『Identity V Jack』
To understand Jack, one must first understand a paradox: he is both Victorian London's most terrifying phantom and a gifted artist. These two identities do not simply coexist as good and evil; rather, they permeate and erode one another in a far more unsettling manner, ultimately forged into an existence that defies simple definition. Jack's original name is lost to history. Before acquiring the moniker "Jack," he was a student of the painter James Whistler and a renowned artist influenced by Edgar Degas. His paintings were keen and restrained, marked by an observational power so calm it bordered on cruel. Those who knew him would say he was a quiet young man, dressed impeccably and speaking with courteous grace, with a devotion to art that bordered on pious. No one would ever have associated such a promising painter with the bloody nights of Whitechapel. Yet the unraveling of the "good child" did not begin in a single day. It began much earlier, in an unnoticed instant. In Jack's deduction records, there is a node concerning a doll: "I once had a beloved doll. He urged me to slit its belly open. There was nothing inside, and the doll could never be sewn back together." This line reads like a child's prank, yet it already sowed the seed of Jack's lifelong obsession: the compulsion to know "what lies within," and the irreversibility once it has been opened. What followed became history. In 1888, in London's Whitechapel district, at least five women were murdered in an excruciatingly brutal fashion. Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, Mary Jane Kelly—these names are carved into Jack's deduction records like a cold ledger of trophies. What united each crime was not only the violence, but a bewildering "precision." Jack's "Trophy" node states: "The greatest misery in this world is to give everything without being known or understood." This phrase is the key to understanding Jack. Jack did not harm random targets. The women he chose occupied the lowest rung of Victorian London society; their "contributions"—in whatever form they took—were never seen or acknowledged. Jack's actions, however twisted, may have held at their core a morbid form of pity. He was not punishing them, but "liberating" them—stripping them from an unseen existence, forcing the world to see them through extreme means. Amid the fog of Whitechapel, Jack perhaps believed he was waging a crusade for humanity. Thus, the "bad child" was born. Yet within Jack's deduction diary lies an even more chilling entry: "I have begun to fear falling asleep. It was supposed to be a joke, but now... I wake up every morning to the smell of rust. How am I to rid myself of 'him'?" The good child witnessed everything. He saw what the bad child did, yet was powerless to stop it. What terrified him more was that he gradually lost the ability to distinguish which actions belonged to "him" and which were his own. The boundary between the two personalities blurred like ink bleeding into wet paper, spreading until the entire sheet was stained. In the manor's records, Jack is marked as "Contradictory Sin," with a test inclination of "unrestrained born criminal." Yet the recorder also noted a crucial detail: near the conclusion of the test, Jack hesitated for a brief moment. The good personality, having assisted the bad personality through it all, suddenly realized that covering up the truth was, in itself, a sin. That hesitation was fatal. Unable to bear the weight of it, the good child's only choice was to sink into slumber—allowing the bad child to usurp him entirely and become the sole definition of "Jack." Yet the bad child is not purely evil. Or rather, Jack's complexity lies precisely in how his "wickedness" is always accompanied by an unsettling elegance and tenderness. He will hum a light tune with his arms crossed, holding his own unique, almost exacting "standards" for his guests' requests. When visiting the survivors' manor, he would say with utmost courtesy, "Please do not be frightened, Miss; it is not yet time for my shift." This coexistence of refinement and brutality is what makes Jack truly terrifying—he is not an unhinged maniac, but a killer bound by aesthetic principles. II. Personality: Beneath the Gentleman's Veneer Jack's personality can be summarized as a blend of "polite detachment" and "twisted empathy." His outward demeanor conforms almost flawlessly to Victorian gentlemanly standards. In the manor's records, those who met Jack for the first time described him thus: outside, the rain fell, and water clung to his shoulders, yet his trouser cuffs and shoes were immaculate, hardly looking like someone who had traveled a long road. When someone stepped forward to exchange pleasantries, he did not respond immediately. Instead, he turned his back to wipe his umbrella, dabbed at his hands with a handkerchief, and only then turned around, replying with distant courtesy: "My sincere apologies. In such dreadful weather, it is rather difficult to maintain proper etiquette." This passage warrants close reading. First, his clean trouser cuffs indicate that he did not arrive at the manor on foot, yet he offered no explanation. Second, turning his back to wipe down his umbrella and hands carried a subtle invasiveness—he made the person wait, and that delay was entirely deliberate. Third, while his apology was polite, the recorder specifically noted: "Facial expression: devoid of remorse." Politeness, at this moment, became a mask—it signified not respect, but distance. Even more disturbing was the detail that left the deepest impression on the recorder: "When wiping his hands, he repeatedly rubbed the pads of his fingers with the handkerchief." The finger pads. The very body part most intimately tied to "The Ripper." Jack was not wiping away rainwater, but something he could not put into words. Perhaps even he could not tell whether this action stemmed from mysophobia or an unceasing fixation on "touch." When the recorder mentioned working as a clerk, Jack's smile was "quite charming." Such "charm" was inherently suspect. In Jack's logic, an interest in another person was often tethered to the qualities of potential prey. Being a clerk meant recording, observing, and writing—the very things Jack excelled at as an artist. At that moment, he might have seen a kindred spirit, or perhaps an object worthy of amusement. Another facet of Jack's character