The first scream barely made it past her lips. The second never came at all.
Fog swallowed the alley, thick and yellow under the flickering gaslight. Somewhere beyond, London’s streets bustled, laughter and carriage wheels clattering over cobblestone. But in this narrow cut of darkness, the world had shrunk to a breath. A heartbeat. A blade.
She tried to run. The knife found her first.
He worked quickly. Efficient, like a butcher with years of practice. Red dripped from steel, warm against the cold night air. He watched the life go out of her, eyes wide and glassy, mouth frozen mid-gasp.
He wiped the blade clean. Always wipe it clean.
Footsteps.
His head snapped up. A drunkard, stumbling into view, humming some off-key melody. The Ripper melted into the shadows, pressing against the damp brick. The fool staggered past, unaware.
A chuckle tickled his throat. They were all so blind. So blissfully unaware of the monster walking beside them, touching their coats, breathing their air.
He stepped back into the fog, a shadow among shadows, vanishing without a sound.
Tomorrow, the papers would scream for him. The whole city would.
He licked the last drop of blood from his glove and grinned.
Let them.
