Chapter 45: The Man with a Crooked Lip (Part 2)

Every night in London is quite similar, the steam rising from the underground pipelines vents an entire day's weariness until a cool breeze caresses past, turning it into wet puddles that, over time, merge with the perpetually damp spots on the city streets.

And some faint ripples going against the direction of the night wind signal that not long ago, something whizzed by at high speed, causing an irregular disturbance on the water's surface.

The alleys of London are mostly the same too: damp walls, the eternally lingering odor of rotting garbage, and the incessant buzzing of flies.

But a large swarm of flies can't possibly all be buzzing and flying chaotically at the same time; some must be resting by the garbage bins, licking the rotten juices.

So if there are no flies resting on the garbage, it can only mean that just a moment ago, something startled them.