August 31st, 1888

Mentor,

You were right to place us in Whitechapel. The rest of London sees this place as a cesspool of crime and villainy, but many struggle to simply make it to the next day. They work to merely get food on their plates or to stay in their homes. Some instead spend it on liquor and… other pleasures. Over a month I have watch the people that live here—either from the corner of streets or my suite in the local brothel. I hear their daily conversation and whispers in alleyways. They speak of a shadow that lurks in the bowels of this borough. I never get a description, but they say he is a phantom that haunts the alleys and floats across rooftops. Since you told us to investigate, I followed these claims, and I spotted him, Mentor. A menace of the night. The rogue is here, hiding in Whitechapel. What he plots, I hav—

Mentor, I saw him! As I was writing this letter, I heard a strange sound. I looked out the window to investigate and he was there, standing across the street. Staring at me. I fear he knows I am here, and why I have come. Jacob, you must hurry!

Your disciple,

Mary Ann Nicholas

The first thing Alexandra felt was pain. It pounded within her skull, like a hammer. The young woman furrowed her eyebrows, as the edges of consciousness pushed away her dreamless sleep. It was then she felt something warm and soft wrapped around her, her head pressing against a plush object. A bed…?

Alexandra blinked open her eyes, only for her vision to be filled with a bright light. The Assassin hissed in protest and shut her eyes. Suddenly she felt a shift with a squeak (bed frame?) and something brushed against her leg. She opened her eyes again, this time forcing them to stay open long enough for her vision to adjust to the candle set on the table across from her.

Something brushed her leg again. Confused, Alexandra glanced up. She almost screamed.

He was right there, staring down at her.

"Good morning, my pet," Jack the Ripper purred. "Did you sleep well?"

Suddenly the memory of what happened the night before flooded her mind. He had murdered her friends, and tried to kill her and her family, and he was being casual? It took a full moment for everything to rush through Alexandra's head. She said the first word she could process.

"Monster," she snarled. Alexandra went to pounce. There was only a few inches between them. This time she wouldn't hesitate and finish what they started.

But she never did.

Her body jerked, signaling it had received her command, but did not move. What? Alexandra tried again—willed her body to push off the bed, to near Jack, to strangle him—nothing. As far as she got was rolling over onto her back, but that only reward her a clearer view of the monster. And for the pounding in her head to intensify.

"What did you do to me?" Alexandra gasped. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The last thing she remembered was Jack pushing her and her head hitting the desk. What if it caused something horrible? Left her crippled?

"I took the liberty to have some precautions," Jack explained, as if assuring her. Once again Alexandra felt something move across her leg to rest on her thigh. She realized with disgust it was the monster's hand. "The paralysis should wear off in a day or two."

Alexandra grinded her teeth in fury. Robbed. Robbed of her friends, her home, and now her free will. Rendered useless. And he was amused.

She tried to move again, rewarded with another jerk, this one accompanied with a clanking sound. Wha—? It was then the Assassin registered something cold and tight around her wrist. She glanced at it, trying to see with her awkward angle. Her fear was confirmed.

A metal cuff was attached to her wrist, a steel chain hanging off the bed… attached to the wall by the head. Jack must have noticed her look of horror.

"Just in case it wears off a little early," he said. "Don't want you wandering around, now, do we?"

Alexandra gritted her teeth. Not only was she deprived of her free will—she was chained. Like an animal. Like a slave.

"You… you bastard…" she snarled, like a rapid animal.

"Sh... calm down now," Jack chided.

The Assassin flinched when his gloved hand moved from her thigh to her flank, holding her down. The contact made her realize most of her clothing had been removed, left only in her undershirt and trousers. All her weapons, gone.

The thought filled with the Assassin with shame. She had faced the murderer, armed and prepared for his arrival, but she had lost in a matter of seconds. Years of training, squandered. The memory of the fight flashed across her eyes, then she realized.

