The rain in Whitechapel did not wash things clean. It made them darker, heavier, more alive with the sins of the city.
Dr. Victor Moreau sat in his garret above a butcher shop on Commercial Road, staring at the candle flame as if it were the last light in the universe. Three days. Three days since the fever had taken him, three days since he had fallen in the stairwell between the second and third floor, his head striking the stone with a sound like a bell being struck by a hammer wrapped in cloth. Three days...
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