Shadows of Gaslight

PROLOGUE

London, 1886

The fog rolled in from the Thames, thick and heavy, wrapping the cobbled streets in a damp shroud. The city, lively and bustling by day, had turned into a maze of shadows and secrets by night.

Detective William Cromwell stood at the mouth of a narrow alley, his overcoat pulled tight against the cold. His face, lined with the marks of a troubled past, was framed by dark hair now streaked with gray.

A clock tower struck midnight in the distance, echoing through the fog. It was a reminder of the passing time, each chime heightening the tension in the air.

"Are you sure this is the place?" a voice asked quietly behind him.

Cromwell turned to see Evelyn Sinclair, his partner, her face pale and eyes wide with determination and worry. Sinclair was seasoned, her sharp mind and unwavering resolve honed by years of experience. Together, they had solved cases that had baffled even the most experienced detectives at Scotland Yard.

"This is the place," Cromwell replied, his voice a low murmur.

He stepped forward, his footsteps nearly silent on the wet pavement.

"The witness said she saw the suspect come down this alley."

Sinclair nodded, her hand resting on the revolver handle at her hip.

They moved as one, careful and purposeful. The alley was narrow, the high walls of the buildings pressing in on either side. Trash littered the ground, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed off the bricks.

A faint metallic scent reached Cromwell's nose as they went deeper into the alleys.

Blood.

His jaw tightened, as he quickened his pace, Sinclair following close behind. They rounded a corner, and there, in the weak light of a gas lamp, they saw it.

A body, crumpled and lifeless, lay in the middle of the alley. The victim's eyes stared blankly at the sky, their face frozen in an expression of sheer terror. Cromwell knelt beside the corpse, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The wounds were brutal, but there was something more—something deliberate in the way the cuts were made.

"Evelyn, look at this," he said quietly, pointing to a symbol carved into the victim's chest. Sinclair crouched beside him, her brow furrowing as she examined the mark.

"Another symbol," she whispered.

"But why? Why here of all places?" Cromwell shook his head, his mind racing with questions.

"I don't know yet. But we're going to find out."

He stood up, his gaze sweeping the dark alley. Somewhere in the shadows, a killer was watching, waiting for their next move.

The hunt had begun.

Cromwell knew they were running out of time. Each murder brought the city one step closer to panic, and it was up to him and Sinclair to stop the madness before it consumed them all.

As they stood over the lifeless body, the fog closed in around them, a silent witness to the horrors that lurked in the gaslit streets of Victorian London. The city held dark secrets, and it was up to them to uncover the truth before it was too late.