Author's Note: I wish to state unequivocally that I am cognizant of the reviews and messages inquiring whether authors are interested in proposals or commissions to adapt their stories into comics. From my experience, I regard these solicitations as scams aimed at exploiting authors. Any review or message that requires me to contribute financially will be immediately blocked and reported. I've noticed that stories pertaining to Japanese anime are often the targets of these scammers. Such comments and reviews contravene the Fanfiction guidelines, which explicitly prohibit spamming, harassment, and exploitation. I fully endorse and uphold these guidelines. Participating in such conduct undermines the creative community and exploits the dedication and effort of authors. Hence, I request that you refrain from posting a review or sending a message that solicits my participation in comic creation, particularly if it entails a financial contribution on my part. Engaging in such behavior will lead to a block and a report to the platform authorities for breaching community standards. I appreciate your understanding and cooperation. Let's maintain a safe and supportive environment for our creative community. It does not matter if the user has acknowledged this disclaimer and ignored the warning—the user will be reported and blocked regardless, without exception. Even if the solicitation for financial contribution has been removed, the review will be reported.
The heavy fog descended upon Whitechapel, enveloping the narrow cobblestone streets like a heavy, tattered shroud. Gas lamps cast feeble glimmers of light, their flickering flames struggling against the creeping shadows that swallowed the night. The muffled sounds of distant horse hooves clattered on the cobblestones, melding with the rhythmic clinking of carriage wheels and the low murmurs of London's nocturnal dwellers. In the midst of this ethereal haze stood a young woman, her delicate form wrapped in a fraying shawl that spoke of better days. Eliza Turner, with her crown of raven-black hair cascading in glossy waves down her shoulders, possessed a beauty that was both striking and poignant. Yet, it was in her piercing blue eyes—bright and defiant against the backdrop of squalor—that the weight of her struggles shone through. Those eyes, so vivid, seemed to draw in the slight glow of the gas lamps, flickering like stars lost in a murky sky.
"Hello, ducky, fancy a good time, guv?" Eliza called out, her voice a melodic lilt that cut through the oppressive atmosphere, offering a temporary escape from the harshness surrounding her. A couple of gentlemen paused, their interest ignited by her magnetic presence. One, a man in his middle years adorned with a meticulously groomed mustache and a high-collared top hat, stepped forward, his gaze lingering on her with a predatory glint. "Perhaps I do, my dear," he replied, his voice smooth, but dark currents of danger coursed beneath the surface. "What's your price?"
Before Eliza could form an answer, the echo of heavy boots resonated through the fog, interrupting the moment. A police officer made his approach, clad in a starched uniform and shining helmet, his stern expression scanning the street with a hawkish glare. Constable Edward Finch was a man renowned for his relentless pursuit of order amidst the pervasive chaos of London's underbelly. "Oi, you lot! What's all this then?" Finch barked, his voice a commanding presence that sliced through the fog. The gentlemen, feeling the weight of his authority, hurriedly dispersed, leaving Eliza exposed under the scrutinizing gaze of the officer.
Her heart began to thunder in her chest; urgency prickled at her senses. "Sorry, luv, not tonight," she whispered quickly to the retreating gentleman, desperation lacing her voice. "Meet me at the corner of Bishopsgate in an hour." Constable Finch stepped closer, scrutinizing her with an unwavering stare. "What are you up to, miss? A respectable woman has no business lurking in these streets at this hour." Eliza summoned her most innocent demeanor, widening her cobalt eyes in feigned innocence. "Just trying to find my way home, officer. Got a bit lost, I did." Her words dripped with sincerity, crafted to disarm. Finch remained skeptical, his brow arching slightly. "Is that so? Well, you best be on your way then. And stay out of trouble. I won't be so lenient next time."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Eliza replied, executing a slight curtsy, her heart racing as she pivoted and melted back into the fog, her footsteps swift and nearly soundless. She darted into the labyrinthine alleys, her mind a flurry as she sought refuge from the unrelenting night. Desperation clung to her like the dampness in the air, and survival wove itself intricately into the fabric of her existence. Finding sanctuary in a narrow passageway, Eliza pressed her back against the cool, rough brick wall, feeling its chill seep through her shawl. She closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the torrent of thoughts to settle. The immediate danger had passed, yet an awareness lingered; the night was still in its infancy, and each breath was a gamble—a game she navigated with the instinctual grace of someone who had learned the hard lessons of survival in the unforgiving streets of London.
Eliza navigated the maze of alleyways with practiced ease, her footsteps a mere whisper on the damp cobblestones. She found a secluded nook behind a row of dilapidated buildings and let out a frustrated sigh. "Tosser, like he's never been with a slapper before," she growled under her breath, her eyes flashing with anger. "Honestly, it's getting harder and harder to make a living with that prat skulking the alleyways." Eliza sank down onto the splintered wooden crate, its rough surface biting into her legs as she pulled her threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to ward off the night's biting chill. The sharp, crisp air sliced through her flimsy clothing, but even that seemed trivial compared to the harsh reality of her existence. The shadows that enveloped her were familiar, but so were the threats they concealed.
She was acutely aware of the dangers she faced with each passing night, the streets teeming with uncertainty. Yet, the primal instinct for survival surged within her, pushing aside any flicker of fear or doubt. As she sat in the dim light of the flickering streetlamp, her thoughts drifted to the ever-watchful constable. Constable Finch was a persistent thorn in her side, always prowling the nearby alleyways, his sharp eyes scanning for any hint of trouble. To Eliza, his presence felt as oppressive as the cold; it had forced her to tiptoe along the knife-edge of danger, increasing her need for cunning and stealth. But Eliza was no stranger to peril. She prided herself on being resourceful and adaptive, navigating the treacherous urban landscape with a strategic mind.
"Tonight was close," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible above the distant clamor of the city. Her fingers, calloused from the struggles of survival, threaded through her unkempt hair, a nervous gesture that betrayed her thoughts. "I need to find a new spot—somewhere that arrogant tosspot wanker constable wouldn't dare to look." The determination in her voice resonated with the flicker of resolve in her heart, promising her that she wouldn't be easily caught.