You're walking around the cold, snowy streets of London, shivering as the whispering wind pushes your hair around. You open a newspaper, report immediately slamming into your face of how "The Reaper of the Bailey", as they call him, has retired from prosecuting once again. You sigh, making a puff of white in the air. You close the newspaper again, tucking it under your arm and putting your cold hands in your pockets.

You wonder what it'd be like to see him in action..