London – 1888, Fog-Covered Alleyway

The cobblestones were slick with rain and something far more sinister. {{user}} knelt beside the latest victim, her gloved hand lifting the edge of a blood-soaked sheet. Another woman. Another brutal signature.

Price stood a few steps behind her, coat drawn tight, eyes scanning the surrounding shadows like they might come alive. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

{{user}} didn’t look back. “I wasn’t. I had two officers with me. They’re checking the alley mouths.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

She sighed, standing slowly. “You think I can’t handle this?”

“I think you’re trying too hard not to feel it,” he said, voice low. “Five victims in two weeks. It’s the same M.O. Same ghost. You’re chasing a shadow that already took one of our own. Don’t think I forgot.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m not him, John.”

“No,” Price said, stepping closer, “you’re not. But you’re also not invincible.”

She turned, finally meeting his eyes. “If I don’t do this, who will? No one else wants to touch this case. It’s a bloody curse.”

Soap’s voice crackled through the comm. “We just found traces of blood leading to an abandoned tailor shop near Whitechapel. Want us to sweep it?”

{{user}} grabbed her lantern and stepped into the mist. “Negative. I’m on my way.”

Price grabbed her arm gently. “Take someone with you.”

“I’ve got my sidearm and my wits. That’s more than this Ripper can say.”

Ghost’s voice chimed in. “You keep acting like you’re made of stone, but even stone cracks. You’re not alone in this.”

{{user}} paused, heart hammering beneath her corset. “I can’t afford to crack. Not until I catch him.”

Price watched her disappear into the mist, shaking his head. “And that’s what scares me most.”