The early dawn approached. London was still half-asleep when the horse-drawn carriage carrying S and Abberline stopped abruptly in front of 29 Hanbury Street. The fog had not fully lifted, hanging low like a gray veil covering every inch of the road. In the distance came the sound of a woman sobbing and someone scolding the children to stay away.
S stepped down first. The damp, faintly metallic smell immediately struck his face. Even though he had not yet seen the crime scene directly, he knew that scent— a mix of wet earth, cheap alcohol, and something heavier. Something no one wished to identify.
"Area secured?" S asked.
Abberline nodded as he walked quickly. "Yes. But Whitechapel has a bad habit: the more we tell them not to come close, the more curious they become."
S could see it himself. Many heads were sticking out from the second-floor windows of the narrow houses. Some people even stood on the outer stairs in wrinkled nightclothes, whispering to one another in hoarse, frightened voices.
And in the middle of them, the police were trying to maintain a safe distance in front of the wooden door of number 29.
As S approached, a young officer stepped aside. His face was pale, his eyes red as if he had been forcing himself to hold back an unprofessional reaction.
"They found the victim in the backyard," Abberline explained. "The man living on the lower floor was about to leave for work."
S nodded. "Let's take a look."
They passed through a narrow, damp hallway leading to the back door. The walls were covered in moss, the ground slippery, and the smell of household waste hung thick in the air.
At the end of the hallway, lantern light clustered. Three officers stood in a circle, some with their backs toward the victim to keep from feeling sick.
S stepped in slowly.
He was not the type to be shocked by such sights—his life experience had hardened him long before he came to London. But still, a cold touch crawled across his back when his eyes saw the body of a woman lying on the ground.
The body did not move. Her hair was tangled, her clothing ragged. There was no need to get closer to know that this woman had long battled the cruelty of life.
"Victim's name?" S asked quietly.
"Not official yet, but the locals recognize her," Abberline replied. "Annie Chapman. Occasional drink seller, sometimes worked as a maid, often slept in cheap lodging houses."
S nodded, taking notes. The first victim, Mary Nichols, had lived a similar life pattern. Lower-class citizens who were easy targets.
S crouched slowly, keeping a safe distance. He did not touch the body. He only observed.
"The wounds are more…" Abberline searched for the right word. "…structured."
"More precise," S corrected. "Different from Mary Nichols, whose injuries were more brutal and rushed."
Abberline looked at him. "You think the perpetrator is evolving?"
S shifted his attention to examine the small yard. There was a wicker basket, an overturned water bucket, and a wet clothesline.
"Not evolving," he answered softly. "He's getting more confident."
Abberline froze.
---
When the officers brought the lantern closer, S examined the condition of the ground. There were no clear footprints—last night's light rain had turned the soil muddy and ruined any pattern that might have remained.
But something bothered S.
He looked at the small wooden door that connected the yard to the side alley. There was a faint line—like someone had brushed against it with thick clothing. The height was the same as the smear he had seen at the previous location.
S called Abberline in a low voice. "There's a repeating pattern."
Abberline followed the direction of his finger. "Another smear?"
S nodded. "He used the side of the wall again. Keeping his body pressed to the dark areas."
Abberline stared at the alley, this time longer. "He really does know this route…"
"More than that," S cut in. "He knows what time this area is quiet. And he knows how to leave before anyone wakes up."
Cold air slipped into the yard. The lantern flickered.
S stood again, looking toward the back door of the house. "Any witnesses?"
"A woman upstairs heard something around five in the morning. A sound like footsteps or a door being slammed. But she was too afraid to come out."
"Report who that woman is. I want to meet her later," S said.
Abberline wrote quickly.
---
Forensic police work of that era was far from advanced. But S used his sharp observation, mapping the area as if reading a language not everyone could understand.
He examined Annie's body position.
"She wasn't moved far," S said. "The perpetrator did all of this here. But why in the backyard of a house full of people? The risk is too high."
Abberline replied, "A bold killer. Or a desperate one."
"No. Not desperate." S stared sharply at a corner of the yard.
