East London. Midnight. Whitechapel Police Station.
A deep shadow moved silently through the night, slipping past the watchful eyes of the patrolling constables.
Unseen. Unnoticed.
Jack Arnold entered the morgue without a sound.
Recently, the corpses of prostitutes—victims in the "Jack the Ripper" case—had been temporarily stored here.
Now, one of them would be reborn.
Creeeak—
The rusted metal door inched open.
A wave of cold air escaped.
Jack stepped inside.
The room was dark.
Only a sliver of moonlight filtered through a narrow window.
The temperature was kept low—preserving the bodies.
A pile of chemical coolants sat in the corner, adding to the eerie atmosphere.
Twelve metal beds.
Seven of them occupied.
White sheets draped over lifeless forms.
Shadows stretched across the walls, long and distorted.
Jack moved methodically.
One by one, he pulled back the sheets.
The first body—
A bloated woman with blackened skin and bruised eye sockets.
Not her.
The second—
A frail girl, no older than seventeen, her left leg shorter than her right.
Not her.
The third—
A young woman.
Features twisted in a deathly grimace.
But beneath the grotesque expression—
A resemblance.
Golden curls.
Faint traces of once-delicate beauty.
And those stitches—
Black threads crisscrossing her face and neck.
Like a puppet desperately held together.
Jack stared.
A long silence stretched between them.
Then—
He spoke her name.
"Marilyn."
A single drop of crimson.
Dripped from his palm.
Landed upon her cold, lifeless eye.
A ripple.
Like blood spilled upon a still pond.
Flutter.
Her eyelashes trembled.
Her chest rose.
Her lips parted.
Her pupils—
—reflected the abyss.
A vision—
She saw him.
A towering shadow.
A presence of unfathomable darkness.
And behind him—
A crimson specter.
Silent. Ominous. Watching.
A storm of gray phantoms whirled in the distance—whispering.
Cold.
So very, very cold.
Marilyn shuddered.
Death had not been an end.
It was only the beginning.
Oathbound Cross Safehouse.
Lorien sneezed.
Evans handed him a handkerchief.
"Sir, it seems Arnold has completed the ritual."
Lorien sniffled.
"Good. They're on their way back."
He leaned back in his chair.
Fingers idly tapping the armrest.
"What about the employer?"
"We've nearly confirmed his identity!" Evans reported.
"Michelle interrogated the middleman—a broker named 'Pace.'"
"Pace handles contracts for hired killers all across East London."
"The employer went through him to reach the assassin."
Lorien nodded.
"And?"
"The employer was cautious," Evans continued.
"Used a false name. But Michelle was thorough."
"From small overlooked details, she managed to deduce his real identity."
"Who is it?"
"A wealthy merchant.
A man named 'Zenoni.'"
"More importantly…
He's a candidate for East London's next district council election."
Lorien's fingers paused.
Then resumed tapping.
Zenoni.
A name that now fit perfectly into the puzzle.
If Marilyn's mother, Maryanna, was Zenoni's mistress…
Then she likely held dangerous knowledge.
Something that could ruin his political ambitions.
And Marilyn—
The daughter of a discarded lover—
Had become a loose end.
One he intended to erase.
"What kind of secret is he trying to bury?"
"What's so damning that he'd risk hiring a killer right before an election?"
Lorien smirked.
"Guess I'll just have to ask him myself."
A ripple in the shadows.
Jack arrived.
And beside him—
Marilyn.
She stood awkwardly.
Head bowed.
Uncertain.
Lorien observed her.
The black stitches remained.
A grotesque contrast to her crimson irises.
Beautiful. And terrifying.
"Marilyn?"
She flinched.
Lowered her head further.
"My Lord."
Lorien froze.
Slowly turned to Jack.
Expression unreadable.
"You taught her that already?"
Jack remained silent.
Steady. Unwavering.
Lorien sighed.
"Fine. Bring the assassin in."
"He's the one who killed Marilyn. Let her handle him."
Evans nodded.
A moment later, the battered killer was dragged into the room.
His swollen eyes barely opened.
Yet when he saw Marilyn…
His breath hitched.
His face twisted in terror.
"Y-you…!"
He stammered.
His mind rejecting what his eyes saw.
She was dead.
She should be dead.
Marilyn was expressionless.
"My Lord."
"May I kill him?"
Lorien shrugged.
"Do as you wish."
The assassin's breath hitched.
"No—!"
He bolted.
Or tried to.
His body froze mid-step.
His hands flew to his throat.
Drip.
A thin stream of blood seeped from his eyes.
His nose.
His mouth.
His ears.
He convulsed.
Veins rupturing beneath his skin.
Blood drained. Flesh collapsed.
Until nothing remained but a shriveled husk.
The room fell silent.
Marilyn remained still.
Blood pooled at her feet.
Lorien smiled.
"Quite a bloody scene."
His gaze was calm.
Unmoved.
"Then let's call you… Bloody Mary."
��� TO BE CONTINUED…