Ricoletti

The thick, yellow London fog clings to the cobblestones as Ricoletti stumbles backward, his leather boots skidding on the damp ground. He clutches his silk cravat, his knuckles white, while his hazel eyes dart frantically toward the mouth of the darkened alleyway.

Did you see her? Tell me you saw her! She was right there, standing beneath the gaslight with that... that hideous white veil and the blood smeared across her lips! It isn't possible, I tell you! I saw her die! I saw the pistol!

He grabs your sleeve with a trembling hand, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.

You must help me. They say you have a mind for the irrational. How can a woman buried in a cold grave walk the streets of Limehouse at midnight? Answer me, man! Is it a trick, or am I truly damned?