Not from the cold—but from a name that seemed to crawl out of hell itself.

Jack.

That cursed name had returned, echoing through the city’s damp alleyways like a resurrected omen.

Corpses vanished, only to be found again—if they could still be called corpses.

Mangled.

Twisted.

Preserved in iron boxes, their limbs rearranged like a child's plaything in the hands of a demon.

And in the highest throne of the kingdom, the Queen herself received those reports with trembling hands.

Even her eyes, once sharp and unreadable, could no longer hide the fear.

---

The Milverton Estate. Nightfall.

A heavy sky hung low over the grand, aging manor. No golden carriage waited outside.

No guards. No fanfare.

The Queen had come alone.

Her gown was plain—pitch black. Her cloak dulled by dust and street soot. There was no crown on her head, only a dark scarf wrapped around her elegant silver hair.

In front of her stood a trembling servant, nearly fainting at the sight. But the Queen merely raised her hand gently.

"Call Charles. Now."

It didn’t take long before Charles descended the stairs, his frame wrapped in fresh bandages. His steps were slow. His hands still shook from the wound left by the Dancing Lady. His breathing was shallow, but his gaze remained unchanged.

Still sharp.

Still Charles.

"Your Majesty..." Charles said, eyes narrowing. "Why have you come without an escort?"

The Queen looked at him in silence for a long moment. Then finally, in a quiet voice:

"So... you're wounded."

Charles didn’t answer. He simply stood there, hand briefly pressing against the injury on his side.

The Queen stepped closer, her tone now gentler.

"You are not a god, Charles. You can be hurt."

Charles lowered his gaze. Not like a man defeated—but like someone unable to deny the truth of those words.

From beneath her cloak, the Queen pulled out a small pouch and placed it on the table.

"Compensation. I know this isn’t light work."

Charles glanced at the pouch, his expression briefly softening.

"I don’t want your money, Your Majesty."

"I know. But I’m giving it anyway."

A heavy silence settled over the grand Milverton drawing room.

Then the Queen inhaled slowly, her voice barely above a whisper:

"Jack… has truly returned."

Charles nodded faintly.

“I think so. I saw him. That night… he was feeding on a corpse.”

The Queen’s eyes widened. Her face drained of color.

She pulled out a chair and sat down as if her legs had given out.

“Why is all of this happening under my reign…? The Dancing Lady… and now Jack…”

“Because the world is rotting,” Charles said softly. “And now the corpses are starting to crawl out of their graves.”

She looked at him—long and hard.

“Will you investigate?”

“No,” Charles answered. “I’ll end it.”

“No!” the Queen snapped. “You’re not even healed!”

“But he’ll keep killing.”

Charles’s voice was calm but cold.

“And I can’t sit by knowing that.”

---

Several Days Later

Every guard sent to capture Jack was found dead.

Eyes gouged out.

Hearts ripped clean from chests.

Some left with only the skin of their faces—stretched, empty, like masks.

London was once again plunged into mass hysteria.

And Charles made his decision.

Under a moonless sky, he left the Milverton estate alone.

The streets of Whitechapel were deserted.

Only the sound of his leather shoes echoed softly through the dark.

Then he saw it.

In a narrow alley, standing above a freshly mutilated corpse—

Jack.

Tall top hat.

Long black coat.

In his right hand, a gleaming pair of shears that shimmered under the gaslight.

At his feet, a new victim.

Headless.

Charles stepped into the alley. Calm. Steady.

“Jack.”

The man stilled—but didn’t turn around.

“You can speak, can’t you?” Charles asked, voice unwavering.

Jack tilted his head slightly. Then turned—slowly.

Red eyes glowed beneath the brim of his hat.

His face half-covered by fabric. But the wide, jagged grin showed clear.

“Do you want to be my toy?”

Charles didn’t flinch.

“You’re not a beast. So I want to know—who are you? And why are you doing this?”

Jack laughed.

A broken, glassy sound.

“Oh, sir… I love watching the weak scream. And I do this for him.”

“Him?”

Without warning—Jack hurled a wooden crate at Charles.

Charles batted it aside, but the footsteps were already rushing toward him.

The shears lunged forward—

And—

CRACK!

The blades sliced clean through him.

From shoulder to waist.

Charles’s torso split in two, blood spraying against the alley walls.

He collapsed. Halved. Lifeless.

Jack froze. Panting.

Then—

“Who gave you your orders…?”

The voice came from the corpse.

Jack staggered back. His eyes widened.

“How are you… how the hell are you talking?!”

Charles’s body stood up.

Reforming. Bone, flesh, and cloth threading back together like stitching pulled by an unseen hand.

Blood still poured—but his eyes gleamed with a light that was no longer human.

“I died… years ago.”

Jack trembled.

He reached into his coat, pulled out a pistol, and fired directly at Charles’s head.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three shots.

Six.

Eight.

Smoke rose from the barrel.

But Charles stood there—untouched.

His gaze never left Jack.

“Men can’t kill me.”

“What… what ARE you?” Jack shouted.

“What you’re looking at is the remains of Charles August Milverton,” Charles replied. “The rest of me… belongs to hell.”

Silence.

Jack slowly lowered his weapon.

Charles took a step forward.

“You said you were doing this for someone. I want to know who.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because if they’re planning to burn this city to the ground… they’re getting in the way of my work.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed.

“Work with me.”

Jack blinked.

“…What?”

“I’m not here to catch you. I want to know who’s pulling your strings.

Work with me—

and I’ll let you live.”

Jack said nothing.

His breath came ragged in the cold night.

His eyes were still filled with terror.

But in that fear… was curiosity.

Charles extended his bloodied hand.

“What’s your answer?”

Jack stared at it for a long moment.

Then…

He laughed. Softly. Uneasily.

“You’re insane.”

Deep down, Jack knew—if he refused, he wouldn’t live to see the sunrise.

“I know.”

And so, in a pool of blood surrounded by mangled bodies,

two monsters made a pact—

A pact that would shift the course of chaos in London forever.

---