He had come for her. To kill her like he killed the others. She remembered when he easily caught her attack. The murderer could have easily ripped her, made her the next victim of his wave of crimes. Another body for the police to inspect. But he didn't. She was alive. Why?

"What do you want?" Alexandra hissed.

"What I've always wanted," Jack replied, like it was obvious. "Freedom for all, death to tyrants and bastards, London to be cleansed of filth and rot."

"No, this is not our way!"

"This is my Creed."

Alexandra flinched. For the first time, she was able to see his eyes. They were an empty silver—lifeless, even. But she was well aware there was a madness behind them, a twisted version of reality—and of the Creed. The woman remembered her father's words.

"Jack is sick," he had warned. "It's in his mind. He doesn't understand things like the rest of us. We must help him."

But Jack the Ripper couldn't be helped. He proved that when he slaughtered his fellow sisters and—

"My father," Alexandra gasped. She remembered. He was there. "Where is my father?!"

"He's alive," Jack assured. "A little worse for the wear, but alive… At least, when I left him."

The young woman hid her relief. "I don't think I asked that."

Suddenly Jack made a strange noise. It took the prisoner a full moment to realize it was a short laugh. It sounded like rocks clapping against each other.

"That's all you should concern yourself with, my pet," the madman insisted. Alexandra tried to shrink away when he began to stroke her side. Like a pet.

"I want to see him!"

"…No." Alexandra hated how easily he refused her. As if it was a reminder that she was in no position to make demands. She opened her mouth to curse at him, but Jack tilted his head. "After all, I'm sure you want him to stay in one piece?"

His voice dropped to a dark tone and Alexandra understood his threat. He was tired of her questions, and he was hanging Jacob's life over her head. Fury replaced the dread in her stomach.

Nothing. She knew nothing. Because Jack refused to tell her. Why she was here and why did he take her father? Why did they die, but she was still alive?!

Alexandra settled for glaring murderously at the monster, but the Ripper seemed oblivious as he continued his slow, calculated strokes. His hand slid from her side to her stomach. The young woman shivered as he turned his hand over, having his knuckles brush her other flank. His eyes disappeared in the holes of his mask again, but he seemed captivated, watching her reactions. As if he was testing how much he could mess with her.

Alexandra refused to give the lunatic the pleasure, instead focusing on her staring contest. Until Jack's hand traveled lower.

Some instinct kicked in, stirred by the mere idea of being violated. Her arm moved.

She snatched the Ripper's wrist before he could reach her groin. His reaction was immediate.

Alexandra gasped as suddenly Jack jerked away, painfully twisting her arm, which was now clasped to his. The wicked knife materialized in his free hand, its sharp blade pressing against her wrist.

"Understand something, little girl," Jack growled, his voice dark and dangerous. "I get to touch you wherever I like."

"See me like the Mona Lisa," Alexandra retorted. "Look, but you lay your hand on me, then it's the last thing you will ever do on God's green Earth. Go to hell, you vile demon."

The prisoner saw her captor's cold eyes narrow. She let out a yelp as the knife sliced into her skin, leaving a crimson line. It only grew larger as blood oozed from the wound. The dull pain came next, spreading across her arm until it was throbbing. Alexandra refused to show her discomfort. The cut was deep, but not enough to kill her.

Jack twisted her arm again, straining it even more, so he could see the damage he made. He seemed to have forgotten his exploration, but was now fascinated by the blood. It was already pouring from her wrist onto the sheets, turning the ivory cloth red. Just like the sheets that covered his victims.

"Beautiful thing, isn't it?" Jack suddenly mused. Alexandra thought he was talking about the blood.

"It's not," she argued. Like the rest of their conversation, the Ripper ignored her.

"It's amazing how we take life for granted, when it's so precious, so fleeting. With just a flick of a knife, gone. Just like that." Their eyes locked and Jack asked her, "Have you seen it? A person's last breath? Watched the life drain from their eyes?"

Alexandra gulped, a familiar face flashing across vision. She hated her answer. "Yes."

"Then don't pretend you don't know me."

