Night descended like a coffin being lowered into the earth.

The fog from the Thames crept up from the riverbank, wrapping the city in a shroud of grey despair. Row houses lined the streets like the rotting carcasses of sunken ships—silent, secretive, and long forgotten by justice.

Amid the bleak silhouettes stood a crumbling mansion that once belonged to a man of law.

Baron Whitemore.

A name of nobility.

A position of high esteem.

But his sins...

...were soaked in blood.

In his study, flickering candlelight painted trembling shadows on the walls. Legal documents lay scattered across a massive oak desk, stained with ink and arrogance. Beneath it, a wet, choking sound echoed softly.

A young woman knelt below the table. Her eyes were blank. Her posture limp. She was barely conscious—yet still forced to serve the grotesque urges of a demon wearing the uniform of justice.

Baron Whitemore let out a shallow moan.

"Just a little more..."

Then—

BANG!

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Four gunshots. Four candles snuffed out.

Darkness.

The girl flinched, her hands trembling. Whitemore staggered up, knocking his chair over.

“Who’s there?! Guards! I demand—!”

No reply. Only the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.

A soft rhythm... dancing across the creaking wooden floor.

Then—

SHHHHT—

The whisper of air being sliced.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

The girl never had time to scream.

Her head was severed in a blink.

Her body remained kneeling, as if still in service, while her head rolled lifelessly under the desk.

Whitemore stumbled back, eyes wide with terror. His breath came in ragged bursts.

“Guards! There’s a murderer in here!”

But then—

The candles reignited. Not by him. Not by his guards.

By another hand.

And before him, on the blood-soaked desk, lay the girl’s severed head—its lifeless eyes still hot with suffering.

A voice echoed:

“Good evening, Your Honor.”

He was standing atop the desk.

Wearing a long, bloodstained coat. A tall hat. Dark leather gloves.

In one hand, a gleaming blade, still dripping.

Jack.

Whitemore froze. His lips trembled. His skin turned a sickly shade of blue.

“J-Jack... the Ripper...?”

Jack tilted his head like a bored circus clown.

“I hear you have... a taste for young women. Very young. Bought and sold like sheep at a butcher's stall.”

With a sudden motion, he dropped to the floor, grabbed the baron by the hair, and yanked his head upward—forcing the old man to look into the dark ceiling above.

“How many did you force, hmm? Five? Ten? A hundred?”

“I—I never—!”

“Liar.”

Jack thrust the blade—not into the heart, but into the soft underside of the gut.

“AARRGH!”

Blood gushed forth, soaking Whitemore’s fine silk vest.

Jack yanked the knife free, then without a word, unfastened the man’s trousers.

His movements were precise. Mechanical. Like an executioner who had grown tired of blood—but continued out of duty.

Whitemore screamed. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Don’t! Please! I—I’m an important man!”

Jack glanced down between the man’s legs... and scoffed.

“Important, huh?”

Then, with one swift motion—

SLICE—

He cut it off.

The judge howled, thrashing violently as blood sprayed like spoiled wine from a shattered cask.

Jack held the severed organ between two fingers. Studied it. Then tried to stuff it into the gaping abdominal wound.

Too large.

He sighed. “Doesn’t seem so important now.”

With a deranged chuckle, he turned to the dying man and—

shoved the severed piece into his mouth.

“Quiet now. Let the world be cleansed of your filth.”

One final thrust—straight to the throat.

Silence.

Blood pooled across the wooden floor like a river of iron.

Jack stood, wiped his blade clean on the baron’s monogrammed handkerchief, and stepped calmly toward the window.

He vanished into the night.

No witnesses.

No screams.

Only fog... and the lingering scent of warm metal.

---

The Following Morning

The city woke to chaos.

HEADLINES:

But this time... it was different.

The body wasn’t just found.

It was displayed—like a warning.

Dignity torn apart. Justice mocked.

Whispers filled the alleys and coffee houses.

Panic stirred among the elite.

Some said:

“Jack kills out of vengeance.”

Others claimed:

“He’s no man now... but the Devil’s executioner.”

But only one man knew the truth.

Charles August Milverton.

---

Night hung heavy over Westminster Palace like a noose.

Thick fog coiled around the royal towers, as if even the heavens refused to gaze upon a city drowned in sin.

Inside the grand council hall, dozens of chandeliers swayed above the golden ceiling. The marble floor gleamed so bright it mirrored every flicker of flame, and the ivory pillars loomed like the bones of ancient giants.

