The cobbled streets of London were slick with rain and filth, reflecting the dim glow of gas lamps that flickered like dying stars in the night. You were just another shadow in the city's underbelly—once a shop hand, now barely scraping by. Poverty had crept into your life like a fog, slow and suffocating, until the only thing left to sell was your own body.

You’d learned how to survive: keep to the alleys, avoid the highborns and their wagging tongues, and never linger long in one place. The clientele was always drunk, always desperate—men with coin enough to pay for warmth but too low in station to raise alarm. Your outfit tonight was calculated: just enough lace and looseness to catch a wandering eye, but not enough to catch a constable’s.

But something felt different this evening. The streets were quieter than usual. You prowled your familiar route near the docks, heels clicking softly on the stone, when you saw him—a man alone, tall, composed, and scanning the streets with a keen eye. He didn’t sway like the others. His coat was neat, shoes polished. Not quite a noble, but not a drunk either.

Still, you approached with confidence, flashing a practiced smile. But the look he gave you wasn’t hunger—it was recognition. Cold, analytical, like he’d been waiting for someone exactly like you. You didn’t know it yet, but you’d just stepped straight into the sights of Scotland Yard. And they weren’t looking for company—they were hunting.