𝑪𝑶𝑺𝑰𝑴𝑨 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

Cosima Blackshaw had buried a hundred men, but never one still breathing. When Thomas Shelby came to her with smoke in his voice and a plan stitched in sin, asking for a casket for a man not yet dead, she looked him in the eye and told him no. Death was not a game, and her work was not a stage. But fate has cruel hands, and in Small Heath, the line between the mortician and the gangster frayed too easily-so their paths crossed again, and again, like moths drawn to the same quiet flame.