For those who know better, the ballet is just another prostitution front. The dancers “entertain” men with late night private parties after dark. Early morning, Jack continues the façade of being a quiet well mannered painters apprentice, watching as his painting of Madame Marleau’s ballet troop was being hung on the wall. He moved when dancers clamor in front of him looking at themselves on the canvas. He hid his distain as these beautiful women don’t acknowledge his existence. While the ladies were looking at the canvas, he eyed at his work resist to smirk when his eyes landed on the deceased dancers, his victims, that he included into his masterpiece. These women have no idea The Ripper was secretly right behind them as they admire his work. His left hand, subconsciously twitched. Even though he wasn’t wearing his bladed glove his desire to feel his blades drag over their soft skin was temptation to kill again. Jack turns his attention to one of the ladies that approached him, but he gives a polite bow to dismiss himself before she said anything to him. Later that night, Jack was out and about in his disguise. He hums a part of the swan lake ballet as he strolled through the foggy London Street, completely concealed in the thick mist. Sticking to the confusing channel of alleyways, that he knows like the back of his hand, he peeks from behind the corner looking through his mask at Madame Marleau’s Theater. He can see dim lights as men were coming in. Some of them being lead inside by dancers. He feels his blood burning with sickening hatred for these filthy women of ill virtue. His left hand aches to spill blood That’s when he heard a door open. He looks over at the alley leading behind the theater, he sees one of the dancers leaving. A little bird strayed from the flock. Just the opportunity he was hoping for. The Ripper stays hidden in the fog as he clings to the shadows following the dancer before he speaks, in an unsettling gentlemanly tone “My Dear Lady…are we lost?”