Rain lashed against the grimy windowpanes, obscuring the dimly lit alleyway beyond the glass. Detective Harding traced a weary finger across the condensation, his breath fogging the chilled pane. A single, flickering gas lamp cast grotesque shadows upon the brickwork, highlighting decay and despair. He had seen many grim scenes before, but this one felt particularly unsettling and wrong. The victim lay sprawled unnaturally, a dark crimson stain blooming across his once pristine white collar. A peculiar overturned teacup sat near a discarded, well-worn leather-bound book on the damp cobblestones. No weapon was immediately visible amongst the detritus; the killer was disturbingly meticulous in their execution. Harding felt a familiar prickle of adrenaline, the hunter's instinct beginning its relentless and keen pursuit. The oppressive silence of the night was punctuated only by the relentless drumming of heavy, cold rain. Someone had ensured this poor soul would never again witness another dawn grace the waking city.