Training with Helena and Peter quickly became part of my routine.
The training halls were vast, sterile spaces of polished metal and shifting holograms, but the real battle wasn't against them—it was against my own body. I could see everything. Every twitch of muscle, every shift in weight, every breath before an attack. My senses picked it up instantly.
My body just… couldn't respond fast enough.
Helena took that personally.
"No excuses," she said cheerfully as she dragged me back to my feet. "Your eyes are already there. Your mind knows what's coming. So we teach the rest of you to keep up."
Her training was brutal and physical. Endless footwork drills, balance exercises, forced movement through uneven terrain. She pushed my stamina until my legs burned and my lungs screamed. Whenever I hesitated, she corrected my posture, my stance, my center of gravity.
"Speed comes from efficiency," she said, circling me. "Stop fighting your own body."
Peter handled reflex training with the same unforgiving precision.
He attacked without warning, switching weapons mid-motion, forcing me to commit instead of thinking. I blocked too early, dodged too late, reacted half a second behind what I'd already perceived.
"You're predicting fine," Peter said flatly as I missed again. "But prediction means nothing if you don't move."
Day by day, my muscles learned to trust what my mind already knew. The gap between perception and action narrowed—not gone, but shrinking.
And for the first time, I felt like my body was finally catching up to me.
Between Helena's relentless pressure and Peter's unforgiving drills, I was exhausted every day. Bruised, sore, overstimulated. But slowly—almost imperceptibly—I stopped panicking. My reactions sharpened. My mind learned to stay present.
...
And the day when I finally managed to dodge Helena's strike without thinking, her grin widened.
"There you go!" she laughed. "You're learning!"
...
Dinner that night was quiet at first.
The cafeteria was mostly empty, long tables stretching into the distance beneath soft artificial lighting. Outside the massive windows, stars drifted slowly past, cold and distant. The clatter of utensils echoed more loudly than it should have.
Helena was the first to break the silence.
"So," she said brightly, leaning back in her chair. "We're officially a team now, right? Might as well get to know each other."
Peter glanced up but didn't object. I kept my eyes on my tray.
Helena didn't wait for permission.
"I'm from Angea," she said. "Beast-kin world. Forests, mountains, constant wars over territory." Her tail swayed lazily as she spoke. "My father was the Beast King. Big guy. Loud voice. Terrifying on the battlefield, absolute softie at home."
She smiled faintly.
"My mother was a tactician. Human-born, actually. Married into the throne. She taught me how to read people before I learned how to fight."
Her expression softened. "I had an older brother. He was… amazing. Stronger than me, smarter than me, always ten steps ahead. Everyone thought he'd be king."
She paused, poking at her food.
"I died during a border war. Ambush. We underestimated the enemy. I remember the sound of steel, the smell of blood… and then nothing."
Her voice stayed light, but the room felt heavier.
"When I woke up, I was here," she continued. "CADE-C. New body, same instincts. Guess I couldn't escape war even after dying."
Silence followed.
Peter cleared his throat.
"My world's called Fern," he said. "Combat world. Gates open randomly. Monsters pour out. If you can fight, you live. If you can't, you die."
He took a slow bite before continuing.
"I was apprenticed to a blacksmith. Learned how to forge weapons, repair armor. Everyone thought I'd stay in the backlines."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"But I hated it. Making tools for other people to survive while I stayed behind. So when I found out about CADE-C… I joined. Figured if I was going to live in a world built on fighting, I might as well face it head-on."
Both of them looked at me.
I hesitated.
"I…" My throat tightened. "I don't really like talking about my past."
Helena nodded gently. "That's okay."
But the silence didn't move on. It stayed, heavy and patient, like it was waiting for me to either speak or break. I stared down at my tray; at food I hadn't touched.
"I was killed by someone like that anomaly we studied. Not exactly the same... But not different either." I said finally, voice low. "A psychopath. No reason. No pattern. Just… violence."
My hands rested on the table. They were steady now. That scared me more than if they'd been shaking.
