When Lin Jie's gaunt figure disappeared through the reading room doorway, old constable Weston finally jolted awake as if emerging from a long dream.

He looked down at the tattered newspaper on the table marked with a huge black cross, feeling the object burn like a hot iron, so scorching he dared not reach out and touch it.

A "prophecy."

An unknown young man from the East had delivered to him—a Scotland Yard officer who had served Her Majesty for thirty years—a "prophecy" about Jack the Ripper's next crime location.

Absurd! Madness!

Weston's first instinct was to crumple the paper into a ball and throw it into the fireplace.

This was an open challenge to Scotland Yard's dignity. What right did he have? On what grounds? Based on some incomprehensible scribbles and a bold guess?

He reached out, about to do exactly that. But his hand stopped mid-air.

His mind uncontrollably recalled the young man's terrifyingly calm eyes, and the word he had written—"Sulphur."

During internal case discussions at Scotland Yard, when Weston had repeatedly pointed out that all crime scenes carried a peculiar sulfur smell, what he received were only polite but distant smiles from colleagues and impatient waves from his superiors.

They attributed it to the ubiquitous chemical factory emissions in White Church District, or some other insignificant coincidence.

No one was willing to take this clue seriously.

And the "feeding" deduction.

This also touched upon Weston's deepest suspicion—one even he himself was reluctant to acknowledge.

The killer's methods were too precise, too calm. It didn't seem like venting some perverse desire, but more like a biologist collecting specimens, or a butcher processing animal entrails.

It was a pure "operation" that transcended human emotion.

This Easterner had accurately identified the two most bizarre, most unreasonable, and most overlooked core elements of the case during their brief encounter.

This couldn't be mere coincidence.

Within Weston's heart, reason and experience were locked in fierce combat.

Should he trust the evidence- and logic-based criminal investigation system he had built over half a lifetime, or choose to believe this baseless mysterious prophecy?

Ultimately, an emotion stronger than pride—responsibility—overwhelmed everything.

He couldn't gamble an innocent woman's life on whether his judgment was right or wrong. Even if there was only a one-in-ten-thousand possibility, he had to verify it.

Weston took a deep breath, folded the newspaper with the cross mark, and solemnly placed it in his inner coat pocket.

He quickly left the reading room, not returning to Scotland Yard headquarters, but heading directly to the area marked with the black cross on the map.

This was a place in White Church District called "Mitre Square."

It was a small square enclosed by buildings on three sides—one side being the back wall of a synagogue, the other two being warehouses. Only one narrow exit led to the street.

During daytime, this was where vendors temporarily stored goods; at night, it became exceptionally secluded, a corner occasionally chosen by vagrants and prostitutes to spend the night.

This place... Weston grew more alarmed the more he looked.

It almost perfectly matched the characteristics of all previous crime scenes: semi-enclosed, dimly lit, sound difficult to transmit, and with only one exit, making it extremely easy to create a "trap the turtle in the jar" situation.

If he were that terrifying "Jack the Ripper," this would absolutely be one of his favorite hunting grounds.

Could the young man's prediction actually be based on analysis of some pattern?

For the entire afternoon, Weston wandered around Mitre Square like a ghost.

He didn't announce his presence, but silently observed every detail of the place as an ordinary patrol officer, firmly memorizing the terrain, lighting, possible hiding spots, and everyone entering or leaving the area.

Night fell.

London's nights always belonged to thick fog and gas lamps. Mitre Square sank into a deathly silence woven from dim yellow and pitch black.

Weston hadn't reported his findings to his superiors. If he dared request additional police force based on a crossed-out scrap of paper, he would be considered insane.

He could only rely on himself.

He found an excellent hiding spot overlooking the entire square entrance—behind a second-floor window of an abandoned small building.

He pulled a piece of dry bread hard as stone from his pocket, solving his dinner with a pot of cold water. Then, he began his long and agonizing vigil.

Time passed minute by minute.

Chill air seeped through the window cracks, invading his no-longer-young body.

But he remained motionless, like a stone sculpture, his eyes fixed intently on that narrow entrance.

He didn't know why he was doing this.

This completely violated regulations, even amounting to dereliction of duty.

He should be patrolling his own district, not conducting this baseless, Quixotic "ambush" here.

He began to wonder if that Eastern young man had cast some spell on him, or if he was hallucinating from excessive stress.

Just as his confidence was about to waver, a blurry human figure appeared at the square entrance.

Weston's breath immediately stopped.

It was a woman wearing a tattered dress, her figure gaunt, her steps unsteady—clearly heavily intoxicated. She leaned against the wall, trying to find a place to rest.

She was the typical prey Jack the Ripper favored most.

Weston's heart rose to his throat.

He tightened his grip on the police baton at his waist and that old-fashioned revolver. Adrenaline began coursing through his veins.

One minute, two minutes... ten minutes...

Nothing happened.

The woman seemed to have sobered up somewhat, cursed once, then staggered away from the square.

Weston's taut nerves suddenly relaxed.

Leaning against the wall, he felt deeply exhausted. He had indeed overthought things. How could there be such miraculous predictions? He must be going mad.

He smiled self-mockingly, about to abandon this foolish vigil and return to the police station to write a belated patrol report, when a flicker of abnormal movement caught the corner of his eye.

In the shadowy corner where the woman had just been standing, the darkness there seemed "deeper" than the surrounding darkness.

That patch of darkness seemed "alive."

It writhed silently on the wall surface in a way that defied physical laws, like a puddle of spreading thick ink.

Weston's blood froze.

The worldview built over decades of police service was completely shattered in that instant, then burned to ashes.

He saw clearly.

That was no shadow at all.

It was an indescribable, slender humanoid form composed of pure darkness and malice!

Its limbs were impossibly long, looking like a spider's, clinging to the wall in a twisted posture.

It wore no clothing—that "black trench coat" and "top hat" were disguises simulated by the shadows of its own body!

Lin Jie's hints transformed into cold, cruel reality at this moment.

Weston's mind went blank, leaving only the three symbols the young man had drawn echoing repeatedly in his thoughts.

The victim, the location, and that horizontal line pointing at the prey's throat representing death!

He rushed out of his hiding building like a madman, blowing the silver police whistle on his chest as he ran.

The sharp, urgent whistle filled with extreme terror tore through White Church District's deathly silent night sky.

This was Scotland Yard's highest-level alarm, meaning an officer had encountered a lethal threat.

The "Jack the Ripper UMA" clinging to the wall was startled by the sudden whistle blast.

It slowly raised its head, "looking" in Weston's direction.

Weston saw no facial features, only feeling a wave of pure malice devoid of any emotion stabbing into his brain like an ice pick.

Then, the shadow began to contract, fade, and within a few breaths completely merged into the surrounding environment, disappearing without a trace as if it had never existed.

Leaving only a faint sulfur scent in the air.

When other officers arrived panting at Mitre Square minutes later, they found only the disheartened, pale-faced Arthur Weston leaning against the wall, continuously retching dryly.

"Arthur? Did you see him? Jack the Ripper?" a young officer asked nervously.

Weston raised his head, looking at his colleague with hollow eyes.

He opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a word.

What could he say? That he saw a monster made of shadows? That the killer wasn't human at all?

But he knew it was all true.

That young Easterner hadn't lied. He wasn't predicting—he was stating a fact.

Tonight, because of his insignificant decision, a living life had been saved from that monster's claws.

This realization filled Weston with lingering fear, and solidified a major resolution within him.

He had to find that young man again.

At any cost.