and no rules."
Arthur, pacing like a caged wolf, barked, "Let's bring the fucking fight to them again!"
James raised a hand. "We can't strike blind. They're hunting us, but we've got the home ground."
Tommy nodded. "Then we draw them in."
"Trap?" Arthur said.
James tapped a spot on the map. "We turn the old factory into a killing ground. We leak a shipment schedule—make it look like we're rearming."
"Then what?" Finn asked.
James leaned in, his voice like stone. "We close the gates behind them. We leave no one alive."
Later That Night – The Spirit World
After the meeting, James slipped away.
He walked alone to the old Romani grounds on the edge of the city—land scorched by time and legend. Beneath a willow tree that had once shaded his mother's caravan, he knelt in the grass and removed his coat.
The ring returned to his hand, pulsing faintly.
He whispered the words "E Yilo Devlesa"—With the Blood of God.
The world around him dimmed.
The sky melted into shadow.
The trees whispered secrets in tongues older than English.
He was no longer in Small Heath.
He was back in the realm between, where spirit and flesh blurred, and time moved in circles.
A figure emerged from the swirling mists—a man in a crimson cloak, eyes glowing gold, tattoos across his face in Romani runes. His skin shimmered like fire caught in glass.
"You seek strength," the spirit said. "But strength alone cannot end a blood feud."
James bowed his head. "I seek knowledge. A way to end the vendetta before it swallows my family."
The spirit circled him. "To end it, you must become what they fear. Not just a soldier. Not just a Shelby. You must become the storm your blood remembers."
The spirit touched James's forehead.
A flood of images overtook him—memories not his own. Wars. Fire. Rituals. A line of warriors cloaked in night, bearing the mark he now wore.
"You carry the blood of firewalkers. Protectors. Curse-breakers. But your fire is still scattered."
James gasped. "What must I do?"
"Unite it. Call the three powers. The soldier. The shadow. And the flame."
The spirit raised his hand—and suddenly James stood before three burning doors.
Behind one, the strength and shield of Captain America—honor, power, the perfect warrior.
Behind the second, the mind and vengeance of Batman—will, intellect, unbreakable fear.
And behind the third… a door older than either, pulsing with crimson and gold light—the Romani flame, the ancient power of his ancestors.
"To win this war, you must walk through all three… and return alive."
James's Vision Ends
He woke on the forest floor, chest heaving, hands glowing faintly with a red flame that quickly faded. His ring pulsed once.
Something had changed.
He rose, brushing leaves from his coat.
The time for hiding was over.
Small Heath – The Trap Set
The abandoned steel mill had been rigged to hell.
Trip wires, hidden tunnels, snipers in the rafters. Ada sat in a truck nearby, pretending to be a helpless courier. Inside, Tommy, Arthur, and James waited behind steel crates, guns drawn, breathing slow and measured.
As the Changretta men entered, one by one, weapons ready, the trap was sprung.
Gunfire echoed through the factory.
Smoke filled the rafters.
Arthur screamed with fury, firing round after round, a wild, furious angel of vengeance.
James moved like a specter—precise, unrelenting. He ducked and weaved between shadows, dispatching two men with silent precision before leaping down and crashing into another with a steel pipe.
He wasn't just fighting.
He was channeling.
Power surged through his limbs—not just muscle, but will, memory, flame.
The battle lasted less than ten minutes.
When it was over, eight men lay dead.
The floor was slick with blood.
James stood above the last one, Luca's lieutenant—Enzo Valeri—clutching a gut wound.
"Tell Luca," James said coldly, kneeling close, "Tell him I saw death, and it looked like me."
Then he stood and let the man bleed into the concrete.
That Night – The Garrison
Victory, but not celebration.
Tommy leaned against the bar. "He'll come himself now."
James nodded. "Let him. He'll find nothing left."
Tatiana entered quietly, wrapping her arms around James's waist. She kissed his cheek, whispering, "Elena asked where you went."
James smiled faintly, resting his forehead against hers.
"I told her," Tatiana continued, "that her father's out there keeping the monsters away."
James said nothing.
But his hands trembled.