September 1889

London, Great Britain

Rain; thunder; lightning. Each one added its own unique element to the storm raging above the stewing mess of town below.

Lost in the deep cacophony of noise were two pairs of rapid, splashing footsteps. One set belonged to a panicked man, his face slick with a solution of sweat and rainwater. His brown eyes were wide and wild and, despite being drenched to the bone, his cheeks burned red as he panted.

Behind him sprinted the second pair of feet. They belonged to a young boy; he could have been twelve, but the voice that left his throat sounded older.

"Stop running!"

It was a command, but it went unheeded. The pistol in the pursuer's hand glinted as if to commend that choice.

Eventually the chase ended. The prey could keep his pace no longer, and he doubled up. His hands found purchase on his knees, and ragged gasps of air dragged themselves through his lungs.

"It's over, O'Connen," The boy gasped, leveling his weapon.

O'Connen said nothing. In the distance, the storm filled in for his silence.

"Did you honestly think you could get away with such treason?"

A flicker of light illuminated the traitor's face, and he smiled even though he still coughed with every breath.

"At least I'm no guard dog-"

No sum of thunder or lightning could've masked the resulting gunshot. It rippled through the clouds like a challenge.

And a body fell to the ground.