Chapitre 447: Jack the Ripper

— 1867 —

— London Backstreet —

In the dead of night, London's backstreets were draped in an eerie and unsettling silence. A thick mist curled through the narrow alleyways, enveloping the cobblestones in a ghostly veil. Dim and flickering, the gas lamps cast long, wavering shadows that danced ominously on the weathered brick walls.

The alley was strewn with remnants of the day—discarded newspapers fluttered weakly in the faint breeze, and a solitary rat scurried along the gutter's edge. The tall, looming buildings seemed to huddle together, as if fearing what might lurk in the darkness. The distant echo of a church bell tolled the hour, each chime resonating with unsettling clarity.

A mysterious figure in a long, dark trench coat dashed through the dark alley. Blood-stained bandages covered the face, revealing only fiery red eyes that reflected deep resentment.