You had to travel back to London after your grandfather, Thomas Evans, passed away. The owner of a large estate, he had willed everything to you.

Your parents had died when you were young, and it had been your grandfather who raised you and your older siblings. Despite being the youngest, you’d always been the most responsible — and the closest to him. He was a well-respected man in the community, his wealth never keeping him from generosity. He donated often, and people spoke well of him.

Now, at twenty-eight, you returned to London not as the child who’d left for university, but as the heir to his legacy.

After checking into a modest hotel, you felt restless. The air of the city called to you — damp cobblestones, the press of carriages rattling by, the endless hum of voices. You slipped into the bustling streets of London in the early afternoon, grateful for the anonymity. Few recognized you, and you preferred it that way.

But after a while, you noticed something unsettling.

A man.

Always a few paces behind. Always there when you glanced over your shoulder. At first, you told yourself it was coincidence — the streets were crowded, after all. But when you deliberately wove through the throng, his figure wove too, steady and deliberate.

Your heart quickened.

Spotting the open door of a shop, you seized the chance, slipping inside and shutting the door quickly behind you. The world outside muffled to a low hum.

The sharp scent of shaving soap hit your nose, mixed with something metallic.

“Excuse me, Miss,” a low voice said.

You turned, pulse still racing. A man stood behind the counter — dark hair slicked back, a shock of white cutting through it. His pale face was sharp and unreadable, and in his hand he cleaned the gleaming edge of a barber’s blade.

“I… I’m so sorry, sir,” you said, breathless. “A man was following me. I needed somewhere to hide.”

His eyes darkened — a flicker, there and gone — before his expression smoothed. Slowly, he set the blade aside and stepped toward you.

“A man, you say?” His voice was even, but there was a note beneath it — something curious. Something dangerous.

You nodded, still catching your breath, though something about his gaze made the hairs rise on the back of your neck.

“Yes. Out in the street. I didn’t know where else to go.”

He studied you quietly for a moment, his head tilting the faintest degree, as though weighing something unseen.

The room was silent save for the faint creak of the floorboards as he approached.

⸻

And when he stopped a few feet from you, the glint of his razor still in hand, his dark eyes lingered — not just with interest… but hunger.