"He's comfortable."
Abberline felt his skin prickle.
---
A loud banging suddenly sounded behind them.
"MOVE! MOVE! MAKE WAY!"
Two doctors from the local hospital entered with makeshift equipment. S stepped back, giving them room. But his eyes did not leave Annie Chapman's body.
As he walked back, he whispered to Abberline:
"This isn't a spike of random violence. This is measured escalation."
Abberline looked at him, swallowing hard. "You think he… has already chosen his next victim?"
S locked his gaze on the narrow alley—dark, stretching out, as if swallowing everything that entered it.
"If he truly is what I believe," S answered softly, "he chose his victim even before we found Annie."
And for the first time since arriving in London, Abberline felt a fear not aimed at the killer…
…but at S's ability to read his mind.
---
Early morning fog was thinning, but the cold still bit like tiny teeth piercing through clothing. Hanbury Street had turned into the center of turmoil. Police struggled to push the residents back, yet the more they were forbidden, the larger the crowd grew, eager to see what was happening behind the fence of number 29.
S had just finished giving the initial observations when she caught that faint, unmistakable scent: a mixture of freshly dried blood, trapped damp air between narrow houses, and the sweat of frightened people. It all blended into one impression that clung to the skin—the signature smell of a dawn murder.
Abberline's voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
"We need to talk to the witness from the second floor. Her name is Mrs. Long."
S nodded, following the inspector's quick steps to the front door of the house. Other officers stood guard on both sides, making sure no resident tried to slip in. As S was about to climb the stairs, she noticed a young boy standing outside the fence, staring at her with wide eyes full of curiosity mixed with horror.
"Is that… is it really him, Miss?" the boy suddenly asked. "Jack the Ripper?"
S halted. There was no benefit in lying.
"Maybe," she answered softly. "But we can't confirm it yet."
The boy swallowed hard, then ran back toward the crowd. Their fear was a small ember being fanned by the wind—soon becoming a fire that would consume the whole city.
---
Inside the house, the air was stuffy. The wooden stairs were narrow, the walls smelled of mold, and the sounds of the other occupants could be heard from the upper floor. When they knocked on the door of a room on the second floor, a woman in her forties opened it slowly. Her hair was messy, her eyes red as if she hadn't slept at all.
"Mrs. Long?" Abberline asked.
The woman nodded. "I… I heard something at dawn. But I don't want to get involved."
"It's all right," S replied gently. "We just want to hear what you know. It won't cause any trouble for you."
The woman hesitated—then opened the door wider.
S and Abberline stepped inside. The room was small, containing only an iron bed, a wooden table with a nearly spent candle, and a window overlooking the backyard. Mrs. Long sat down, hugging her arms, like someone trying to remember something while simultaneously trying to erase it.
"What did you hear?" S asked, sitting directly in front of her.
Mrs. Long stared at the floor. "Around a quarter to five. I heard a voice… I thought it was someone speaking softly. Then I heard footsteps, quick ones, like someone coming down the stairs from the side alley."
"Male or female?" S asked.
"Male," she answered without hesitation. "His steps were heavy. In a hurry."
S leaned forward. "Did you see him?"
The woman closed her eyes, as if reliving the moment. "I… I was afraid to open the window. But I peeked a little through the curtain." She pointed at the dull window. "I saw only his silhouette. Tall… not too heavy. Wearing dark clothes."
"Did you see the victim with anyone before that?" Abberline asked.
Now Mrs. Long hesitated. She bit her lip. "I… I think I saw something earlier. Before the man came down the alley. A woman was in the backyard… talking to a man. Her voice was low, like they were having a small argument."
S felt her heartbeat rise slightly. This was important.
"Did you hear what they said?"
Mrs. Long shook her head. "Not clearly… but I remember one thing." She lifted her head and looked at S. "The woman said: 'I can't pay now… give me time.'"
S immediately noted it. Same pattern.
The victim was a day-to-day laborer who often owed money for a night's lodging. Just like Nichols.
"And the man's response?" S asked.
