London, 1868: Walking down the streets alone at night should be a thoroughly unsettling affair. Especially when you can feel someone’s eyes on you. When you can intuit that you are being followed. You turn around; nothing out of place, not even the shadows. You keep walking, and your spine shivers with the growing sense that you are not as alone as you think you are. Your breathing quickens and your heartbeat picks up as you turn into a cold alleyway. You can barely make out the dim light of the street lamps on the other end, otherwise you are bathed in darkness. Maybe that’s why you feel, as much as you hear, the sudden thudding clack of shoes on the cobble below. You turn around; you can barely make out the man’s broad figure, but it is still imposing enough to root you where you stand. As he approaches, you can hardly make out his face, but his eyes seem to blaze intensely, boring into you with intent. Clear want.
“Are you afraid?” The man asks in a low voice. You can only shake your head yes. He suddenly stops walking though his expression and voice do not lose their intensity. Your body thrums with a tension that you are eager to articulate. You can muster your voice at last.