August 1888. Whitechapel's summer haze reeked of gin and despair.
Victor Hargrove, 15, slumped on his workhouse cot, pale frame swallowed by threadbare rags. Day Victor dreamed of golden hair and a mother's whisper—"Resist the fracture"—but nights gnawed deeper. Jack stirred more frequent, hunger sharpening from rats to alley strays. Workhouse gruel soured his stomach; Bloodveil pulsed red under skin, fangs aching prominent. Bullied by older lads ("Ghost-boy!"), Victor retreated to mirrors, talking low: "Mother... Jack's too strong."
That night, hunger broke the leash.
Moon sliced fog; Victor's eyes flickered crimson. Jack took the wheel. No blackout warning—full awareness, but not him. "Time to feast proper." Shadow-cloak activated seamless (perfect stealth, no sound), speed blurring unnatural (x10 night strength). Workhouse window slipped; Whitechapel streets swallowed him.
Brown family rowhouse, Buck's Row—poor laborers like thousands. Mr. Elias Brown (dockworker, snoring gin-deep), Mrs. Eliza (seamstress, mending candlelit), infant son cradled, 8-year-old daughter Mary clutching rag-doll. Door lock clicked shadow-picked; Jack ghosted in.
Slaughter silent, surgical.
Elias first—Jack's fangs sank throat mid-snore (paralyzing venom instant), drained dry in 20 seconds (life/Flux siphoned, body limp). Blood missed? Fangs absorbed glowing red. Eliza woke gasping—Jack's shadow-hand clamped, fangs second strike (scream muffled, eyes wide terror). Infant stirred—tiny throat torn effortless, doll pinned red. Mary bolted awake shrieking—Jack's claws raked final (throat slit neat, doll clutched eternal). Four corpses, blood pooled precise—no mess, throats signature clean.
Jack savored. "Real food." Wiped mouth on sleeve, shadow-cloak out window. Dawn neared; Victor resurfaced stumbling alley, blackout haze lifting. Mouth tasted copper; hands shook gore-flecked.
Day Victor broke.
Stumbled to police station, blood-crusted, sobbing: "I killed them. The Browns. Something inside—Jack—he controls me. Please, lock me away!" Officers sneered ("Workhouse lunatic"), but bodies found matched: throats slit, no forced entry. Victor confessed detail-perfect (blackout didn't erase Jack's glee-memories).
Trial crushed him.
Victorian court packed—Whitechapel gossips jeered "Orphan fiend!" Workhouse matron lied ("Always violent!"); no doctor examined split ("Demon possession!"). Judge banged gavel: "Victor Hargrove, guilty murder. Hanged by neck till dead. September 10th, 1888."
Cell isolation deepened fracture. Day Victor wept Mother's locket; Night Jack whispered: "They judged wrong. We'll judge back."
Noose waited. Revenge brewed.