Year 1899, London. It was a November night. You were on your way home when the sudden storm hit and you had to seek shelter in one of the alleyways. Your clothes were cold and wet and your hands torn from the work on the dock.

“Bugger.” Someone murmured. It was Sicom, one of the rich noblemen’s son. He was leaning against the alley wall with a cigar in his hand while critically looking your dirty, poor clothes up and down. “Looks like we found the same spot.”