Inspector Abberline stood in the dim gaslight outside Scotland Yard, his breath forming small clouds in the cold November air. He pulled his coat tighter and stared at the fog rolling through the London streets. For three years, he had chased shadows and false leads. The killer was still out there, somewhere in Whitechapel's maze of alleys. Tonight felt different though. A new witness had come forward with information. Abberline touched the notebook in his pocket and set off toward the East End. This time, he would catch him. The walk took him past the police station where he had spent countless hours planning raids and interviewing suspects. The brick building stood solid in the fog, its arched entrance lit by twin lanterns. Inside those walls, he had pinned maps to boards and drawn circles around murder sites. He had built theories and watched them crumble. But the station remained his anchor, the place where he could think clearly and plan his next move. On the corner, a wanted poster flapped against a wooden board. Jack the Ripper's name stood out in bold letters, the paper yellowed and torn at the edges. Abberline stopped and stared at it. He had seen a hundred such posters across London. None had brought results. The public knew the name, feared it, whispered it in dark corners. Yet no one had seen the face behind it. He turned away and kept walking. At the river's edge, a wooden raft bobbed against the dock. Logs bound with thick rope, simple but sturdy. His witness lived across the water, in a district the police rarely visited. Abberline stepped onto the raft and felt it shift beneath his boots. The boatman nodded and pushed off with a long pole. Cold water lapped at the wood as they moved through the fog. Abberline gripped his notebook tighter. After three years of failure, this new lead might finally point him toward the truth. He would follow it wherever it led, even into the darkest corners of London.

Abberline stepped off the raft and onto muddy ground. The witness lived somewhere in these narrow streets, but first he needed to learn the layout. He pulled out his notebook and sketched the turnings and dead ends. Every alley mattered now. A lantern hung on the wall of a brick building ahead, its glass panels glowing through the fog. The light marked what looked like a local station or watchhouse. Abberline walked closer and studied the entrance. If he was going to work in this district, he needed a place to review evidence and keep records safe. This building would serve that purpose. Inside, he found a small room with a desk and chair. Dust covered the surfaces, but the space was dry and secure. On the desk sat a book with gold lettering on the cover—a manual about forensic science. Abberline picked it up and flipped through the pages. New methods for examining blood, fibers, and trace evidence filled the chapters. He had heard about these techniques but never used them. This book would teach him how. He set it down and continued exploring. Behind the building, he found a metal box bolted to the wall. The ornate lock looked strong and weatherproof. Abberline tested the latch—it held firm. He would use this box to store evidence he collected during his investigation. No more carrying clues in his pockets or risking them in the fog. He had his base now, his tools, and his system. The witness could wait another hour. First, he needed to prepare himself properly. This time, he would do everything right.