"Just one sentence," Mrs. Long replied softly, her voice trembling. "He said: 'You'll pay in another way.'"
The room froze for a moment.
Abberline asked quickly, "Do you recognize that voice?"
The woman held her head. "No… but his voice was calm. Very calm. Not angry." She took a long breath. "Like someone who had already decided something."
S and Abberline exchanged a brief glance—a glance that needed no words.
---
After thanking Mrs. Long, S walked back down the stairs. She tried assembling the fragments of information in her mind.
The sequence of Annie Chapman's death became clearer:
— the victim had just arrived in the backyard, likely deciding to sleep there because she couldn't pay for a room
— she met an unknown man
— a brief conversation happened
— the man guided her, perhaps soothed her
— then… the murder occurred quickly, just before sunrise
But something had bothered S from the beginning.
She stopped midway down the corridor.
"This is too risky," she murmured.
"What do you mean?" Abberline asked from behind.
"In the morning, this area is busy. People go out for work, children wake up. Whoever did this knew he had very little time."
Abberline nodded. "It reinforces his boldness."
"No," S disagreed. "Boldness is acting despite risk. This… is something else."
Abberline waited.
S looked at the long corridor connecting the backyard to the main road. Dim light seeped through cracks in the door. "He isn't afraid of getting caught. Because he already understands the rhythm of this house. He knows what time each occupant wakes up. He knows which door creaks. He knows when a carriage passes by."
"As if he… lives around here?" Abberline asked.
S closed her eyes briefly. Not just that. There was a darker intuition—beyond proximity.
As if the killer blended into Whitechapel.
"Not necessarily," S said at last. "But he passes through this area. Very often."
---
Outside, the crowd had grown even denser. Police shouted for people to stay back, but it was like trying to stop the tide with bare hands. S and Abberline had to take a detour just to get out through the fence.
As they walked, an old man approached them. His body was thin, his gray beard unkempt, and his ragged jacket hung loosely.
"You're the investigators?" he asked hoarsely.
S studied him. Not just curious. This man was distressed.
"Yes," S answered carefully.
The old man took a deep breath, as if gathering courage he no longer had. "I… I saw someone last night. Right before the five o'clock bell from St. Mary's church."
"Where?" Abberline asked quickly.
"At the end of Hanbury," he replied, pointing. "A young man, but his steps were… strange. Like he was slipping, but not quite falling. He walked with his head down, as if afraid his face would be seen."
S wrote fast. "What made you think he was suspicious?"
The man bit his lip, then whispered:
"His shirt. The bottom part was… wet. Dark."
S felt her forehead tighten. "Did you see where he went?"
"Toward Spitalfields Market," the man said. "That place is empty at dawn."
Abberline tried digging further. "His face?"
The man shook his head quickly. "No… he kept his head down. And he walked very fast. Not like a normal person."
"His height?" S asked.
"A bit taller than me," he replied. "But not large. Slim."
The physical profile matched previous witnesses.
S gave the man a coin—not to buy testimony, but out of respect.
"Thank you. Your courage helps many people."
The man bowed and left.
As he disappeared into the crowd, Abberline sighed. "This makes things more complicated."
"No," S replied slowly. "Quite the opposite."
Abberline glanced at her. "What do you mean?"
S looked toward the end of Hanbury Street. White fog rose like the breath of a large creature watching them.
"We're starting to see the killer's movement pattern," she said. "Every crime scene has consistent entry and exit routes: narrow alleys, dark corridors, market areas, the back doors of working-class houses."
"And that means?"
S drew a deep breath. "Most serial killers have a safe zone—a place they always pass before and after killing. If we can find that route…"
"…we can find him," Abberline finished.
S shook her head.
"Not necessarily find him. But at least… we can predict his next attack."
Cold wind blew against S's hair. She tightened her coat.
"Whitechapel isn't just a city. For Jack the Ripper… this is his home."
And a home protects its owner.
---
Before leaving the location, S decided to walk alone down the narrow alley behind the house. Abberline called her, but she raised her hand, asking for space to think.
