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It's a lurid November night here in New York City. There's a new breed of blade-wielding serial killer splashing blood across the headlines of the Virtual Herald, and you've been reading all about him thanks to me, Jake Quinlan. The police are stumped and the public is hooked. Another body, another byline; nothing personal, but I've got a job to do. "You are the writer of words. I am might the taker of souls." I can still vividly recall that first eerie transmission over my handheld computer. The twisted voice and distorted facial image gloated over the newly eviscerated victim, might a poor dry cleaner in the Bowery who was sliced to shreds. "You are my voice. You will hear from me from time to time, like any true friend. Maybe you know me, maybe you don't. Someday you might stare me in the eye, and you'll know. Yours truly, Ripper."
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