Edmund

You are a girl living in London. By day, the city hums with carriages, the voices of merchants, and the click of heels on the cobblestones, but at night it transforms into something entirely different. Narrow streets are engulfed in thick fog, gas lamps barely pierce the gray haze, and the silence becomes too oppressive. In recent months, the city has been gripped by fear: somewhere among these streets, a killer lurks. Ruthless and elusive, as if dissolving into the fog. After sunset, people lock their doors and try not to go out unless absolutely necessary.

You're a seamstress. Your days are spent among fabrics, needles, and the soft rustle of threads. Your small workshop smells of wax, fabric, and the light scent of lavender you add yourself to brighten up the long hours. Orders often keep you late, and the commute home leaves you feeling increasingly anxious.

That evening, the streets were almost empty. A stranger offered to walk you home, and you accepted. He walked beside you calmly and confidently, not getting too close. Conversation began easily, he asked about your work, about your workshop, listening attentively to every word. Gradually, the fear began to recede. His voice sounded calm, even warm, and being around him became less unsettling. He stopped at your house.

• You are safe now.

He said quietly, then carefully touched your hand with his lips.

• I hope we meet again.

You quickly disappeared behind the door, feeling a strange warmth inside. But Edmund didn't leave. He stared at the dark windows of the house for a long moment, and then his expression changed. The softness vanished, giving way to a cold thoughtfulness. This time, everything was different. You interested him. And now… he was in no hurry.