The alley was only as tall as an adult man, long, and smelled damp. Old water pipes clung to the brick walls, dripping like a broken clock—tick… tick… tick…
S ignored the smell. She focused on something else.
She stopped when she saw something nearly invisible to others: a small scratch on the brick wall, at about the height of a grown man's shoulder. The same scratch as in Buck's Row.
S approached, studying it.
The mark was new. Very new.
She touched it. Grains of sand fell from the brick.
It must have happened only hours ago.
A shoulder brush from the killer.
Consistent.
Repeated.
Ritualistic.
Kept low.
Kept quick.
Kept in the dark.
This city had a language, and S was beginning to understand it piece by piece. But that understanding brought no comfort.
She stepped back slowly, feeling the alley watching her in return.
"He moves with the shadows," she whispered. "He does not fight the light… he avoids it. He is not a hunter who wants to be seen. He is a hunter welcomed by the darkness."
And the darkness of Whitechapel had welcomed him with open arms.
---
When S stepped out of the alley, Abberline was already waiting by the market that was beginning to open. He asked, "What did you find?"
S looked at him with a tenser expression than before.
"The third scrape mark. Same one. He used that route… and he will use it again."
Abberline fell silent. "S, if what you're saying is true…"
S cut him off, her voice low and firm:
"We're not dealing with a killer who is learning. We are hunting someone who is already very accustomed to doing this."
The wind carried the scent of drying blood.
Whitechapel was not done speaking.
And S knew… neither was the killer.
---
The wild grass on the side of Dorset Street alley swayed gently in the cold early-morning wind. The fog felt thicker than usual, pressing against the brick walls like a dull blanket that held the metallic smell in place. S stood at the spot she had observed for several hours—at the point where Mary Jane Kelly was last seen walking with a man who was never truly identified. There was no police line, no yellow tape. At that time, London had nothing like that. The crime scene was open to anyone; anyone could walk in and obscure details that should have remained untouched.
When S closed her notebook, she felt a faint tension settle somewhere in her thoughts. She had reread all the reports countless times. The pattern of the murders was already clear, but there was still no method capable of catching someone so blurred, so precise, so… cold. Everything she had seen since arriving here was only shadows, small fragments of someone far more patient than anyone else in Whitechapel.
Footsteps struck the pave stones behind her. S turned and saw Constable Rowland—a young man, thin frame, hard face, but with weary eyes.
"Are you still checking that corner?" Rowland asked, not expecting much.
"There's still a gap," S replied. "The killer always knows this area. More precisely, he knows how to move from one point to another without being seen."
Rowland raised an eyebrow. "You think he lives here?"
S didn't answer immediately. She looked toward the street connecting Dorset Street with Miller's Court. The houses there were narrow, with small windows and decaying wooden doors that couldn't even hold back the night wind. If someone wanted to disappear in Whitechapel, this was the ideal place. A place where a woman's scream could drown in the chaos of a drunken Saturday night.
"If he isn't a local," S finally replied, "he studied this area as if he had lived here all his life."
Rowland swallowed, staring at the fog that swallowed half the view. "The people are terrified. Many say he's a demon."
"Demons don't need strategy. He uses strategy like a surgeon," S said coldly.
Rowland lowered his gaze, not trying to argue. He knew it was true. The victims' wounds weren't just brutality; they were a pattern. A pattern too consistent to ignore, even though chaos sat on its surface.
S took a few steps toward the next alley. The alley was filled with ragged cloths hung as makeshift coverings for some of the poor residents. The farther she went, the more she felt Whitechapel was a labyrinth. A labyrinth with walls that stored faint voices.
The sound of a woman's soft laughter in the distance. A door slamming. The metallic clink of something falling. Horse hooves—perhaps a patrol carriage.
All those sounds blended into one chaotic harmony uniquely Whitechapel. And the killer—whoever he was—managed to slip right between those sounds without disturbing their rhythm.
S stopped near an old wooden door marked with a faint carved scratch. No one knew what the mark meant, but some residents said it had been there for years. Others said it had only appeared in recent months. Hard to believe anything from the mouths of street dwellers, but S didn't dismiss it. Sometimes something that seemed unimportant actually held a crack.
