In the thick fog of London, where gas lamps flickered like dying candles, a silent shadow roamed. Lucifer, a black cat with amber eyes, prowled the cobbled streets of Whitechapel, his fur absorbing the lantern light like an omen. The locals whispered that he was no ordinary feline, but a guide, a four-legged specter doomed to wander between worlds. Some said he had been cursed by a dockside witch; others claimed he was born on a moonless night, marked by fate.
 
Autumn 1888 was a time of terror. Newspapers screamed the names of Jack the Ripper’s victims, and the nights reeked of blood and fear. Lucifer watched. He would appear near the bodies, motionless, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark. The lost souls, torn from life in a flash of violence, would see him before fading away. A brush of his paw, a glance, and they felt a strange peace wash over them. He never meowed. He simply waited.
 
Legend had it that Lucifer did not choose those he protected. He was simply there when death struck too soon, too violently. The women of Whitechapel, those forgotten by society, whispered that he guided them toward a gentle light, far from the nightmares of earth. Superstitious policemen avoided crossing his path. One sergeant, in a drunken stupor, swore he had seen him walking beside a female shadow where a new victim had just been found. The next morning, he resigned.
 
When winter came, the murders stopped. Jack the Ripper vanished into the mists of history, and Lucifer with him. Some say he still roams the dark alleys of London, waiting for the next lost soul. Others claim he never existed, that he was just a tale to ease the fear.
 
But sometimes, when the wind howls between the crumbling buildings and the moon is veiled, you can still hear the soft pad of a paw on the cobblestones. And if you listen very closely, you might hear a whisper: « I am here. You are not alone. »