Darkness in the Tower of London
Chapter 1
Jack himself leads a fairly ordinary life. He wanted a job, a family, and peace and quiet. He and his wife and children live a peaceful and contented life in a cheap house and a simple life without chaos. But unfortunately, such happiness.
The tragedy happened on a cold, gray morning. This fatal accident brutally took the lives of Jack's wife and children. This means that Jack's world, originally bathed in light, has turned into a bottomless abyss.
However, along with all the sadness, something else happened - the dark elements in his heart began to stir. Jack is now in trouble as well, and he begins to struggle with feelings that don't exist anywhere in the world where he once thrived. The main feeling experienced by this character is a desire for control, a desire to be subjugated not only to his own life, but also to the lives of those around him.
Addicted to the edge of sanity and usefulness. Why do they have to die? Who can actually take away the person he loves? This isn't fair. This is not right. This silent torture was all Jack needed to declare that life and death were no longer hanging in the balance. He will be the arbiter. He will be the one who holds the power of life and death. He will play God.
The thought consumed him. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good fit. Never again would he be vulnerable to a world that could take the people he loved from him at any moment. No, Jack will take control. He will crush anything and anyone that stands in his way, and anyone who challenges him will soon discover what happens when you try the authority of the High God . Every life, every breath, obeys his command.
And so begins Jack's descent, not into madness, but into something worse: into a man who believes he has the power to manipulate his destiny. Unfortunately... God made a mistake at this moment and gave Jack the ability to travel through time and space. He used modern wisdom to play God in foggy London, committing one heinous murder after another, and modern wisdom allowed him to escape the police again and again, allowing him to continue to be at large. Then the surrounding power grew cold, filling every crevice with his soul, causing Jack's transformation, but now... it happened then. Whoever he was, he was no longer Jack Wilder .
He was born with a mission - to choose who lives and who dies. The creator will make the choice and everyone will be subject to his scrutiny.
He's been here for weeks if not months . No one knows his true identity, but newspapers have given him an infamous name that will go down throughout history: "Jack the Ripper." He was more like a shadow than anything else, invisible yet palpable. There was an undercurrent of fear throughout Whitechapel . People don’t even dare to fully express their thoughts and fears in a deadpan manner; they speculate in hushed tones. There will always be a moment like this, as inevitable as the night.
But at this moment, it is empty. Only the dregs of humanity remain - hollow-eyed prostitutes prowling for clients, tramps muttering drunken gibberish in looming shadows more dangerous than their wildest imaginations. A man who has studied shadow languages and is their lead investigator. His appearance is a mystery and his name is kept secret. The only thing people knew about the man was the terror he wreaked in his path.
He walked silently through the fog, and he heard how London burned with the beat of its own heart. The only sound around him was the occasional tap of his cane on the cobblestones. This life was his choice, and surprisingly, he felt at home at the bottom of it.
But Jack isn't just a killer, he's... a symbol. It is a representation of the forgotten, the oppressed and the disenfranchised. Poor people, with nothing to lose, sell their slaves for a few shillings, and their only thought is to drown their pain in alcohol. They're just cogs in the same machine, and Jack - twisted as he may be - ends up doing what they never could: He's taking back control, even if it means painting him a pathetic crimson tattoo.
His first killer was a p********e named Marian Nichols, whose life was as dark as the alley she inhabited. Another victim saw this. Her body was cut with exquisite precision - cut and carved almost beyond recognition. The world was shaken by its horror. But Jack wasn't done yet. Oh no, he was just warming up.
Anne Chapman was the second victim to suffer a similar fate, first Marianne Nicholls and then Elizabeth Stride. This trend is becoming more and more notorious, but the police are too stupid to find him. The killings become more brutal as Jack wallows in his growing fear. He has a purpose, a purpose that only he can understand. He feeds on it and becomes strong, while the entire city cowers in fear.
And yet... the airing shows that tonight is more than just another Christmas Eve for Jack. A feeling of anticipation, of watching him. At the corner, he stopped and looked through the fog, but saw no sign. Really, it could just be his brain playing tricks on him, or maybe the excitement of the chase is messing with his mind.
"Another night, another hunt," he whispered, a twisted smile on his lips. He is a hunter and this is his territory.
He strode toward his next target, the streetlights above him flickering nonchalantly, casting long shadows on the walls. Taking a deep breath, he smelled the cool breath of Minerva in the evening air, the damp, suffocating bitterness of metallic decay, the clouds swirling past, and the sweat dripping in his eyes. It was the smell of death, and it gave him a strange sense of peace.
Then a figure emerged from the shadows - an old woman walking briskly down the street. She was alone, obscured by the night, but he could feel her sounding desperate with every step. No doubt another w***e. Another soul comes from heaven to the streets. She is perfect.
Jack felt his heartbeat quicken, pounding in front of him. You can enjoy all the excitement and energy of the hunt, winning by knowing how weak they are before you finally emerge victorious . He began to follow her, the stealth of the shadow and his gaze never ending on her.
The woman was unaware of anyone or anything behind her and continued walking down the mountain. His breathing was shallow, and the knife was hidden in the folds of his coat. It was impossible for a man like him to attack her.
But then, there was a noise. The faintest sound at night is one or two light years away from me. Footsteps approach. Someone is coming. Suddenly, Jack stopped, stiffening at the sudden appearance. The woman also heard it and glanced back uneasily.
Jack retreats absently into the shadows, disappearing into the nature of Helsinki. His prey is no longer alone. He would wait again, when the streets were empty and the city's heartbeat had not been beating long enough to induce fear, and he would have to come out.
The footsteps faded away, and Jack sighed in frustration. He had been so close. But he's not done yet. The night is still early and the hunt continues.
Jack the Ripper is undeniable. He waited, watched, ready to strike when the time came. Soon the streets of Whitechapel will be painted red.
Chapter 1 End
