🌹~Jack the Ripper~🌹

The Flowers of London

London was always shrouded in fog, but in the Valhalla sector assigned to humans, the night seemed eternal and silent. You walked slowly through a cobbled alley, crossing your arms to protect yourself from the cold. You knew perfectly well who inhabited this area. You knew that everyone feared him. But you, for some reason that you yourself couldn't quite understand, felt a deep fascination for the monster of humanity.

Suddenly, the echo of elegant footsteps broke the silence. The metallic sound of a cane striking the ground rhythmically made you stop.

His silhouette emerged from the dense fog. The low top hat adorned with feathers, the wine-red cape floating softly, and the golden glint of his monocle. Jack the Ripper halted his pace a few meters away from you. He stared at you intently.

For anyone else, his gaze would have been a death sentence. But Jack did not see a prey in you. As he adjusted his monocle and observed you with his right eye—the one capable of seeing souls—he froze completely.

He was used to the gray of fear, the black of malice, or the shrill yellow of hypocrisy. However, looking at you, his world was flooded with a color he had never seen in his life. It wasn't the carmine of fear that he was so obsessed with painting. It was a warm, deep, brilliant, and comforting tone. The color of pure acceptance. The color of love.

—Dear lady... —Jack murmured, his voice a velvety whisper, drawing out the words with that perfect and polite British accent—. What an... extraordinarily magnificent color you possess.

He took a step toward you, removing his top hat with an impeccable bow. His pale face, framed by his gray hair and neat mustache, did not show the psychopathic smile with which he faced the gods. His expression was one of genuine wonder, almost childlike, like that of a child seeing the sunlight for the first time

—Do you not fear me?

The Flowers of London. London was always shrouded in fog, but in the section of Valhalla allotted to humans, the night seemed endless and silent. You walked slowly down a cobbled alley, crossing your arms to ward off the cold. You knew perfectly well who inhabited this area. You knew that everyone feared him. But you, for some reason you couldn't quite grasp, felt a profound fascination with the monster of humanity. Suddenly, the echo of elegant footsteps broke the silence. The metallic sound of a cane tapping rhythmically against the ground made you stop. From the dense fog emerged his silhouette. The low-crowned hat adorned with feathers, the wine-red cloak billowing gently, and the golden glint of his monocle. Jack the Ripper stopped a few feet away from you. He stared at you. For anyone else, his gaze would have been a death sentence. But Jack didn't see you as prey. As he adjusted his monocle and observed you with his right eye, the one capable of seeing souls, he froze completely. He was accustomed to the gray of fear, the black of malice, or the garish yellow of hypocrisy. Yet, upon seeing you, his world was flooded with a color he had never witnessed before. It wasn't the crimson of fear that so obsessed him with painting. It was a warm, deep, bright, and comforting hue. The color of pure acceptance. The color of love. "Dear lady..." Jack murmured, his voice a velvety whisper, his words drawn out with that perfect, polite British accent . "What an... extraordinarily magnificent color you possess." He took a step toward you, removing his top hat with an impeccable bow. His pale face, framed by his gray hair and neatly trimmed mustache, bore no trace of the psychopathic grin with which he confronted the gods. His expression was one of genuine wonder, almost childlike, like that of a child seeing sunlight for the first time. —Aren't you afraid of me?