Just like that, Jack the Ripper removed his hands from her and stood. He looked like a giant looming over her.

"It's true you were an Assassin, Jack," Alexandra forced out, the very words tasting bitter and vile. Like it was a lie against reality. But it was true. "But it's not the same."

Jack snorted. "You're as stubborn and stupid as Jacob and the rest of them. But I won't hold you to that. Not your fault you were blinded by a weak Creed."

Alexandra snarled, baring her fangs. She meant to retort, but suddenly the Ripper snatched her collar. He pulled her up into a sitting position, but her body was numb and limp, unable to hold herself up. Jack did for her as he placed a strong hand on her shoulder. His other hand cupped her cheek, tilting her gaze up to look into his. Alexandra tried to flinch away, but she knew it was useless.

She was his prisoner. His slave. His doll. His pet. And they both knew it.

"You'll see soon enough, my pet," he promised in his distorted whisper.

The young woman shivered again when he brushed a thumb across her cheek. Suddenly he closed the distance between, leaning down to near his face to hers. A chill crawled down her spine. He was closer than the last time, not even an inch. She could look into those holes and see those terrible eyes.

"You will behave," Jack hissed, his rumbling voice like the Devil's. "You will be mine…"

"Never," Alexandra snapped with venom.

"Then I'll just have to increase the dosage."

At first the captive was confused. Then Alexandra screamed as the syringe buried in her neck.

Alexandra was still unable to move when she woke up next. That was an understatement.

There were a few moments where the girl couldn't even open her eyelids, and when she finally did, it was hard to close them. She couldn't move her jaw—and she couldn't feel her tongue—so she wouldn't be able to talk anytime soon. Like it would matter, considering how useless her last conversation was. The rest of her body was strangely numb. Not only could she not move, or even jerk this time, she could not feel. It was like her body was made of jelly—shapeless and weak.

Alexandra wondered how she was not dead. She had been warned the consequences of too strong of a dosage—regardless of the poison. Because the poison always went to the heart, and if the heart was to die, so did the body. The girl knew this poison. It was a potion the British Assassins learned from their Indian brothers. But this was different.

Although the young Assassin never felt it, she knew its effects. She had seen a full-grown man's entire body lock up within seconds of being poisoned, like they were captured by some invisible force. Alexandra didn't feel like she was being held—it felt all her energy had been sapped from her. Had Jack the Ripper modified it somehow?

The paralysis was slow to wear off, true to his word. Alexandra's senses were the first to return. She determined nothing had changed during her comatose state—she still felt the same soft sheets of the same bed. The cool air seeped through her thin fabric and touched her skin. Not only was she in a room without light, but without any source of warmth. The prisoner was still aware of the clamp around her wrist.

Even with her senses restored, the strange numbness still lingered, even when her movement began to return. First it was minute motions—twitching of her fingers, moving her jaw, curling her toes. The jerks came next, like when she first woke up. Her arm would twitch, only to be locked in place. A side effect she was more familiar with. Eventually she could roll over to her side.

That was when he returned.

"Sleep well, my pet?" Jack inquired.

The same question he asked when she first awoke in this hellhole. Alexandra's eyes were closed, so she didn't know how he knew she was awake. She continued to feign sleep, even regulating her breathing. The Ripper was not fooled.

"You should be hungry by now," he observed.

Alexandra still did not say anything, even though she hated that he was right. As the numbness wore off, another sensation replaced it. Pain. First it was a dull ache in Alexandra's head. The woman couldn't keep a long strain of thought without it being broken by the discomfort. Then she felt the twisting her gut. She thought it was nerves at first, until it intensified as the paralysis faded.

Yes, she was hungry. But she wouldn't tell Jack that.

"I'm not going to give you anything unless you ask," he went on. "Or you'll starve."

Alexandra wanted to snort. He turned to trying to use her weaknesses to assort his dominance. She would expect that from a Templar, but not one claiming to be an Assassin. Then again, she was finding it harder and harder to tell the difference between Templars and Jack the Ripper—but she certainly knew who was worse.

