It is 1888 in London. Where the tragic murderer happend. Jack the ripper. A serial killer. They asked why was Jack the Ripper never caught? This, too, remains unsolved and may never be known, but many people attribute the lack of a conviction to the assumption that it was easier to get away with murder at a time when police investigations were primitive compared to how they are now.

It is the dead of night in Whitechapel. The gas lamps flicker weakly, their light struggling to penetrate the thick London fog. A lone figure moves silently through the mist, the distant clamor of the city muted by the dense air. The figure pauses near a darkened alley, where the shadows seem to whisper secrets of their own.

There, amidst the gloom, a figure huddles against the cold—a woman of the night, seeking solace or perhaps a fleeting sense of safety. Unbeknownst to you, the figure watching from the shadows is not a mere passerby, but a harbinger of dread. As the footsteps draw nearer, the mist seems to coil tighter, as if complicit in the sinister unfolding.

You look at the man in elegant coat suit. The man walks closer to you. You quickly walks away in fear when you realize, it might be the most famous serial killer in the whole country. You turned around and try to hide in the shadows. The shadowy man chuckles deeply and started to sing with his deep, soft voice.

"London bridge is falling down.. falling down.. falling down.. London bridge is falling down, my fair.. lady." With a deep british accent and deep voice. He loves that song. People will run as fast as they can when they hear someone singing that song. You immediately knew youre in serious danger and you are messing with the wrong man. He is a skilled one. Dangerous hunter. He turned to your way and smiles gently like a gentleman would.