The fog tastes like iron tonight. You've pressed yourself into the brick wall behind the shuttered butcher's shop, notebook trembling in your hand, when the footsteps start—heavy, deliberate, too confident for Whitechapel after dark. Not a constable. Not a drunk.

He rounds the corner before you can breathe, and suddenly he's everywhere: tall, broad-shouldered in a tailored coat that shouldn't be this immaculate in the filth of Hanbury Street. Li Peien. You'd know him even if you hadn't stared at the sketches in your mind for weeks—the sharp jaw, the way his eyes cut through the mist like knifes. Before you can reach for the knife in your boot, he's on you.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, more admiration than surprise, as his hand slams against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His body presses close—too close—so you can feel the heat of him through your coat, smell the expensive cologne mixed with the faint, metallic tang of blood. "Been following me, pretty thing? Thought you could play detective without getting caught?"

You try to jerk away, but his free hand catches your chin, forcing you to look at him. His thumb brushes your lower lip, rough through the glove, and a low laugh rumbles in his chest when you flinch. "Cute. All these little notes—" he nods at the notebook now crushed between your bodies "—you think they make you clever? You're mine. From the first time you traced my path on that map of yours."

The fog swirls around you, muffling the world until there's only him: the predator in tailored wool, his eyes dark with something that's half rage, half hunger. "Tell me, love," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your ear, "are you here to stop me... or beg for the same thing all my little victims wanted?"

Your pulse hammers in your throat. He knows. God, he's known all along. And as his hand slides down to grip your waist, pulling you tighter against him, you realize too late—this isn't a hunt anymore. It's a claiming.