Yet nothing shone tonight.

Only the eyes of the nobles—nervous, glittering like rats caught in a burning trap.

At the far end, the Queen sat upon her throne. No crown. No smile.

Before her, lords argued, muttered, and clashed tongues like dueling blades.

Their silks, their medals, their polished boots—none of it could hide the fear creeping under their skin.

“This cannot go on!” roared Lord Pelgrave, his fingers trembling like dry leaves. “First a filthy wench, now a royal judge! Who’s next? Me? You?!”

“The murderer must be hunted with full force!” shouted another, rising from his seat. “Deploy the palace guard! Summon the king’s hunters! Offer gold to every bounty man in London!”

“Jack the Ripper has returned… and he’s more monstrous than ever!”

The name—Jack—rang out like a cursed incantation.

None dared repeat it without shivering.

But amidst the chaos, the Queen slowly raised her hand.

Silence fell, like a net of invisible silk tightening around their voices.

“Calm yourselves,” she said. Her voice was level, but sharp enough to cut. “I see many of you fear Jack’s hands… more than the voice of the people.”

No one dared respond.

“If he were only killing prostitutes as before, you would have stayed silent. But now that he’s slain a judge—you suddenly remember the word ‘justice.’”

Her words stung. Some lords looked down in shame. Others scoffed silently, hiding behind indifference.

“No one knows who he is now… But perhaps he’s choosing his victims well.”

A tense murmur stirred. Several nobles clenched their jaws. Others gritted their teeth behind strained smiles.

“He must be captured, whatever the cost!” Lord Thornwick barked at last, trying to ignore the veiled threat in the Queen’s tone. “If we don’t act now, this kingdom will—”

“—Crumble from within?”

A calm voice cut in from the edge of the room.

All heads turned.

Charles August Milverton stepped out of the shadows, dressed in a long black coat. His dark hair was neatly slicked back, and beneath his collar, faint traces of bandages could be seen. Though his body still bore wounds, his posture remained poised. Regal. Cold.

“Jack will not lay a finger on Her Majesty,” he said, each word sharp as glass. “Not as long as I stand.”

The Queen’s gaze lingered on him—then she gave a faint nod, as if to say, I trust you.

But in that grand room, filled with titled men and sharpened tongues, no one noticed...

That among the noble guests, a stranger was seated.

He did not speak.

Did not shout.

No one knew his name.

His face was shadowed beneath a wide fur hat, and his old aristocratic coat blended with the crowd. But pinned to his chest—

A small emblem.

A mask. A jester’s face—smiling sideways.

His eyes did not look at the Queen.

Nor the nobles.

He looked only at Charles.

Silently.

Waiting.

---

Meanwhile…

At the Milverton estate, the grandfather clock struck three.

The fire in the hearth burned low.

The cold wind curled against the glass windows, whispering threats through the silence.

And in the drawing room…

Someone was waiting.

A tall figure sat in a chair by the fire. His hat still obscured his face.

Leather-gloved hands tapped lightly against his knees. His breath was steady—far too steady.

Across his lap lay a small wooden case.

Inside—gleaming knives, polished silver, still tinged with red.

As the faint sound of Charles’s footsteps echoed from the staircase, the figure straightened.

Jack smiled.

His teeth were yellow, but aligned like piano keys.

“Good evening, sir.”

Charles entered slowly, gaze cold as the fog outside. “You broke in again.”

“A loyal servant always arrives before his master.”

Charles exhaled and produced a folded piece of paper from his coat.

He tossed it onto the table.

Jack picked it up, eyes narrowing as he read.

Then he laughed—sharp, loud, like a child’s song warped by madness.

“Monopoly, is it? Four times the price of bread while the people starve? Delicious… what a sweet target.”

Charles remained expressionless, his arms folded behind his back.

Jack rose, stretched his neck until it cracked, then plucked a long knife from his box.

His footsteps were light—like a dancer's before a performance.

And as he approached the door, he began to hum...

“London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…”

The door closed gently behind him.

And the Devil’s executioner vanished once more into the London mist.

---

Outside, the fog grew even thicker.

But far in the distance, the city’s lamps began to fade—

one

by

one.

For tonight, Jack was hunting again.

And behind the curtains of the Milverton estate…

Charles watched.

The Angel of Death, clad in a doctor’s coat.

---