Detective Damon Salvatore steps out of the fog-shrouded alley, his breath visible in the frigid London air. The gas lamps flicker, casting eerie shadows on the cobblestone streets. The stench of decay hangs heavy, and the distant wail of a cat echoes through the narrow passageways.
The Ripper has struck again. The fifth victim this month. The newspapers call him a monster, but Damon knows better. He is dealing with a cunning adversary—a man who moves like a phantom, leaving behind only blood-soaked clues.
As he approaches the crime scene, the constables hold back the growing crowd. The victim lies sprawled on the ground; her throat slashed open. Her eyes stare blankly at the sky, and her once-white dress is now a canvas of crimson.
Damon crouches beside her, examining the wounds. The precision is chilling. The Ripper knows his anatomy well—too well. The detective's gloved fingers trace the jagged edges of the incision. The killer has left a message, as always. A macabre signature etched into her flesh.
"Sir," Constable Simmons says, his voice trembling. "What do you make of it?"
Damon straightens, his mind racing. The Ripper is taunting them, daring them to catch him. But why? What drives a man to such madness?
"Look here," Damon says, pointing to the victim's hand. The skin is scraped, as if she had fought back. "She put up a struggle. But he was stronger."
Simmons nods, his face pale. "What kind of man could do this?"
Damon glances around. The fog clings to the walls like a shroud. The Ripper is close, perhaps watching from the shadows. The detective's instincts kick in. He has to think like the killer.
"Find me, witnesses," Damon orders. "Anyone who saw something. And search the nearby taverns. The Ripper might have left a trace."
As the constables scatter, Damon remains by the victim's side. He whispers a silent prayer for her soul. She was someone's daughter, someone's sister. He can't let her death be in vain. The gas lamps flicker again, and Damon feels a chill crawl up his spine. He knows the Ripper is watching. Waiting. The game is afoot, and he will play it to the end.
Damon pulls his coat tighter, the fog swallowing him as he disappears into the night. The cobblestones whisper secrets, and the moon hides its face. But Damon will find the truth. He will unmask the monster, no matter the cost.
And so, Detective Damon Salvatore steps deeper into the darkness, following the trail of blood and madness. The streets of Whitechapel hold their secrets, but he is determined to unravel them—to the heart of evil itself.
In the dimly lit room, shadows dance across the walls like malevolent spirits. The air hangs heavy and suffocating as if the nightmare still clings to reality. Damon's heart races, pounding against his ribcage, and sweat soaks the sheets beneath him.
Eyes wide, Damon lurches up, disoriented, the remnants of the dream still vivid. The images swirl in his mind—a twisted carnival, grotesque faces, and a relentless pursuit through a labyrinth of horrors.
The dream clings to him, tendrils of fear wrapping around his chest. Damon swings his legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the cold floor. The room tilts, and he steadies himself, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress.
Outside the window, the moon hangs low, casting eerie shadows on the wooden floor. The room feels smaller now, suffocating. Damon stumbles toward the door, flinging it open, and races down the hallway to the kitchen. He pulls a blood bag out of the freezer and sucks it down in seconds.
He collapses, gasping, on the tiled floor. Damon remembers that night. He had been trudging to his flat when a woman approached him. From the look in her eyes, Damon inherently knew there was something sinister about her.
He ran but he hadn't been fast enough. She roughly pinned him up against an alley wall and force-fed him her blood. She whispered a shallow apology and abruptly snapped his neck.
Damon woke up disorientated a few hours later in a London flat. The woman who introduced herself as Katherine explained that he had to feed on human blood.
At first, Damon vehemently refused. That was before she calmly bit into the neck of a young woman, exposing him to the thing he had unwittingly been craving.
"Thank you, everyone, for coming," Chief Jordan says over the rumblings of the now-packed community room. "I called this press conference to update the public on our investigation into the murders of Jolene Turner, Sarah Taylor, and Rose Trevor."
Clearing his throat, Jordan continues. "Seattle is a big city. We're still searching for leads. However, given the timeframe, proximity, and details of the murders, right now our working theory is that they're connected, at least two of the three. We do not yet have a motive for the killings and will continue sifting through evidence."
"Detective Salvatore is the lead detective on the case. Henceforth, I'd like to bring up Dr. Elijah Mikaelson of the County Medical Examiner's office.
Elijah steps up to the lectern and holds a skull in his hand. "Checking underneath the victim's hairline, we located what appears to be a needle puncture near the base of the skull...Here," he points to the spot on the skull, "from which a small amount of blood was removed."
"Was this puncture on all three victims?" Elena asks.
"We haven't checked on all three women yet, but there was a slight decrease in normal blood content..." Elijah answers.
Elena continues, "How slight?"
"That's hard to say, maybe six or seven cc's."
"Why wasn't it reported?" Another journalist asks, jumping to his feet.
"The amount of blood loss seemed insignificant at the time..." Elijah explains.
"But not now?" Elena counters.
"You have a point..."
"Just a minute, Doctor," Chief Jordan interrupts. "Who are you?" he asks, his eye landing on Elena.
"Elena Gilbert, The Tribune."
"Will you allow the doctor to continue without the constant interruptions?" Chief Jordan demands as his hand grips the lectern. "Go ahead, Dr. Mikaelson."
"As long as we get all the facts this time!" Elena calls aloud as she meets Damon's stare. She winks at him and sits down, her pen gripped firmly in her hand.
"We are urging anyone with information to come forward or call into the hotline, 206-551-8643. We'll continue keeping the public informed as we know more. Thank you."
The journalists are on their feet, waving their hands and yelling out to the chief as he exits the room.
Dissatisfied by what she had heard at the press conference, Elena pays a little visit to the morgue and finds a chatty attendant with a taste for Vodka. What he tells her makes chopped liver of the needle puncture and loss of blood, and explains why she hadn't been allowed to look too closely at Jolene Turner the other night.
Elena thanks the man and leaves the morgue surreptitiously to avoid Detective Salvatore today although she can't deny she'd like to get to know him better in a primal sort of way.
The newsroom is bustling with activity. Reporters type furiously at their desks, phones ring incessantly, and the air hums with urgency.
Elena approaches Ric, her stern-faced boss who is hunched over his cluttered desk.
"Ric, this could be something big."
Without looking up, Ric barks. "I'm swamped. Spit it out."
"You can be so flabbergasting," Elena grumbles as she sits down.
He finally glances up. "Spill." Elena hands him a piece of paper and he quickly riffles it. "We can't link these killings unless we know whether all three have a needle puncture."
"They do and that's not all."
"You know something the ME doesn't?" Ric comments in a mocking tone.
"First, you owe me twenty bucks for a bottle of vodka."
"What?" He asks incredulously.
"I bought it for a loose-lipped morgue attendant."
"Okay, keep talkin', hurry up."
Rose Trevor not only had a needle puncture in the back of her skull and loss of blood, she also had a broken neck," Elena reveals.
"That's not so unusual in the case of a strangling," Ric counters.
"Sarah Taylor also had a broken neck."
"So what."
Elena shakes her head. "Maybe I should tell you what the morgue attendant told me. He said that the killer had to be an incredibly strong man. Not only were the necks broken, they were crushed."
"That's what the man said!" Ric asks.
Elena smiles as she delivers the coup de grâce. "On the throats of the victims was a residue of rotted flesh, as if they had been strangled by a dead man."
Thank you all for reading. Damon and Elena have an enduring love story. Thank you all for the birthday wishes for Eva yesterday. She sends her heartfelt thanks, too.
Chapter title: Jack by Iced Earth.
Have an amazing day and a fantastic week ahead.