No sound.

No beggars' cries.

No cheap pub music.

Even the rats seemed to choose death over wandering these alleys.

Charles' footsteps echoed softly on the wet paving, reflecting the dim glow of the gas lamps. He should have been back at the Milverton house... but for some reason, his heart pulled his feet to this district. Whitechapel.

A place where the whispers of death flow like wind.

"How silent it is..." he whispered, his left hand gripping his black coat to prevent it from flapping in the night wind.

Charles didn’t like making detours. But the curiosity in his chest was stronger than logic. He wanted to see it firsthand—the terror that had even made the nobles tremble behind their walls of gold.

The Dancing Lady.

The demon who danced at night, slaughtering anyone who laid eyes on her.

Charles looked up.

The gas lamp at the corner flickered like the last candle in a morgue.

And beneath that light, he saw her.

A woman... dancing.

Her tattered gown swayed lightly, torn in many places. Stains of dirt and blood marked the fabric like a painting of wounds. Her face was obscured—covered by ragged cloth, only the rough stitching along her cheek and mouth visible beneath it.

In her left hand, she gripped something that gleamed.

A knife.

She spun, leaped, and writhed like a broken ballerina.

But her movements were too fluid. Too smooth. Too... unnatural.

Charles stood frozen, a few meters away, his eyes narrowing behind the fog.

"Isn’t she just a human who likes to dance...?" he thought.

And at that moment, the dance stopped.

The Dancing Lady froze, like a doll that had been wound down.

Her head slowly turned toward Charles.

And although her eyes were covered in cloth... Charles knew she was looking directly at him.

Their gazes met.

A demon met a demon.

A small smile appeared behind the cloth stitching her mouth.

She ran.

Not like a human runs.

But like a creature that had never been taught how to walk. Her steps elongated, her body gliding forward with an odd speed, as if her legs never touched the ground.

Charles backed away.

But not fast enough.

A sharp hiss sliced through the air—and a sharp pain struck his shoulder.

He turned. Ran.

Alley after alley, he raced, but the sound of the Dancing Lady’s steps grew closer behind him. Her steps—like dancing—but filled with intent to kill.

Charles knew he could break through most ordinary attacks.

But something was wrong.

He didn’t feel healed.

And when the knife struck his back, the pain pierced through his bones.

Blood spurted out.

Charles fell forward, his face kissing the stone.

One second.

Two.

A second strike hit his side.

"AGH—!"

Warm blood soaked his coat.

He writhed, trying to turn around, but the Dancing Lady had already planted her knife into his body for a third time.

Charles’ eyes widened. His heart raced wildly.

"I... can’t heal...?"

His hands trembled, trying to stop the blood flow. But there was no demonic light, no regeneration, no healing.

The knife... wasn’t an ordinary weapon.

It was a weapon designed to kill non-humans.

A blade that cut through contracts and immortality.

The Dancing Lady crouched down, bending over Charles like a mother about to sing a lullaby.

Her grin stretched wide.

Her hand lifted the final knife—

But Charles kicked her hard in the stomach, sending her flying back a few steps.

"You bastard…" Charles hissed, blood dripping from his lips.

He rose slowly—staggering.

The Dancing Lady resumed dancing.

But now, it was no longer a graceful dance.

It was a dance of death.

Her knives spun in the air, her shadow swirling and dancing on the brick walls. The sound of her footsteps echoed down the alley, creating a strange and eerie rhythm.

Charles inhaled.

His hand reached into his belt—drawing a small knife of his own.

Blood continued to drip from his body.

"If you’re aiming for demons..." he whispered softly, "You need to dance better than that."

---

Charles ran. Or tried to.

But his steps faltered. His breath caught in his throat. And the coldness spread from the first wound on his shoulder.

The fog seemed to grow thicker, as if wanting to hide him—or swallow him whole.

The sound of the Dancing Lady’s steps... was no longer human. It was the tapping of rhythm created not for dance, but for death.

Tap—tap—tap.

The next knife embedded in his lower back.

Charles collapsed.

His hands scraped the wet cobblestones, trying to rise.

But his body was heavy. And the third knife plunged into his left rib.

"Agh—!!" he screamed, blood splattering onto the street.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The Dancing Lady spun once. Then stopped in front of Charles, her gown billowing like a shroud. Her hand lifted, raising the knife still gleaming red.

Charles’ wound gaped. But it was more than just flesh torn—something deep inside him felt crushed. As if a part of him—like the key to his soul—was slowly being torn apart by that cursed metal.

Charles couldn’t move.

He looked up at her from the ground, surrounded by the gathering fog.

Her figure... like a dancer from a nightmare’s painting. Her gown was stained with dirt, her face sewn shut, and her eyes hidden by tattered cloth.

But Charles knew, the creature could see.

Even without eyes, she saw deeper than any human.

And...

She smiled.

Then, just like that, she spun. Once. Twice. Three times.

Dancing lightly like a child in a flower garden.

With Charles’ blood still flowing on her knife.

Then she left.

Dancing away, leaving a red trail on the city’s stones.

Unhurried. Not caring to ensure his death.

For her, it was a dance that was finished.

Curtain closed.

---

Charles lay still.

Rain began to fall from the dark London sky.

One drop.

Two.

Washing the blood from his cheek. Soaking his hair.

His vision started to blur.

"Even... I didn’t get to see her face... clearly..."

He blinked once.

Twice.

Then slowly, everything went black.

---