On April 12, 1932...
Christopher sat in his silent room, filled with the scent of tobacco and loneliness. He held a cup of hot coffee in his hand while pale moonlight slipped through the window, casting faint shadows across his tired face. His eyes were fixed on the moon, yet his mind was elsewhere… in a time when London was not yet a jungle of stone and corruption.
His memory drifted twenty years back, to April 11, 1912...
To a small backyard where the creaking of a wooden swing, handcrafted by their father, was the only music they knew.
Chris was laughing with Ronald (Roni), pushing him higher and higher until his worn-out shoe almost touched the sky.
Suddenly, little Rose appeared with a pout on her face, arms crossed tightly over her chest, glaring at them with childish anger because the "older boys" had decided to play without her. Chris and Roni exchanged a quick glance… a silent agreement to appease their little queen.
Roni bowed slightly and said playfully:
— "Don't be angry, Rose. I'll push you myself until you reach the clouds!"
Rose sat on the wooden swing and replied with mock pride:
— "Even if you let me play… I'll never forgive you."
While Roni kept pushing the swing, Chris quietly slipped away toward a corner of the garden. He remembered the soft touch of flowers as he quickly gathered them, then climbed the old tree overlooking the swing.
From above, when Rose reached the highest point of her swing, Chris scattered the flowers over her head like a colorful rain.
Rose burst into laughter, her anger melting into pure joy as she tried to catch the falling petals. Chris felt a moment of triumph… but a treacherous branch snapped beneath his foot, sending him tumbling down onto the grass.
What followed was a shared burst of laughter, as all three of them—Chris, Roni, and Rose—collapsed into a happiness they believed would never end.
But it did.
Their mother stepped into the garden, and the moment she saw the ruined flowers, her expression hardened.
— "Who did this?"
Roni and Rose pointed at Chris at the same time:
— "He did!"
Their mother grabbed Chris by the ear firmly.
— "You're grounded for a month! And you'll replant every single flower you destroyed."
Then, in a calmer tone, she added:
— "Now come in. Lunch is ready."
They entered the house and found their father sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. For a brief moment, he looked worried—but his expression softened quickly when Rose ran to him, climbing into his lap and excitedly retelling everything that had happened.
The mother placed the food down and said:
— "Enough talking for now."
But Rose insisted on continuing, so their father smiled and said:
— "We'll finish this conversation after lunch."
In that moment, time itself seemed to freeze for Chris.
He was eating… completely surrounded by happiness.
…
Suddenly, the sharp ring of a telephone shattered the silence of memory.
Chris flinched. The warmth of the past vanished, replaced by the cold emptiness of his room. He picked up the receiver and heard his partner's flat voice:
— "Chris? Sorry to disturb you, but your night shift is due. The city is waiting… and work never ends."
He hung up slowly.
Chris looked at his rough hands…
hands that once held flowers, now only held the cold weight of a weapon.
He wiped his face, put on his long coat, and walked toward the door… then stopped.
He went to Rose's room.
He opened the door quietly. She was sleeping peacefully. Chris stood there for a moment, then smiled faintly.
A voice inside him whispered:
"At least… I have a reason to live."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then whispered softly:
"I will protect you no matter what… you are the last of my family."
He closed the door gently and added to himself:
"I only hope this country gets better…"
Chris stepped outside.
London greeted him with its usual coldness. The streets were drowned in an unnatural darkness; most streetlights in this poor district were broken, swaying like headless ghosts. The fog was so thick it swallowed even his shoes as he walked over the wet stones.
As he crossed a narrow alley connecting the old district to the police station…
A sudden silence fell.
A silence only those who lived in the streets could recognize…
the silence that comes right before an attack.
Suddenly, a human shadow burst from behind wooden crates.
Before Chris could draw his weapon, two rough hands locked around his throat with terrifying force.
But Chris was no ordinary man.
He lowered his center of gravity instantly, grabbed the attacker's arms, and twisted with a precise professional motion—lifting him off the ground and slamming him onto the cold stones.
The man crashed down hard, the air knocked out of his lungs.
Chris pinned him down, raising his fist to strike… then suddenly paused.
He shone a small flashlight onto the man's face.
His hand froze in mid-air.
It wasn't a stranger.
Despite time distorting his features, those eyes… were familiar.
Chris whispered, his voice trembling:
— "Ed…? Edward Neimster?"
The man gasped, tears cutting through the dirt on his face:
— "Chris… I thought you were one of them… I thought John Dreed sent you to finish this."