— Charles August Milverton

Amid the stench of stale alcohol, dried blood, and cheap perfume lingering in the air, a young boy with jet-black hair let out a soft chuckle. He was lying on the creaking wooden floor of a brothel deep in the heart of Whitechapel—a shadowed corner of London so forsaken that even the moon refused to shine upon it.

His name was Charles.

He was eight years old.

And despite being born into a dying world, he always smiled.

---

Crayons—most of them broken, their wrappers torn. A torn sheet of paper lay before him, already crowded with his latest work.

"I drew Mama again! Look!" he chirped with excitement, holding the page up like a trophy.

His small fingers were clumsy, the strokes messy—but within the chaos, there was heart. A woman with long, flowing yellow hair. A red dress. A smile, wide and soft, like the ones she gave only to him.

From the doorway, a woman leaned her tired frame against the crooked frame, watching him. Her blond hair was loosely tied, the strands fraying like threads of gold undone. Her skin was pale from lack of rest, her thin dress hung too loosely on her frame, worn thin from too many washes in cold water and not enough food to fill her ribs.

Still, when she looked at him, something warm flickered in her eyes.

She stepped inside. “Is this Mama?” her voice was hoarse, scraped raw by a long night.

Charles nodded eagerly, holding the paper out to her with both hands. His cheeks were flushed with pride. "You're the prettiest mama in the whole wide world!"

Marianne chuckled—a breathy, weary sound—but there was love in it, aching and unspoken. She crouched beside him, brushing his unruly black hair aside. Her fingers trembled. Her joints ached. But she smiled.

"If you keep drawing like this, you might become an artist someday," she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Not someone like me."

Charles tilted his head, frowning. “What’s wrong with being you?”

She didn’t answer. She looked at the drawing again, blinking a little too fast. Her thumb traced the paper softly, then she pulled him into a hug—tight, sudden, as though she feared letting go.

He nestled into her without hesitation.

To him, the world was made of her voice, her arms, the perfume that clung to her dress like faded roses. He didn’t care about the strange men who came and went, or the bruises she sometimes tried to hide beneath powder. All he knew was this:

Marianne was his world. His sun, his shelter, his reason.

And she smiled for him.

Even when her smile cracked.

---

Outside the window, Whitechapel pulsed like an infected wound. The streets were caked with filth and misery. Rats the size of small dogs skittered across broken cobblestones. The air reeked of ash, piss, and rotting vegetables. Children with swollen bellies and hollow eyes wandered barefoot, scavenging scraps from alleyways while adults traded hope for gin or flesh.

But inside that room, time stood still.

It was crayons, and laughter.

Paper, and warmth.

The illusion of innocence in a city that had none.

---

Night crept in like thick black fog. The color bled from the walls. Even the candlelight seemed reluctant to stay, flickering weakly as shadows grew long and hungry.

Usually, by this hour, the brothel would come alive—doors opening, perfume thick in the air, women laughing too loud, beds creaking in rhythm with feigned ecstasy.

But tonight…

Tonight was wrong.

Too quiet.

Marianne stood by the window, her arms crossed over her chest. She stared down at the empty street below—no drunkards staggering home, no echo of boots on cobblestone, no whistles from the nearby pubs. Even the gas lamps outside flickered uncertainly, as if shrinking from something unseen.

Her skin prickled.

Behind her, Charles clutched his ragged cloth doll—an old, stitched-together thing with one eye missing and a patch sewn over its chest. He stared at her with unease, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Mama… why is it so quiet tonight?"

She turned, forcing a smile, but her eyes had gone pale. “Maybe London decided to sleep early tonight,” she said, kneeling to kiss his cheek.

But something inside her clenched. A knot of fear tightening with each second.

Then—

A sudden chill swept through the hallway. The air shifted.

The candles outside the room—

Puhh—

Snuffed out.

One by one.

Darkness pooled across the hallway like ink spilled across old paper.

Then came the sound.

CRASH!!

The front door downstairs exploded inward. Wood splintered. Glass shattered. Then came boots—heavy, fast, violent.

Shiiing—SLASH!!

Steel tore flesh.

Then a woman’s scream, high-pitched and gurgling—cut short mid-cry.

Charles flinched. His doll dropped from his hands. “Mama… what was that?!”

Marianne grabbed him, her body shaking. She didn’t speak—there was no time.

Another scream. Closer.

The walls shook.

A lamp somewhere down the hall tipped over and shattered.

Then—

THUD.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Slow. Deliberate.

Each one growing louder.

She pulled Charles close, kneeling before him, her eyes wide with terror.

“Listen to me. Hide under the bed. Right now. Don’t come out—no matter what happens.”

“But Mama—!”

“No matter what happens,” she said again, her voice sharp now, desperate. She kissed his forehead—soft, lingering, trembling.

“I love you, Charles.”

And then she shoved him beneath the bed.

Charles crawled backward, biting down on his hand to stop the sob that clawed up his throat.

The world became legs, darkness, dust.

He watched.

Marianne backed toward the door, grabbing a pair of scissors from the nightstand.

Her hands shook.

The hallway went still.

Then—

BAM.

The door flew open.

A man stood there—no, a beast in a man’s form. Masked. Eyes glowing faintly through the slit of a stained hood. His blade gleamed red in the candlelight.

Marianne screamed and lunged, stabbing.

The blade swung.

Charles couldn’t see. He only heard—

THUD.

Her body hit the floor.

SCHLK.

A final stab.

And then… silence.

No more breathing. No more warmth.

Only the sound of something wet dripping onto the wooden floor.

Then—

A hand grabbed Charles’ ankle.

He screamed, but it was too late.

CRACK.

The butt of the man’s blade slammed into his skull.

The world vanished into black.

---

Dawn arrived like a cruel joke—grey and cold.

Charles opened his eyes to find himself lying in the hallway. His head throbbed. The taste of iron clung to his tongue. When he sat up, the first thing he saw was blood.

Everywhere.

Red smeared across walls. Streaks leading into rooms. A woman’s hand lying limp on the stairwell.

“Mama…”

He stumbled forward. His knees buckled. The door to their room was open, half-swinging.

He pushed it gently.

His breath caught.

Marianne lay on the bed—limp, lifeless.

Her chest didn’t rise.

Her eyes didn’t blink.

Blood soaked the sheets beneath her. The scissors had fallen to the floor, bent.

“M… Mama…?”

He staggered toward her.

No response.

He touched her hand. It was cold. Too cold.

His mouth opened but no sound came. Then, the dam broke.

Tears spilled down his cheeks, dripping onto her stained dress. His fingers gripped her arm, refusing to let go.

“Mama… don’t go… I’m still here… please…”

No answer.

Only the far-off sound of sirens. Too late. Always too late.

He curled up beside her, sobbing uncontrollably.

No one came for him.

No one cared.

In that moment, the world ended.

And in its ashes, something darker was born.

A child’s heart, once full of color, now cracked open to a void.

And without anyone noticing—

That was the night the smile of a child disappeared forever.

---