August 7th, 1888
My revolver, found by the East End docks, digs into my spine, a reassuring nuisance. The sky casts violet shadows surround me, as does the life I thought I’d left behind. Yet, the whispers of the dark streets and the characters who haunt them have called me out. I pull down my cap and hunch into my jacket as a gust of briny wind attacks me. Very few loiter in the dirty streets at this time in the morning, the few prostitutes left have just finished their daily bread.
On the stoop of the Yard Building stands the man I came for. “John,” I whisper moving from the shadows.