"I know you're awake," the captor went on, his rumbling voice closer. "No need to ignore me."

Alexandra ignored him.

There was a silence for a few moments and the woman hoped he left. Only for her fleeting moment to vanish when the bed frame squeak from a heavy weight. From Jack.

Go away, Alexandra wished. She still couldn't move enough to strike him. Never mind put up a fight. Then she couldn't help but flinch when the Ripper laid a hand across her back.

"Ah, there you are," he murmured, sounding pleased that he caught her.

He wants the attention. Don't give it to him.

Although trained like one, Jack didn't think like an Assassin. He didn't want a life of secrecy—he wanted to be known. All serial killers wanted attention. He proved that with his letters he sent. To the journalists, the Scotland Yard, and even to other Assassins. Alexandra still remembered the terror she felt when she received a personal letter, resting on the windowsill of her bedroom. Although now, she preferred a worrisome letter than the situation she was in now.

Alexandra remained stubborn, but tensed her muscles as Jack stroke her back, almost soothingly. She hated it. It was how her father would comfort her. There were times she would scream into a night from a nightmare, and Jacob was there, every time. He would stay be her side, comfort her, until the fear subsided enough for her to allow sleep to return.

But this wasn't her father. She didn't wake up from a nightmare. She was living it.

There was no way this could be real. A single man could have destroyed a Brotherhood. A single man could have defeated her family. A single man could be a monster. It made no sense. It made no bloody sense. How could any of this be real?

But Alexandra felt it, deep down in her gut. It was real. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

"You're cold," Jack suddenly murmured, breaking the heavy silence. Was she? "You're shivering."

Alexandra realized he was right. Her body was trembling. Not violent, but not subtle enough to escape a trained killer's notice. She didn't know why. Was it the cold? Fear? Or the paralysis? Or maybe it was a combination of the three. Jack paused his strokes to pull the sheets to her shoulder.

"Better?" he hummed, like he expected an answer.

Why do you care? the Assassin wanted to bite. The Ripper answered like she said it aloud.

"Don't want you getting sick."

Oh. That was why he was suddenly concerned over her health.

"Why keep me alive?" Alexandra asked through a mutter.

"Hmm?"

Finally the prisoner opened a single eye. He was right there, so close she could wring his neck. But she couldn't. Instead she repeated her question. Jack's eyes narrowed, either in amusement or disdain. The woman honestly couldn't tell.

"Because I need you alive," he said plainly. Oh, how much Alexandra wanted to kill him.

"That's not an answer," she retorted.

"'Course it is."

Oh, God, now he was being a child. Only a night before (Or a few nights before? How long had she been here?), he had brutally slaughtered a pair of women and was prepared to do the same to her family. But Jack had mood swings for as long as she could remember. If only they had paid more attention to it…

"I need you alive, Alexandra," Jack confirmed, continuing to stroke her back. Chills crawled up and down her spine when he said her name.

"As your prisoner," the woman realized.

"As my guest. Do you really hate me so?"

"The fact you ask that shows how screwed in the head you are."

Suddenly Jack snatched her shoulder in a firm grip. Remembering the last time she spoken out, she expected him to cut her again. Instead, he turned her to lay on her back, so the prisoner was forced to look up at him.

"I want to save the Brotherhood," the monster said, as if he believed it. "It has been ruled by a weak Creed for far too long."

"You're wrong!" Alexandra spat. "The Creed is what makes us who we are! Guides us! Gives us wisdom!"

"Gives us lies. It doesn't nothing but restrain us. We rot in our cage of tradition and blind faith, while the Templars feed off our flesh like scavengers."

Alexandra shook her head as much as the paralysis would allow. "It's what makes us strong."

"Look where it's gotten you."

It was like he had taken his knife and buried it in her stomach. The Assassin opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She had no response to that. Jack looked pleased with himself. He had won, again.

"But if you want to be that way, so be it," the traitor huffed.

He finally stood (Alexandra gave a silent sigh of relief that his hands were away from her). He turned, walking toward the direction what she assumed was the door.

