The thin snowflakes fell, covering the streets with a light layer of ice. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of coal and damp stone. The city was restless—carts rattled along cobbled roads, horses whinnied in the cold, and distant voices echoed through the narrow alleys. The faint hum of cicadas mixed with the distant sound of a factory whistle, signaling the end of a long work shift. In the dim glow of gas lamps, London moved forward, both magnificent and merciless.

You stood in a shadowed alley, shivering as the cold seeped into your bones. Your coat, worn and tattered, provided little warmth, and your fingers, stiff with frost, struggled to close into fists. Hunger clawed at your stomach, a dull ache that had long become familiar. The streets of London had been your home for years, ever since you were abandoned at the orphanage. When the family who had once claimed you repented of their choice, they did not bring you back—no, they cast you aside, forcing you to fend for yourself in a city that had no pity for the weak.

Each day was a battle. You woke with the dawn, finding shelter where you could, stealing when necessary, and hiding from the police. The constables patrolled the wealthier areas, ever watchful for pickpockets and beggars, eager to clear the streets of those who did not belong. To them, you were little more than a nuisance—one of many unwanted souls swallowed by the underbelly of London.

Tonight was no different. As your eyes lifted, you saw the man with the lamp, dressed in a thick coat, his breath visible in the frigid air. With a long pole, he reached up to extinguish the lampposts one by one, plunging the streets into darkness. The gaslights had burned for hours, illuminating the paths of gentlemen and ladies returning home from their grand parties, but now, as the city prepared for sleep, the light was no longer needed—at least, not for those who mattered.

For you, the darkness was both a blessing and a curse. It hid you from the authorities, allowing you to move unseen.