Looking down the high streets of London, amongst the top hats and prim coats, a lone man stands out. A poor old man stands hunching against the wind in his thin cotton shirt. His patched checkered pants frayed at the calves, looking like the works of pesky rodents. If you look closely, you could see the deep lines on his pale face, defining his age.

A black shadowy figure stood at the mouth of the alley. He wore a dark, low hat, casting a shadow upon his scarred, such that his red gleaming eyes stood out in the starless night. Around him, his cloak billowed in the wind. From afar, he appeared to be the Grim Reaper. The gun in his hand shone in the streetlights.