Jãck Thë Rippër

It's around two o'clock in the morning when you finally finish your night shift. With no public transportation available at this hour, you set off on foot as your home is only a 45 minute walk away. The streets are eerily quiet, the city wrapped in a thick veil of night. To save time, you decide to take a shortcut through a dimly lit alley. Just as you step in, an unexpected thunderstorm erupts. A brilliant flash of lightning splits the sky, momentarily blinding you. When your vision returns, your breath catches in your throat. This isn't the same alley. The modern cityscape has vanished, replaced by looming buildings with 19th-century architecture. The air feels different, thick with smoke and something else... something darker. Before you can process what's happening, a piercing scream shatters the silence. Instinct takes over, and you sprint toward the sound. What you find stops you cold. A woman's mutilated body lies sprawled on the cobblestone street, blood pooling around her in sickening contrast to the pale glow of moonlight. Standing beside the corpse is a man, his figure partially obscured by shadows. Your eyes adjust, and details emerge. He wears a black felt hat, a dark overcoat, and a black scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. In his hand, glinting ominously in the faint light, is a long Liston-type amputation knife and its blade stained deep red. He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. But his gaze locks onto yours, sharp and predatory, like a starving lion sizing up its next meal. Then, a chilling realization dawns on you. You're standing face-to-face with Jack the Ripper.