She touched the scratch. No fresh wood debris. Perhaps it really had been there long. Not a clue.
S turned and gazed down the long alley stretching toward Commercial Street. There she saw two night-working women walking while leaning on each other. They spoke quietly, but what S heard was fear—fear of a figure they wanted to think of as a legend, when he was merely a man with intentions darker than any legend.
S approached them carefully. "I want to ask something."
One of the women—thin face, dull brown hair, hollow eyes—exhaled deeply. "You're not from here," she said.
"Correct," S replied, not hiding her identity. "I just need some information. If you've seen someone… anything strange these past few nights."
The woman and her friend exchanged glances. Then she shook her head slowly. "Everyone is strange here, Miss. You'll need to give a clearer description."
S held back a sigh. She opened her notebook again.
"A man around his thirties. Possibly wearing a dark coat. Maybe a bowler hat, maybe not. Vague face, but likely sharp-featured. Quick stride. Not too tall, not too short. Strong, but not muscular. Smells of smoke or alcohol—uncertain."
The two women stared at her silently. Then one of them answered slowly, "Miss… that describes almost every man here."
And that sentence pierced S far deeper than she expected.
She closed her notebook. "Alright. Thank you."
As she turned to leave, the woman spoke again, more quietly. "But… there is one man who's been passing by often lately. Midnight. Not a customer. Not someone we know. Something in the way he stands, Miss. As if he's watching, not searching."
S looked at her sharply. "Watching…?"
"Yes. As if he's waiting for someone."
A few seconds of silence.
"And… I felt like he never really blinked."
S didn't know whether that was an accurate detail or merely the imagination of a frightened witness. But even such a small detail could mean something. Or nothing.
She took note of it anyway.
Then she walked back toward the main alley. Not long after, Inspector Haryo appeared from the corner, carrying two additional files. His face was tired but resolute.
"You need to see this," he said.
S opened the files. Old photographs of the previous victims. Rough sketches of their bodies before being moved from the crime scene. All victims shared a similar mutilation pattern: increasing brutality in each case, as if the killer grew more confident or more impatient.
S looked at the photos for a long time.
She compared them one by one.
Nichols – clean throat incision.
Chapman – more brutal, organs removed.
Stride – different, possibly interrupted or rushed.
Eddowes – more precise. A "message" in tissue removal.
Kelly – the peak of brutality, the peak of obsession.
Haryo waited until S finished studying them.
"What do you think?" Haryo asked.
S closed the file. Then she took a deep breath, holding the pressure that felt like a boulder on her chest.
"I think he doesn't kill to satisfy an impulse," S finally answered. "He kills to dominate. To prove something. Each case escalates. And Mary Kelly… she wasn't just the final victim. She was the climax of his obsession."
Haryo nodded slowly. "So, do you think he stopped after that?"
S looked to London's night sky—the restless fog moving like the breathing of a city that never truly sleeps.
"No," she replied. "He didn't stop. He only changed. Either moved location, changed his pattern, or died without revealing who he was. But stop…? No. Someone like him doesn't stop."
The wind blew again, carrying the scent of smoke and iron. S didn't avoid it. She breathed it in deeply, as if trying to understand what the killer once did here.
The longer she stood in Whitechapel, the more she sensed that this case wasn't just about discovering who Jack the Ripper was. It was about understanding a human—one standing at the darkest edge of himself.
S looked at the alley one last time that night. She closed her notebook and tucked it into her coat. She knew that whatever she had gathered tonight was only the surface. And tomorrow, she would return with new questions.
Questions far harder to answer.
Questions that perhaps Whitechapel itself did not want answered.
But S was determined. She didn't come to London to surrender. She came to pierce the fog that had, for over a hundred years, hidden the identity of someone who stole the lives of five women who never received justice.
She came to challenge a shadow.
And that night, S walked away as the fog closed over her footsteps… as though Whitechapel itself was tending to a secret it refused to release.
---