The morning arrived cold and gray, filtered through the heavy curtains of Harrow's room. The lamp still smoldered faintly from the previous night, yet he was already on his feet, examining the door's lock as though every detail might contain a clue. The sensation of the blade against his neck still lingered—a cold, unsettling phantom that compelled him to heightened vigilance.
A light knock at the door signaled the maid's arrival.
"Good morning, Mr. Harrow. I've brought your coffee," said Alice, the slender young blonde, her fine, sparse hair framing her face as she carefully carried the tray.
Her curious yet discreet eyes scanned every corner of the room, though she did not perceive the tension that filled the air.
Harrow sighed and turned toward her, hesitating for only a moment before asking,
"Alice… could you do me a favor? I need you to look at my neck."
The young woman raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but leaned in to examine the mark he indicated.
"Oh… it appears to be only a redness, sir," she said carefully. "But… if I may say so… it resembles the impression of something thin, sharp… almost like a razor blade, perhaps?"
Harrow remained still, absorbing every word. His heart raced. The mark was not merely the product of a dream or imagination. There was indeed something physical there, a subtle trace of pressure that confirmed the sensation that had awakened him in the middle of the night.
"So… it was not my imagination," he murmured, his voice low, almost to himself. "Someone was here… and left this."
Alice tilted her head, still not fully understanding.
"I do not know how such a thing could have happened, sir. I see nothing that might cut… but it is… marked, indeed."
Harrow took a deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure. He stepped away from the window and the door, once again examining the room. Every detail—the locked window, the latch, the familiar surroundings—appeared normal, secure. Yet the impression on his neck, the sensation of a cold touch, all defied logic.
Then he was here. Invisible, silent… observing, perhaps testing.
Harrow ran his hand over his skin again, now with almost reverent care, attempting to memorize the mark—its pressure, its depth. He knew he could not fully reveal the situation, not to Abberline, nor to Warren, and certainly not to Whitcombe. It was a secret that now became part of the Ripper's psychological game—a presence he could not capture, yet whose physical signature remained subtly, terrifyingly real.
Alice withdrew discreetly, leaving the detective alone once more. He returned to the window, his teacup untouched at his side, his eyes fixed on the silent street. Every shadow, every distant footstep upon the pavement, seemed to carry the invisible trace of the murderer. He knew that the mark was only a warning, a reminder that the Ripper did not merely kill, but controlled, observed, and made himself felt, even when no one else could perceive him.
Harrow drew a deep breath and once again took up the copy of the Dear Boss letter, examining the handwriting with steady hands. Now, more than ever, he needed to study every stroke, every curve, every nuance. The killer was near—physically or within the mind—and he could not afford to ignore a single detail.