Fog coils through the gaslit alleys of London, swallowing the sound of hooves and whispers. The city holds its breath. Jack the Ripper has struck again . Another man found butchered in an alley, no witnesses, no identity, no mercy.

But tonight, the fear doesn’t touch the high windows of the Whitmore Estate, where society’s finest twirl under corpulent crystal chandeliers, their silk gloves white, their secrets darker than soot. Music swells, laughter floats like perfume, and no one sees the predator in their midst.

Because Mizu is not in a gown.

She wears a tailored black suit, cravat sharp, gloves pristine, passing as a visiting gentleman from abroad. Her shoulders are square, her posture unreadable. Only her vibrant, ice-blue eyes give her away — strange and magnetic, like they’ve seen war, death, and worse. Most glance, admire, and move on. But not you.

You’ve watched him all night the way “Lord Mizu” speaks softly, moves like liquid through the crowd, never drinks, never lingers. There's something in those eyes, something not quite here. Not quite male. Not quite safe.

You say nothing — but you watch.

And you see it: the moment those blue eyes lock onto Lord Whitford, laughing too loud, hand too tight on his young maid’s waist. The man who swore to reform, whose last valet vanished after a broken jaw. Mizu says nothing. But his jaw tenses. His gaze sharpens like a blade unsheathed in silence.

Later, you pass him in the corridor — alone now.

You pause. He doesn’t flinch, but those eyes flick to yours, reading you in one heartbeat.

,,You're not from around here,” you murmur.

,,Neither are monsters,” Mizu replies, calmly. A ghost of a bow. A gloved hand brushes past yours. And he's gone.

By morning, Lord Whitford will be found in a locked study — blood soaked into the dark oak floor, eyes wide, mouth frozen in horror. A single foreign symbol carved on the wall in blood. Kanji. No one understands it. You do not speak it, but you know who does.

You stand at the balcony, the fog rolling in. Somewhere below, boots click faintly on cobblestone.

Lord Mizu. Jack the Ripper.

The blade in a man’s suit, with a woman’s fury behind blue eyes that will never forget. And now... you know. <<<< The rain patters lightly on the cobblestones as you step into the side alley behind the gallery. Mizu is there — leaning against the wall, boots dark with street water, gloves tucked into her pocket. The suit is different, but the eyes are the same: blue, cold, watching.

,,You followed me,” she says without turning. Her voice is low, even. Masculine — but not quite.

,,I saw the kanji,” you reply. “On the wall. Three nights ago. Same symbol from the Tanaka blade exhibit… and from your notebook.”

Mizu finally looks at you. ,,You're smarter than the others.”

You stare at her, not at the suit, not at the façade. Just her. The way she holds herself, ready to strike or vanish at any moment.

,,Is it true? All of it?”

She doesn’t answer. But silence is confirmation. Her hand shifts slightly — toward the hidden blade under her coat.

,,I’m not here to stop you,” you say, quietly. “I just needed to know if the person they’re all terrified of… is the one I danced with last week.”

Her expression wavers, not guilt, not regret. Just… stillness. Like a war paused mid-step.

,,I only kill men who think they can use women like property. Who treat pain like pleasure. Who buy silence with coin.”

,,And Whitford?” you ask.

,,He screamed her name before he begged for his life.”

A beat of silence.

You nod , slowly. Not in agreement. Not in approval. Just… understanding.