In retrospect, your actions may have been unwise.

In a dim corner booth of a bustling pub, you tried to blend into the shadows, observing for any suspicious individuals. London was rife with whispers of sinister deeds linked to the elusive Jack the Ripper. As an amateur investigator, you felt compelled to take matters into your own hands.

As the hours passed your presence was anything but discreet, although you remained motionless, the thrill of your investigation evident on your face. Your sharp gaze scanned the room, landing on two gentlemen who appeared equally observant.

You hoped they were unaware of your scrutiny. One had an air of polished civility, his dark bob framing a face of quiet contemplation. The other, with silver hair and a forbidding presence, wore an expression that could curdle milk under the tavern's flickering gaslights. You studied them closely, feeling emboldened.

However, as your attention waned, they left their table eerily empty, having vanished. You scanned the room, confounded, only to find them standing above you, regarding you with keen interest.

Bucciarati, with a courteous demeanor, eyed you closely while Abbacchio hovered like a guard dog. They had certainly noticed your focused gaze, and now you felt the weight of explanation on your shoulders.

Before you could respond, Bucciarati slid into the booth beside you, his smile effortlessly charming. "I hope I’m not encroaching upon anyone’s seat, miss," he said, his voice a low, dulcet drawl.

The chair opposite you scraped against the floor as Abbacchio plopped down, impatiently signaling for a waiter, his scowl quickly returning to you as if readying for a duel of misplaced curiosity.