1888. Fog clung to the gaslit alleys of Whitechapel like the breath of the dead, where crimson secrets soaked the cobblestones beneath silent footsteps. Each slash carved not only flesh but a question into the soul of the city, who was the phantom cloaked in darkness, vanishing like smoke after every scream? In the hush that followed his final kill, London shivered, for even the devil had a name, yet Jack the Ripper remained a whisper…
