A few hours earlier, when the sky was still black and the city was quiet, a young man named Thomas Wren stepped out of a narrow boarding house in the East End. He was twenty-one, average height, thin and light in weight, handsome in a quiet way with soft brown hair falling over his forehead and kind green eyes.
He wore a worn grey coat, patched at the elbows, a white shirt yellowed from many washings, and sturdy boots that had seen better days. His hair was combed back neatly, though the wind had already started to ruin it.
He worked as a junior clerk at a shipping office near the docks. The walk was long... almost forty minutes... but he had done it every day for three years. He liked the routine. It gave him time to think.
This morning he had overslept slightly. The street lamps were still on, but he knew they would go out soon... right around dawn. He had forgotten his torch. Again.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, pulling his coat tighter against the cold.
