The Walls of Silence.

In the silent office, the flickering light of an oil lamp cast dancing shadows on the walls. Sergeant Fielding leaned against his desk, his features drawn from fatigue and sleepless nights. His gaze wandered for a moment over the documents spread out before him.

The murders, as brutal as they were unexplained, awakened memories he would have preferred to forget. Unsolved cases, forgotten victims, and that oppressive feeling that evil was never far away, lurking in the shadows, ready to strike again.

“Harrow, do you think we could link this to those old disappearances?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

The inspector frowned. “It's possible... But this time, it's different. The killer seems colder, more precise. He leaves nothing to chance.”

A gust of wind rattled the window, bringing with it an icy breath. Whitechapel sank deeper into the night with each passing day. And in that darkness, Jack the Ripper moved forward, invisible but terribly present.