June 20th, 1888.
Boris Nickson sat at his desk, running a hand through his dirty blonde locks- The mop of curls rung slick with sweat as he scribbled frantically into a leather bound journal; "THE RIPPER CHRONICLES" was embedded into the spine with shining gold. He had been trying to catch this 'Jack' fellow for weeks. It was a vexatious endeavour, to be sure-- For the miscreant was careful upon unmasking his identity; Or at the very least, his fabricated one- Upon the endings of each letter that was sent.
He wasn't sending them to Nickson, Oh no. They were meant for his boss upstairs, Mr.George Lusk. His phantom pseudonym sadly protected him from ever being caught.
Nickson looked out the window, his blue-grey desolate orbs observing the broken, crumbling allies of East End; As dreary as it was bleak, almost dead. He spotted a beggar woman with her children by a barrel with some sort of contraption involving an oil-lit lantern at the bottom,
Just another attempt to live.
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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖎𝖕𝖕𝖊𝖗 𝕱𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖘: 𝕰𝖝𝖈𝖊𝖗𝖕𝖙𝖘 𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝕽𝖊𝖕𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖘
Historical FictionA historical fiction with the blended elemements of the real ripper killings; Accompanied with my own character, Identity for Jack The Ripper, and of course an ending that sufficient to his legacy of having never been captured.
