The night wind dragged fog through the dark alleys of London, weaving shadowy silhouettes between the flickering gas lamps—like dying breaths on the verge of silence. The city breathed in whispers, in screams that no one ever truly heard.
In a small clinic tucked away at the edge of town, the scent of antiseptic mingled with warm tea and old parchment.
Hugo sat across from Charles, watching as a shallow cut on his arm was being cleaned.
"Have you ever heard the old tales of Jack the Ripper?" he asked softly, almost as if speaking to himself.
Charles didn't answer right away. His hands were busy wrapping the bandage, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He already knew where this was going.
"The city's beginning to talk again," Hugo continued. "Bodies are showing up in Whitechapel. Sliced with precision... organs missing. Just like before."
Charles paused.
"And you think… Jack is back?"
"No. The real Jack is dust by now. But this… this is someone copying him."
"Copying?"
"With the same kind of skill. The cuts are too clean for a common butcher. I'm convinced the man used to be a doctor. Or... a surgeon."
Charles leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
"A shadow born from a bloody legend," he murmured.
Hugo hesitated before speaking again. "People are starting to fear the night again. Women have stopped going out after dark. The papers are already printing the name: Jack the Ripper."
Charles set the alcohol bottle down on the table.
"You know, Hugo," he said, "a shadow left alone long enough becomes myth. But if that myth is fed with fear… it becomes a weapon."
"A weapon?"
Charles met Hugo's gaze. "Tell me, Hugo, how many nobles would tremble if they believed that 'Jack' no longer hunts just prostitutes... but anyone whose name appears in a letter I send?"
Hugo frowned. "Charles… you're talking like—"
"Like someone who knows how to turn fear into a tool," Charles cut in.
---
Far from there, in a narrow alley soaked in rust and rot, a man hummed softly. The tune was light, like a child playing in the garden.
But in his hand—there was blood.
And before him lay the body of a woman, her eyes frozen wide, her mouth parted in a silent scream.
Jack smiled.
"You know," he said to the corpse, "I used to sing like this for my mother."
He knelt, gently wiping her face as though she were only asleep. Then, with a strange tenderness, he slipped something into her open abdomen—a single dried flower.
Then he began to sing. His voice low. A childish melody, whispered like a curse from the grave.
"London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…"
He twirled around the corpse, blood dripping from his fingers.
"London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady…"
But tonight was different. As he danced and hummed, his bloody fingertips left trails on the ground. He lifted his hand—and began to paint.
Crimson strokes on stone walls.
A face.
A grin.
Empty eyes.
"Art knows no boundaries," he whispered. "Even death can be a canvas."
Footsteps echoed in the distance. Jack turned. A drunk beggar stumbled into view.
"Hey… who's the—"
The knife flew, and the voice was silenced forever.
Jack stood and twirled again, light-footed like a nightmare that refused to end.
"One by one," he whispered. "They will see that art… never dies."
---
The following night, Jack returned to his hideout—a damp underground chamber that smelled of earth and mold. On a stone table lay a sheet of paper. No one had seen who placed it there.
He picked it up slowly, his eyes narrowing.
To the Dancer of the Night,
He sells children to vile men. Says no one will care if they die.
He walks through Abbey Alley every Friday at 2:13 a.m.
Will art show him mercy?
Jack chuckled softly.
"You know I can never resist a performance," he whispered, kissing the letter as though it were a love note.
He looked around. As if searching for whoever had sent it.
But there was no one.
Only shadows.
Only whispers.
"Are you... a guardian?" Jack muttered. "Or... the ringmaster of this circus?"
He tucked the blood-stained letter into his coat.
"Very well. Friday night shall be a brand-new stage."
---
Elsewhere, Vespera stood behind the curtains of Charles' window. Her silver hair glowed faintly in the candlelight.
"You gave him a target," she whispered. "You gave him a stage."
Charles sat at his desk, pen in hand, writing with deliberate strokes.
"I merely awakened his hunger," he replied. "He already had the blade. I only pointed the way."
Vespera gazed at him long and hard.
And in her heart, something whispered:
"Perhaps... you're the real devil here."