The fog rolls in thick and curls through the narrow streets of Whitechapel. It is the London of the late 19th century—brooding, wide-awake, stocked with shadows. A city where the wheel of fortune turns up as often as it does down, where with each turn of a cobbled street fortune and misfortune collide. There’s something unsettled about this night, however. Something that remains after the ordinary hustle of thieves and beggars and working men going home. The city itself appears to shudder, conscious that a hunter is at play, predatory eye on the maw.