Somewhere in London's underbelly, a black silhouette of a man approaches the tied, unconscious figure of a woman. The woman wakes up groggily and - after realizing she's bound and in unfamiliar surroundings - tries to scream. No sound comes out as she notices the tight gag in her mouth. Beginning to fully regain consciousness, she tries to break free of her bonds, only for for her to feel the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. She is being watched. She turns slowly, as much as her bonds and position will allow, and out of the corner of her eye she can see the black silhouette. She feels relieved and tries to gesture to the man to help her. Seeing her struggling, the man begins to speak soothingly and with a cheery accent.
"Hello there my friend. I see that you are very confused, but alas I cannot give you my name nor will help you out of your bonds." said the man. The woman furrowed her brows, confused as to why he was refusing to help her.
"You see my feminine friend," the man continued, speaking to her in a completely one-sided conversation, "I may have left a few undesirables strewn about in other alleyways and gained a name for myself. In my defense, the only reason I gained such a title was because the police and whatnot have all perverted the art that I produced with said undesirables. They called it 'gruesome murder' and decided to call me a 'Ripper' of some sorts, which is wholly untrue!"
At this, the woman's heart skipped a beat. "Ripper"? Her eyes widened and her mind denied that this was happening. Fear filled her very being and she began to tremble. Tears begin to pour from her eyes as she realizes her fate. The silhouette steps closer, into the moonlight, and lifts her tear-streaked face to his and grins. Her eyes widen further as she sees the man's face. A familiar face. The man breaks out into a grin, seeing the recognition in the woman's eyes. He slips a long, thin knife out of the fold of his overcoat and continues with his monologue, never once breaking eye contact. His once soothing and cheery tone is now filled with bloodlust and vehemence.
"Scotland Yard decided to continue to label my art as murder. All the while, allowing the newspapers to slander my craft and publish photos that completely ruin the perspective of - " The man stops abruptly. At this point, the woman's mind is racing with questions and fueled by fear. The first question being: what prompted him to stop? The what the man said next sealed her fate and chilled her to the bone.
"You need not worry about that, my dear. You need not worry at all. I'll be sure that every single piece of you is use to create my next masterpiece."
A small sliver of moonlight reflected off of the edge of the man's knife and the feral gleam in the man's eyes. His smile had a more sinister, animalistic gleam to it.
"Shall we begin?"
. . .
The next morning, the body of a woman was found in a secluded alleyway. It was found to the complete horror of a passerby who had been tasked with getting the morning bread and decided to cut through the alley as a shortcut. When the body was examined, the officials found that the throat had been slit and the body's entrails were removed with surgical precision. Said entrails had been very carefully placed in what seemed like a random fashion. This confused the officials, who ended up just writing it off as "working of a madman." That afternoon the newspapers published an investigative story on the body as another victim from a slew of recent murders. Most papers gave him a new moniker. Some dubbed him "The Whitechapel Murderer", while others named him "The Leather Apron". Although they tried, the investigative journalists could never find much about him. The only prominent detail seemed to be his penchant for blood.