Morning dawned cold and grey in 19th century London. Steely clouds hung so low in the sky they looked to be just above one's head, and solid as a plaster ceiling. Tendrils of black smoke rising up from soot – blackened chimneys reached towards the sky like hazy, skeletal fingers. Grimy rooftops crowded in on each other, inducing a claustrophobic atmosphere. Down in the muddy cobblestone streets, low – class labourers were already hard at work, pushing dung – laden carts, setting up their stalls at St. Dunstans market, and so on.

On Fleet Street, a few workers toiled. Rats, hardly any cleaner than the men in the street, scurried in the darkness of a large, foreboding archway, above which three heads, taken from thieves and put on show to discourage the general public from committing crimes, were spiked on metal poles.

On the street corner directly across from this rather grisly sight was a barbershop. Under this was a Meat Pie Emporium. The pie shop was dark and empty, as it had been for months, but a faint orange light could be seen in the large window of the barbershop. It came from a single candle that flickered in the depths of the large room, illuminating a vanity and a large wooden chest. The light cast spidery, eerie shadows along the walls, which were covered in peeling wallpaper.

On the wooden vanity stood a small lather bowl, a shaving brush and an ornately carved wooden box, in which usually rested seven beautifully handcrafted, silver razors. At this moment, however, the largest one was being admired by Mr, Sweeney Todd, the owner of the barbershop. He sat in his leather seated barber chair, turning and angling his shiny "friend" in his long, slender fingers, seeing it glint in the candlelight.

He saw his reflection briefly in the blade; his unusually tired and sunken looking eyes glared at him. His skin, which was even paler than its usual shade, looked especially ashen these days, since he was not sleeping well. Actually, he had not slept at all for the past three nights, and he was beginning to show the strain.

The reason sleep had evaded Mr. Todd for so long had actually happened over two months ago. The night when he had put an end to Mrs. Lovett's life, the unfortunate owner of the pie shop downstairs, would be a memorable night. Not because he regretted killing her, though. She had lied, misled him into thinking his wife, whom he had returned home to after spending fifteen years in prison on a false charge, was dead. She hadn't been, though she was little better off, living in the streets in squalor and poverty, half-mad and begging for alms from wealthy passers-by.

Mrs. Lovett had told him she had lied because she loved him. Mr. Todd believed she had gotten what she deserved, her and that meddling child, Toby.

And the Judge… It made Todd's lip curl to think upon his memory, the pious vulture who had raped his dear Lucy, his wife, and who had then adopted his daughter, Johanna, after sending Todd to prison. Judge Turpin was dead, also at the hands of the demon barber, and so was the toadying Beadle.

His Johanna had escaped with a young sailor lad, Anthony, and she had no idea that Todd was her father. Just like Todd had had no idea that the beggar woman, who he had found snooping about his shop, was his wife. When he heard the Judge coming up the stairs, he had to make a decision. He had killed her. He had not recognised his own wife. And the agony of it burned continuously like a million knives twisting themselves into his soul.

Her blank, bloodied face haunted his dreams. The nightmares had gradually gotten worse over time, and Todd supposed it was the loneliness of having no one, and he was slowly going mad, if he wasn't already. The pie – maker had, at least, brought him meals, and chatted to him when business was slow…

The barber stopped staring at his razor to glance out the large window to his right. Drops of rain had begun splattering miserably against the dirty glass, and Mr. Todd knew it would rain all day. The weather had been like that for a week, and it was easy to predict.

Silently he debated whether or not to open up shop that day, and decided he would. He had nothing better to do. He got up from the chair with a slight groan, crossed the room, and set the "closed" sign to "open."