Chapter Eleven: The City's Moan
"Cities don't scream…
But they moan for a long time,
And we call that silence." — Eliza Morgan
That night, London did not sleep.
It wasn't because of a single crime,
but because of the collective feeling that something was moving beneath the skin.
Doors were closed earlier than usual.
Lamps dimmed their lights.
People kept glancing over their shoulders… for no apparent reason.
Eliza felt it as she walked down Whitechapel Street.
The city was no longer just a place;
it was a tense body, waiting for the next strike.
Edgar didn't kill tonight…
And that was worse.
In the morning, a strange headline dominated the newspapers:
"Multiple reports of a man in the shadows…
With no confirmed crime."
No corpses.
No blood.
Only witnesses. Too many witnesses.
A man standing under a lamp.
A shadow moving against the light.
A rose left on a doorstep… with no owner.
Howard read the reports, clenching his jaw.
"This isn't a pause…
It's a performance."
In his room, Edgar sat at his desk,
London stretching before him through the window like a living map.
There was no need to kill tonight.
He opened a new notebook and wrote:
"When they expect blood,
I give them waiting.
Unrealized fear
Is the purest form of art."
He smiled.
London began to understand…
even without a crime.
Eliza was writing her new article,
but the words came out differently.
She didn't analyze a crime.
She analyzed absence.
"The real danger is not what we see,
But what we wait for.
This time, the killer doesn't strike…
Because he wants us to hear ourselves think."
When she finished the article, her hand trembled.
Should I write about him… or write to him?
She found a paper among her notebooks.
She didn't remember writing it.
"I hear you."
There was no signature.
But she knew.
Suddenly, she realized Edgar no longer needed to meet her.
He had moved inside her.
Howard summoned her to his office.
The room was cold,
the walls covered with photos and maps.
He spoke directly:
"The city is acting as if it is following a single rhythm.
And this rhythm… comes from your articles."
She raised her head sharply:
"Are you accusing me?"
He answered quietly, like a killer:
"No.
I fear for you."
Then he added:
"He doesn't kill you…
Because he wants you alive."
That sentence pierced her deeper than any accusation.
At night, Edgar stood on a high street, watching the people.
A woman cried for no reason.
A man shouted at a child.
A carriage stopped abruptly.
The city began to fracture…
But not in exactly the way he had planned.
For the first time,
he felt an unfamiliar weight.
Are they hearing me more than they should?
It wasn't fear…
But something like a gradual loss of control.
A man was found dead at dawn.
No wounds.
No signs of violence.
Only a stiff face,
and eyes wide open, as if they had seen something unbearable.
The doctor wrote in the report:
"Heart stopped due to severe psychological shock."
Eliza read the report and felt nauseated.
He killed him… without touching him.
Later that evening, an envelope arrived.
Inside was a single sheet of paper:
"The city has begun to speak.
Do you hear it as I do?
— E."
Eliza placed the paper on her desk,
and wrote a single line beneath it:
"The city does not speak…
You are the one screaming inside it."
Then she paused.
For the first time,
she wasn't sure if it was a message to him…
or a confession to herself.