"Let's see how long your stubbornness last…"

The door slammed shut with a bang, once again leaving Alexandra alone.

Alexandra slipped in and out of unconsciousness, always waking up to the same state to the same silence. The prisoner hadn't seen Jack since his last visit. In fact, she hadn't seen anything. The candle that had lit the room previously was gone or out, having darkness surround the Assassin. There were times she couldn't tell the difference between her eyes being open or closed, and even questioned if she was even awake.

In the end, all Alexandra could do was think. Or accurately, curse herself. Defenseless. Helpless. She had the chance to kill the most gruesome murderer ever to walk the streets of London, and now she was completely at his mercy. It seemed like Jack wanted to keep her here, but for how long? What was to stop him from gutting her like her friends? Maybe that was his plan.

She remembered each of the murders were roughly a month apart. He was waiting, then. Waiting for the people and Scotland Yard to lower its guard with the false sense of peace, only to reminded there was a serial killer among them. And that reminder would be her. Even with her numb state, Alexandra could feel her stomach churning. No, that couldn't be her fate.

She vowed to serve the Creed—and that her last breath would be for fighting for the Brotherhood. To protect the people with her very life. Alexandra closed her eyes and familiar voice echoed in her mind.

"You are Alexandra… 'Defender of Mankind.' That is what you are named."

How could she defend humanity, if she couldn't defend herself? No, she couldn't die like this, at the hands of a madman. And what of her family?

Were they to suffer the same fate? Had they already? Jack claimed Jacob was alive—but only the night before that he said the Mentor was dead, when that wasn't the case. What if he lied again? That Jacob was already dead? And then poor Zachary…

His scream of terror was the last thing Alexandra remembered of him. Did the Ripper take his blood as well? Or did he lock the boy up as well, and he was in his own hole? Alexandra did not know which was worse—the thought of her dear father dead, or the thought of her little brother alone and terrified.

Oh, how she wished Auntie Evie was here. While Jacob was reckless and spirited, Evie was calm and calculating. She would know what to do. She could be stern at times, but she was loving and kind.

"Focus, Alexandra," she would be saying. "You're a warrior—an Assassin."

But she was in India, on the other side of the world. Busy leading a whole Brotherhood of her own alongside her husband, Henry Green, while raising her troublesome sons. Alexandra remembered Jacob had sent a letter, requesting for her help, but it would take months for her to reply. Even with trains and steam-boats, the letter had a long way to travel, and so did Auntie Evie, if she even agreed to come.

Thinking of her aunt made Alexandra realize—what if she did come? Only for her family to be gone? The Master Assassin would beside herself. No doubt she would tear the city apart in order to find her loved ones, but why would she suspect a killer of prostitutes to be the downfall of the British Brotherhood?

Alexandra prayed Inspector Frederick Abberline would be able to fill the gaps, or better yet, find a lead, but she knew that would be unlikely. Abberline had been a dear friend of the Frye family long before she was born. He was the one that aided Jacob in his hunt for Jack—but the men were looking for a different target. Jacob hunted for a traitor; Abberline searched for a murderer. The same perpetrator, but there could only be so much the two could tell each other.

The prisoner's train of thought covered the same subjects after that—Jack the Ripper, her family, the investigation, the poor situation she found herself in. Over and over. She thought of countless possibilities—how things could have been different, and how this nightmare could end. But it was always the same.

Alexandra felt weaker with each cycle. But it wasn't her body, but her spirit. Her ideas became less and less hopeful. Her rage became quieter and quieter. Her thoughts more and more solemn. She was alone. She was at the mercy of a madman. No one could save her. London was dead.

"Remember, my beautiful," a voice suddenly whispered in her mind. "You can always walk out of the darkness, as long as you search for the light."

The woman's cycle of thoughts stopped. No. She would not meet her end like this. She was a warrior. She was a Defender of Mankind. She was an Assassin.

Alexandra would fight, as she always had. And she would escape.