London, 1888.

The city breathes in gaslight and exhales fog. Cobblestones glisten with rain. Somewhere, in the twisting maze of Whitechapel’s alleys, a footstep echoes—measured, patient, unhurried.

A woman—cold, tired, desperate—leans against a brick wall. She doesn’t notice the figure in the shadows. No one ever does, not until it’s too late.

Moments later, silence. Then a whisper of movement… and blood on stone.

By dawn, the city will wake to horror. Again.

The newspapers will scream of slaughter. Politicians will argue. Priests will pray. The police will fumble through the darkness, searching for a phantom.

He has no face. No name. Only a message, scrawled in red ink.

“Yours truly, Jack the Ripper.”

This is the story of Jack the Ripper, the most infamous and mysterious serial killer in history. But this is not just the story of a killer. This is an anatomy of fear - of five women whose names became footnotes, and a city that tried to forget them.

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