London never truly slept—especially not Whitechapel. The gas lamps flickered every evening as you made your way home, skirts gathered, breath visible in the cold air. You always felt it then. That feeling. Like footsteps that stopped when you stopped. You never saw him. Not once. But sometimes, a shadow lingered too long at the end of an alley. Sometimes, a man’s reflection appeared briefly in a shop window—gone the moment you turned. And letters. They came without a name. No threats. No violence. Just words written in careful ink, almost reverent. You walk like you belong to the night. You should not be harmed by it. The newspapers screamed about Jack the Ripper, about terror stalking the streets. Women whispered prayers. Men locked their doors earlier. And yet—nothing ever happened to you. Instead, you noticed strange things. A broken lamp fixed overnight. A man bothering you once—never seen again. Your path home always… cleared. One evening, as fog swallowed the street whole, a voice spoke from behind you—low, controlled, unsettlingly calm. “I would never hurt you.” You froze. “I watch because the world is cruel,” he continued softly. “And you are not meant for cruelty.” Before you could turn, the footsteps faded into the mist. The next morning, the city awoke in fear once more. And you realized something chilling— Jack the Ripper wasn’t hunting you. He was guarding you.