He'd come a rather long way to experience life within the beating heart of London. Now, stalking the streets of the Chapel, experimenting with how much such a heart can take before it stops beating altogether.

For anyone, man or woman to desire me, it is absurd! I am nothing but a gargoyle filled with the blood of others.

The haybag is exposing me with each flick of her curled lashes. She knows, and she wants the others to know too! Each flutter is Morse code to those that surround us, each one tapping away the message - ‘Here he is! Here is the monster that slits the throats of whores and sips on their blood!

He isn’t descended from foreigners. He is the very first outsider. A forbearer people would rather keep hush about being descended from, and I am honoured to know him.

The coppers, thinking I must be hacked to bits at the bottom of the Thames, now blame both murders on the Ripper. The theory is so ironic I cannot help but snort out a tirade of titters.

It was a myth, a fantastical portrayal of my mentor himself, his legend forever anchoring itself to history in a way mine will never be. Spring Heeled Jack, the boogeyman with eyes like fireballs who could jump unnaturally high. Breathing blue flames he'd ravage women with his claws.

My mind… It is a delicate veil, torn by genetics, made worse by my maker thinking his curse could mend me.

The smallest lapse in emotion leaves me spinning, overcome with bloodlust.

Creatures, like myself, have voices that are laced with impending peril, and yet, each and every time they succeed in hypnotising another victim.