Jack the Ripper, the demon of Whitechapel, was no longer hiding in shadows. No longer content with hunting whores in forgotten alleys. No longer restrained by the moral ambiguity of his old victims.

Now, he hunted nobility.

Whispers echoed through every market and ballroom, every piss-stained alley and gold-laced parlor. The fear was no longer just among the poor. It seeped upward—into the veins of the powerful.

One by one, titled names began to vanish.

Each body found after a silent night—tortured, twisted, left in grotesque displays as if to tell the world: your power does not protect you anymore.

And then, the whisper reached the Queen.

Inside the gilded halls of her palace, surrounded by velvet curtains and chandeliers worth more than whole districts, she sat upon her throne—not in majesty, but in silence.

In her trembling hand: a letter.

Written in crude, uneven scrawl.

Stamped with a blot of blood.

> "My next dance… is with the Queen."

Her gloved fingers quivered. She turned pale beneath layers of powdered makeup. The royal guards shifted nervously, their spears feeling suddenly useless.

She gave a single command:

“Bring me Charles.”

---

Charles August Milverton entered the palace within the hour.

His coat was buttoned high, but blood-stained bandages still peeked from beneath his collar. His skin was pale, drained from previous wounds, yet he walked with unbroken posture—each step firm, precise.

The Queen blinked as he approached.

“You’re still wounded,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t be walking.”

“I don’t have the luxury of rest,” Charles replied. He bowed slightly. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”

She silently handed him the letter.

Charles scanned it. His eyes narrowed.

“I never ordered this,” he said coldly. “Jack has never laid a hand on the Crown.”

“But it’s his handwriting,” she insisted, her voice trembling. “That blood… that seal—it reeks of him.”

Charles folded the letter calmly.

“I’ll investigate.”

And he turned, leaving without another word.

---

Later that night, Charles entered the Milverton estate. The manor was eerily silent, save for a wet, rhythmic sound coming from the drawing room.

Inside, Jack sat on the floor, humming quietly.

He was using a chicken carcass to paint the walls. Blood ran in crude symbols across the wallpaper. Strange, spidery letters. Smiley faces. A map of London distorted into a spiral.

“Jack,” Charles said sharply.

Jack looked up, eyes wide and glassy.

“Did you write to the Queen?”

Jack tilted his head. “Me? Write? Charles, I can barely spell my own name. You know that.”

Charles stepped closer. “Then who did?”

Jack shrugged like a child caught stealing jam.

“I only kill the ones you name. If someone sent her a letter... it wasn’t me.”

Charles studied him in silence. Then turned and left.

But something in Jack’s grin lingered behind.

---

Night fell hard.

Winds howled through the palace gardens like wolves hunting ghosts. The trees outside twisted and groaned beneath the pressure. Thunder rolled in the distance, though no lightning came.

Above the palace, clouds thickened like smoke gathering before a fire.

And then—

The sound came.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Not thunder. Not drums.

A chainsaw.

The palace gates burst open in a spray of sparks and shredded iron. Guards rushed forward—but too late.

Through the fog came a man.

He wore a circus-white mask shaped like a grinning clown. His body was wrapped in a tattered noble’s coat, stained dark with old blood. The chainsaw in his hands roared like a beast starving for flesh.

Then—he moved.

Faster than thought.

Faster than any guard could react.

The chainsaw met bone.

One guard was split from shoulder to hip, his insides painting the marble floor.

Another was disemboweled, his scream ending mid-breath.

A third had his arm torn clean off before his head followed.

Slaughter.

Pure and merciless.

Blood splashed against the walls like ink on parchment.

The intruder’s boots slid on viscera as he approached the throne room door.

Inside, the Queen was being rushed into a hidden chamber by her most trusted guards.

But the clown-faced butcher was already at the final door—lifting his saw high, ready to carve it open—

CRACK.

A boot slammed into his chest.

A force like a cannon blast.

The attacker flew backward—through the stained-glass window—

CRASH!

Glass rained down into the garden below. His body hit the ground, bounced once, and rolled into the mud.

Backlit by the flickering chandelier, a tall shadow stepped into view.

Charles.

His coat fluttered from the impact of his kick. One hand still bleeding through the bandages, the other clenched into a fist.

“You think you can stain this place?” he said, voice low and venomous.

He stepped past the broken window frame and looked down.

The creature hit the palace ground with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence and shaking the glass windows with the force of an earthquake.

He rose slowly—bent, trembling, laughing.

A blood-smeared clown mask grinned eternally over his face. In his hands, the chainsaw whirred to life once more, a sound like steel grinding against bone.

Across the courtyard, Jack was already waiting.

But this time, his crimson eyes did not gleam with joy. They were narrowed. Empty. He looked less like a jester and more like a wounded beast guarding its territory.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” Jack growled, lifting his enormous scissors, “using MY name?”

The masked man gave no reply.

He only tilted his head—slowly, like a marionette whose strings were being pulled by an unseen hand.

And then he lunged, an unholy blur of steel and rage.

Chainsaw met scissors.

The courtyard lit with sparks and screeches of metal-on-metal.

Jack moved with feral unpredictability, slashing like a lunatic, spinning and diving with laughter rising from his throat.

But the intruder—Anonymous—was mechanical. Precise.

