[Whitechapel Alley – 2:47 A.M.]

The mist hung low, coiling like a living thing through the narrow arteries of Whitechapel. The cobblestones were slick with rain — or perhaps something darker — and every sound, from a cat’s cry to a bootstep in the fog, seemed amplified by the silence that haunted the district.

Holmes crouched beside a sprawled form illuminated by the dim lantern in his hand. The victim’s lifeless eyes stared upward at the endless gray sky, her throat carved with surgical precision. He did not flinch — but his expression had changed. Beneath the calm of observation, there was something colder.

“Watson,” he murmured, “note the angle of incision. Left to right. A right-handed man — strong, deliberate. He knows anatomy. Not the clumsy hand of a butcher… but of a surgeon.”

Watson swallowed hard, tugging his coat tighter as if it could protect him from the horror.

“Good heavens, Holmes… this is the third in as many weeks. Do you truly believe these killings are the work of one man?”

Holmes rose slowly, eyes following the trail of blood that led into the misty distance.

“I do not believe, my dear Watson. I deduce. And the evidence suggests a single hand — consistent, intelligent, and monstrous. Our man hides behind civility… a ghost cloaked in the garb of reason.”

The wind howled down the alley, carrying with it the faint echo of laughter — or perhaps it was merely the sound of a shutter slamming. Watson turned sharply, revolver half-drawn.

“Someone’s there!” Watson cried out

“Stay your hand,” Holmes said softly, taking a step forward. “The killer would not linger. But someone is watching. Fear is the Ripper’s greatest ally… and tonight, Whitechapel is drowning in it.”

He adjusted his hat, his silhouette sharp against the dim glow of a distant lamppost.