The morning mist still clung to the towers of the city when the church bells rang from afar. Charles' clinic was filled with the scent of Earl Grey and the soft scratch of ink on parchment.
Charles sat behind his desk, fingers tapping slowly on the wood. Before him lay a pile of reports from street informants—descriptions of the latest victims, rough sketches of the wounds carved into their flesh.
"His methods are getting cleaner," he muttered. "As if… he's practicing."
Vespera stood by the window, watching the thick fog consume the streets below.
"He's starting to enjoy it," she said. "You made him believe he was born to kill."
Charles smiled faintly. "Every artist needs a stage. I simply gave him a curtain to pull."
---
In the same underground room, Jack sat cross-legged in the center of dried bloodstains. He stared at a new letter in his hand.
The paper was thicker this time. The ink darker. The scent of old parchment. Familiar—yet different.
> This woman smuggles orphans onto merchant ships.
Sold into the black markets of France.
Clean in the eyes of the law.
But not in the eyes of the night.
You know whose insides need to be spilled.
Jack grinned, crumpling the letter slightly in delight.
"You're getting flirtatious now."
He turned to the wall where he had painted his victims' faces in blood.
"I'm an artist, yes. But now… I feel like a priest."
He kissed the paper slowly.
"I'll make sure she confesses… before I cut out her tongue."
---
That night, the woman in question walked calmly through Kingsley Alley. She clutched her bag tightly—unaware of the soft footsteps trailing her like a nightmare that knew its timing.
"Excuse me…" Jack's voice drifted like mist.
The woman turned. "What?"
"I just want to know… how you still manage to smile after selling children like dogs?"
"What are you talking ab—"
Too late.
The knife moved fast. But this time, Jack didn't kill right away.
He cut slowly, slicing the edges of her clothes, letting the blood seep out drop by drop.
The woman screamed.
"Don't be afraid," Jack whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "I only want to know… will you laugh or cry when I string your intestines into a necklace?"
His laughter echoed through the fog.
And then—silence.
Two meters of entrails wrapped around like a snake refusing to let go.
---
Back in the clinic, Hugo slammed a report onto Charles' desk.
"Third murder in two weeks. Same style. But these victims—they're not prostitutes. They're powerful people, hiding dirty secrets."
Charles read slowly. "And?"
"This isn't Jack. Not the original. This… feels deliberate. More like…"
"Like someone being guided?"
Hugo stared at him. "You know more than you're telling me, Charles."
Charles didn't reply. He only stared out the window, watching the fog wrap the city like a misused shroud of absolution.
Vespera stood behind the door, listening.
And in her heart:
"It angers me… watching you act without needing me."
---
Meanwhile, Jack sat again in his basement. He had just finished washing his hands in blood.
In front of him—the remains of a woman, no longer whole.
"Too easy," he muttered. "You know… I want a challenge."
He gazed up at the ceiling, then laughed.
"I want to know… who you really are. The one who sends the letters. The author of my fate. Are you an angel… or a devil?"
He dipped his fingers in blood and turned back to the wall.
This time… he painted a silhouette.
A person seated on a throne.
"If you're God… then I am your prophet."
And the night closed its chapter…
with the scent of iron and lies growing ever thicker.
---