Toward the end of the Victorian era, there were a set of very grisly murders that took place mainly in the east end of London. The serial killer was named Jack the Ripper and was called this owing to the way in which they would rip into their victims and remove their organs. Their identity is still unknown to this day.
The rain that falls outside caresses the glass of the window gently. Golden drops reflecting the street light outside. The fog lies heavy over the town. No respectable person is out at this time of night. Even those of the East End have scurried away to some hovel in the back end of their boxed in homes.
There is one person outside however. Cloaked to protect themselves in the terrible wet conditions, a hat covering their eyes from any unlucky spectator and a blade hidden in the pockets of that large cloak. Wrapped up well to preserve the shine. To prevent the moisture of the surrounding areas from damaging the blade.
Invisible to the human eye, at least for now, the Collector stands high above the streets. Death scythe in hand she waits, her empty eyes show no sign of remorse or sorrow for what is to happen. She is merely here to do her job. Collect the souls of the dead and leave. Tonight it shall happen slowly and carefully. She has no emotion in her. To her it is another soul among the countless human souls that are being taken from all over the world. In any case, she is forbidden from interfering in the issues that plague the human world.
She watches them walk briskly and deliberately. They have a motive in mind. Around the corner, then the next, cutting through the fog that closed up, swallowing their cloaked figure from behind. But she with her supernatural eyesight can see. The cloak stops in front of a dilapidated home. Inside there is a dim light that struggles to find its way through the grime that covers the windows. The carefully wrapped blade is drawn, and opening the rotting wood door with ease they step inside. A few moments later there is screaming that is quickly silenced. The Collector looks around. Nobody else has heard. Her attention is drawn back to the entrance of the house where the cloaked figure is dragging out a woman. Presumably the one who screamed inside the house. She is beautiful by human standards. Pale skin and a petite body covered only in a dirty white dress. She is alive still, but barely just.
The collector watches as she is strangled properly by the cloaked figure. Black and purple bruises start to appear on her neck where the rope lovingly embraces it now. And as they do her pulse fades away and her spirit starts to appear next to the Collector. The collector makes her move to take the spirit to the next world but she looks at her with pleading eyes. The spirit is just as filthy as her body was. Covered in mud and hair all a mess but something about her gaze makes the Collector feel sorry for her. “You can stay till the end but after that you must come with me.”
“I thank ye greatly me lady” the spirit tells her. They turn their attention back to the cloak. Satisfied with his work, strangling her, he takes his blade and rips through her throat spraying blood all over the pavement and the street. Then slowly and what seems to be lovingly they caress the body of the woman and soon get rid of all the organs from her putting them inside the cloak.
Hearing a scream beside her, the collector turns to look at the spirit who is flying down to the cloaked figure. She follows in hast but doesn’t reach them in time to stop the spirit from pushing her murderer down. As her death scythe slices the spirit, sending her straight to the underworld, the cloaked figure rises. They stumble to their feet, blood drips from their body onto the pavement and mingles with the grime. The collector watches as the figure stumbles toward the pier, their own blade sticking out of their chest. When they trip and their hat falls off, long yellow hair cascades down. She falls over the edge right into the murky waters of the river, never to be seen again…