January 5, 1970.
The sound of heavy breathing was heard in the alley. “Please don't kill me, I'm begging you!” a woman with blonde hair and deep blue eyes pleaded to the man in front of her, a tear streaking her freckled cheek.
“I can't do that. You're too beautiful not to be killed,” the man spoke, his tone filled with malice.
“Please, I'm begging you,” she knelt to the ground, asking to be spared by the madman.
The man reached behind his back and revealed a small knife glistening in the dark. When the woman saw the knife, she felt her heart drop, and her stomach churned. The man lifted the knife into the air, where it shone in the moonlight, then he drove it down, piercing her chest. Blood splattered.
He pulled the knife away, a smile etched on his face, his bloodshot eyes gleaming. Then he stabbed her again in the same place, repeating the process a few more times. Each time she was stabbed, a groan escaped her lips.
When he saw her near-death state, an ecstasy spread across his face. “I will enjoy this feast, and I'm sure the prince will love this offering. May the underworld rejoice in my heartfelt present!” Then he delivered his final stab, piercing her left eye.
The woman lay in a pool of her own blood. As he looked upon the scene, he snickered with bliss, believing this to be a form of art that humanity should appreciate—a real-life masterpiece.
...
January 10, 1970.
Outskirts of London. There stood an old bar, weathered and worn, as if it held countless stories and had witnessed much history.
Inside, the bar carried a nostalgic scent of old wood and memories, seemingly absorbed into the building and furniture over time. In the corner, an old jukebox played a song, with occasional static flickering in and out.
“Beethoven's Symphony No. 5—quite a peculiar piece for an old bar,” remarked a man dressed in an impeccably tailored grey suit, complete with a long, fitted tailcoat with sharp lapels, perfectly aligned over a crisp white shirt with a high, stiff collar. His piercing brown eyes were fixed on the glass of whiskey he swirled in his hand.
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“You know your music, lad,” replied the bartender, an older, round-bellied man, as he cleaned a glass and faced the well-dressed man at the counter.
The man, named Eric, looked rather out of place in such a rural setting, where most people dressed simply. His sharp attire made him stand out like a sore thumb. But tonight, only four people, including the bartender, occupied the bar.
“Judging by your attire, I’d guess you’re not a local, are you?” the bartender asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
Eric chuckled softly. “Don’t I look like a Londoner to you?”
“Nah, so what brings you to London, lad?”
“Well, I came to visit my grandfather and attend to some business. I hope that answer satisfies you.” He smiled, showing his white teeth.
“A piece of advice—be careful. London hasn’t been in a good state these past few days.”
“May I ask why?” Eric’s interest was piqued.
“I don’t like talking about it; it’s grim news. But a few days ago…”
Meanwhile, at a table nearby, two men were chatting. From their relaxed body language, they seemed close, like old friends.
One of them, Roy, sat with his back to the door, while his friend, Tom, faced it. A bottle of whiskey sat on their table, with one glass filled and the other empty. Roy, whose cheeks were flushed red, looked a bit tipsy, while Tom’s face showed restlessness as he kept glancing toward the door as if expecting someone.
Roy leaned forward. “Did you hear about the recent news in the 12th District?”
Tom jumped slightly at the sudden question. “The murder? Yeah, I heard. They say the victim—a woman—was brutally killed, and, horrifyingly, a knife was left lodged in her eye.”
Roy glanced around, lowering his voice. “I got some inside info on the case. You know my friend Troy? He works for the police and told me they found ritualistic symbols at the scene.”
“Do I look like an idiot? First off, you don’t have a friend named Troy. Second, do you really believe that nonsense? Grow up!” Tom’s tone held a trace of anger.
“I’m serious. Believe it or not, that’s your choice. Either way, it was a messy crime. Poor lass.”
“Yeah, they say she was young. The police are on edge. Streets are swarming with officers, and people are worried, wondering when the killer might strike again.” A bead of sweat glistened on Tom’s forehead.
“That reminds me—should we even be out here tonight? They’ve been advising people to stay indoors, afraid that anyone could be the next target,” Roy muttered, stroking his beard.
“Don’t worry, mate. We’re on the outskirts, and the murder happened in the 12th District—miles from here.” Tom tried to reassure him, though he kept glancing at the door.
Noticing this, Roy twisted around to look. “Why do you keep checking the door?”
Tom flinched. “It’s nothing. Should we head out?”
“Yeah, let’s go.” Sensing his friend’s urgency, Roy agreed, and the two men stood up and left the bar.
Amidst their conversation, one person had been listening attentively—Eric. A slight smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
“How much do I owe you?” Eric asked the bartender, ready to leave.
“That’ll be 50 pence, lad.”
“Here you go. Keep the change. And thank you for the advice.” He stood from the old leather chair, picking up a wooden cane beside his seat. The rhythmic tapping of his cane mixed with his footsteps as he disappeared into the night.