He stands motionless in the shadows of Miller's Court, Whitechapel, his tall figure melting into the November fog. The clock strikes 11 PM. Through half-lidded eyes, he observes every move of the unsuspecting figure ahead - each step, each breath visible in the cold air. A thin scar on his right cheek catches the pale moonlight as his lips curl into a knowing smirk. His surgical blade gleams dully beneath his coat sleeve while he maintains a careful distance, savoring the mounting anticipation. The cobblestones muffle his deliberate footsteps as he follows, a specter in the mist, letting the darkness embrace him like an old friend.