Every move clean. Every strike aimed to kill.

A gash split across Jack’s shoulder.

He stumbled back, blood running down his arm—but his grin widened.

“I like you!” Jack roared. “But I’d like you even more DEAD!”

With a savage roar, Jack drove the blunt end of his scissors into Anonymous’s ribs. The impact sent the masked man staggering backward several steps.

But he didn’t fall.

He spun.

And the chainsaw came sweeping in a wide arc—horizontal—aimed straight for Jack’s neck.

Jack ducked just in time.

The blade kissed his scalp, tearing a shallow gash across the top of his head. Blood ran into his eyes, stinging. But Jack only laughed harder.

---

From the palace window, Charles watched.

His face expressionless. Cold.

Not worried.

Just… calculating.

He was waiting for something.

Anonymous stabbed the chainsaw into the ground, sending up a fountain of dust and rock. Then, in a flash, he twisted—sliding under Jack’s guard and delivering a brutal upward slash.

Jack screamed.

His left arm was torn from his body—held by only a strip of skin and shredded muscle. Blood poured from the ruined socket, soaking his coat.

And still he laughed.

“AHH... Hahaha! That’s it! That’s the pain!”

Jack fell to his knees, wheezing, delirious.

“I’ll kill you... for him...” he whispered, looking toward the palace window.

“Lucky me... my master doesn’t hate me...”

The chainsaw screamed again—coming down.

But before it could touch him—

BOOM!

A dark figure dropped from the window.

The air swirled. Dust erupted.

A black cloak spun in the wind like wings of a crow.

Charles.

He landed silently.

Anonymous paused.

For the first time, he stepped back.

Charles said nothing.

He bent down and picked up the half of Jack’s giant scissors embedded in the dirt. With a flex of his fingers—and a flash of unnatural power—he reassembled the broken weapon.

Then he swung.

The chainsaw was knocked from Anonymous’s grip. It skidded across the stone tiles with a metallic wail.

Jack, still kneeling, looked up with bloodied eyes.

“He came... for me...”

He smiled.

---

But it didn’t last.

Charles walked toward him—slowly, steadily.

Each step an executioner’s march.

Jack looked up, panting, grinning, confused.

“D-Did I do good?” he wheezed. “Was I useful...?”

Charles said nothing.

Jack crawled forward, one arm dragging behind him like a broken limb.

“I... I only wanted you to notice me...”

Charles stood above him.

Expressionless.

Then, he raised the giant shears.

Jack blinked.

“Wait, wha—?”

The blade pierced his stomach.

Jack coughed.

Blood exploded from his lips.

He fell backward, mouth agape, eyes wide.

“W... why...?”

Charles looked down.

“Because I don’t need a dog... that barks without orders.”

Jack’s eyes trembled. His breath rattled.

“I... I just wanted... to be seen... by you...”

Tears fell down his blood-stained cheeks.

His hand reached up—

But Charles was already turning away.

The gesture hung in the air a moment longer—then collapsed.

Jack’s body convulsed.

Then went still.

The courtyard fell silent again.

Only the scent of iron and the weight of dusk remained.

---

Charles walked slowly.

His footsteps echoed across the stone, past shattered blades and torn bodies. Night had fully fallen. Fog crept in from the river, swallowing the gardens like funeral cloth.

He approached the fallen Anonymous.

The body lay crumpled on the grass.

The chainsaw beside him buzzed weakly, like a dying insect.

Charles knelt.

His gloved hands—still warm with Jack’s blood—moved gently. He peeled the clown mask from the corpse’s face.

The cloth fell away.

What lay beneath…

Was nothing.

No eyes. No nose. No lips.

Only smooth, white skin.

Blank. Featureless.

Like a doll’s face that was never finished.

Charles stared.

His eyes narrowed.

He didn’t finish the thought.

The wind rustled his hair as he stood.

Without a word, he lifted the puppet's body over his shoulder and walked toward the riverbank.

The Thames at night looked darker than ever before. Like blood flowing under the city’s skin.

He paused at the edge. Looked out at the black water.

Then dropped the body.

Plunk.

Ripples spread. Then vanished.

He watched for a while.

Then turned and walked home—alone.

Behind him, the sky began to brighten.

Morning approached.

---

By dawn, the world was on fire with gossip.

Charles’s face adorned every front page.

Every café buzzed with retellings.

Children mimicked the battle with sticks and scarlet ink.

Women clutched grainy photos of Charles with wide eyes and bated breath.

Outside his home, crowds gathered.

Some came to cheer.

Some came to fear.

And some… came just to see if the devil truly walked among men.

For Charles, it was all a minor irritation.

He never desired fame.

But he understood the nature of stories.

They would fade.

Like all things.

Fame was no curse.

But a warning.

Because behind every spotlight…

A new enemy always waits in the shadows.

---

Far beneath the city...

In tunnels long forgotten.

Where roots of old London strangled stone and memory...

A crack opened.

Air grew cold.

Black mist bled out—like infection from a wound that would never heal.

And then…

Footsteps.

Delicate. Slow.

A woman emerged.

Black heels. Flowing gown. Skin like moonlight.

Her hair trailing behind her like smoke.

Eyes red as fresh-spilled wine.

Vespera.

She had returned.

---