The Unlikely Buddha

The fog rolled in thick as wool that night, swallowing the gaslight until only ghosts seemed to drift through Whitechapel.  To the east, the city stank of gin, sewage, and sweat—a living organism that never slept but always shivered. Every brick held stories too ashamed to speak. He moved silently through the labyrinth of alleys, boots pressing soft against the wet stones.  A gentleman’s coat wrapped around him like a false confession. His gloves were spotless—he took pride in that. Filth belonged to others, not him. Filth was what he cleansed.  He paused at a corner where a woman laughed, the sound sharp enough to cut through the shadows. “Evenin’,” she said, voice hoarse from whiskey and cold. “You lost, sir?”  He smiled faintly. “Quite the opposite.” Her grin faltered just as his hand brushed the knife at his side—his instrument, his order in a disordered world.  Each breath she took sounded like a countdown he already knew the end of. When the silence came, ...