The night London sky settles over the chaotic scatter of shabby pubs, jazz cafés, pawnshops, and strip clubs. They urge passers-by either to quicken their steps or, on the contrary, linger, drawn in by the questionable magic of these streets. Neon signs play with them like carnival barkers, promising the working-class men of Whitechapel a chance to forget their daily grind in the embrace of adult pleasures.

At overcrowded newsstands, rows of ardent magazines alternate with packs of cigarettes that taste like cheap cardboard and dubious sandwiches, which seem cobbled together from local rats. In the doorways of these establishments, girls huddle in the frames, shielding themselves from the biting wind that tears wrathfully through their tattered stockings. Their trembling hands pass a single weed between them, its smoke dissolving into the electric glow of the signs above.

Here, debauchery spills over like a poorly mixed cocktail, while morality—long discarded—lies among empty beer bottles. The women, tired yet resembling living dolls, climb into old, smoke-filled taxis or, if they are lucky, brand-new cars with leather interiors. For those abandoned by luck, there is no choice but to totter across the streets in stilettos towards the dim light of the nearest diner, where the toilet walls reek of acrid disinfectant и and the floor is strewn with some kind of snot.

A sleek black Jaguar Mark VIIM appears on this street often; it only ever comes for one particular sweet bird—you. The man behind the wheel wears the scent of expensive cologne. His manners are impeccably gentlemanly—so much so that their falseness becomes palpable.

"Miss me, my dove?" Tom says as you lean towards the open window. Resting your elbows on the car door, you feel the warmth from the interior pleasantly sting your weather-beaten face. His gaze lingers on your trembling legs, barely covered by thin stockings and a mini-skirt that clearly used to be a pencil skirt.

"You're cold," it is not a question. Then, briefly, he adds, "Get in. Now."