"He didn't know me," I continued. "Didn't hate me. Didn't even look angry. I was just… available. Wrong place, wrong time." I let out a hollow breath. "That's what messes me up. Not monsters. Not gods. People who decide you're disposable without even thinking about it."
I pressed my thumb into my palm, grounding myself.
"Every crime scene we walk into, every body, every broken room… my brain doesn't see training anymore. It remembers. The smell. The stillness. The way everything felt... final." My voice wavered despite my effort. "At the orphanage simulation, I kept expecting one of them to move. To breathe. And when they didn't—"
I stopped, jaw tightening.
"I don't freeze because I'm weak," I said quietly. "I freeze because part of me is back there, dying again. And another part is terrified it'll happen a third time."
I glanced up at them, forcing myself to meet their eyes.
"And the worst part?" I muttered. "I survived this time. I woke up. I got a second chance. Everyone says that's a blessing."
My lips twitched into something that wasn't a smile.
"But it just means I remember everything more clearly. It means I know how fast it can be taken away."
Outside the window, the stars drifted past, distant and uncaring.
None of us spoke after that.
For the first time since joining CADE-C, I realized that surviving wasn't the hard part.
Living with the memories was.
...
The summons came without warning.
A sharp chime echoed through the corridor, followed immediately by Cai's voice in our comms—no cheer this time, stripped down and professional.
"Attention. Alex Pearson. Helena of Angea. Peter of Fern. Emergency summons issued by Section Chief Warolk. Report immediately."
The corridor lights shifted from white to a muted amber.
Helena straightened first, ears twitching. "That's… not normal," she said, trying to sound casual and failing.
Peter was already on his feet. "Emergency summons means something went wrong. Or something moved."
My stomach sank.
Warolk didn't summon people unless he had to. And when he did, it was never good news.
We moved fast. The corridors were emptier than usual—almost unnaturally so. Every step echoed, the hum of the station pressing in around us. I could feel my pulse in my ears, my body tense despite the training.
As we reached the massive doors of the Section Chief's office, they slid open on their own.
Warolk stood inside, arms crossed, posture rigid despite the familiar slouch. Dark circles framed his eyes, deeper than before. The room felt heavier, like the air itself was waiting.
"You're early," he said, voice low. "Good."
His gaze swept over us—measured, sharp.
"Training phase is over," Warolk continued. "We've got a developing situation. A real one."
He stepped aside, revealing a holographic display already forming behind him.
"Congratulations," he said flatly. "Your first deployment just got fast-tracked."
The doors sealed behind us with a low, resonant thud.
...
Warolk stood at the center of the room, arms folded, the faint glow of a dormant hologram reflecting off the dark circles beneath his eyes. He didn't tell us to sit this time. He didn't need to.
"Cai," he said.
The air shimmered, and a holographic file unfolded above the floor. Grainy black-and-white photographs. Handwritten police notes. Old newspaper clippings stamped with dates and inked headlines.
"Case designation AN-1888-WHT-014," Warolk began. "Human-origin anomaly. Location: Earth. United Kingdom. Late nineteenth century."
Helena tilted her head, ears twitching. Peter squinted at the unfamiliar imagery.
Warolk continued, voice steady. "The subject operated in the Whitechapel district of London in 1888. Targeted civilians during nighttime hours. Utilized bladed weapons. Victims were found mutilated, organs removed in several cases."
The name appeared at the centre of the display in stark, serif letters.
JACK THE RIPPER
My breath hitched.
Warolk didn't notice. Not yet.
"The original timeline records five confirmed victims over a short span," he went on. "Public panic escalated rapidly. Law enforcement failed to identify the culprit. The murders ceased abruptly, and the subject vanished."
My hands started shaking.
"This figure became an urban myth," Warolk said. "A symbol of fear. Disorder. The limits of human justice."
My chest felt tight. Too tight.
"Section Chief," I blurted out.
The room froze.
Warolk finally looked at me.
"…What?" he asked.
I swallowed hard. My mouth was dry. "That— that name. Jack the Ripper."
Helena glanced at me. "You know him?"
"I—" My voice cracked. I forced myself to keep going. "Is this… is this the same Jack the Ripper? The one from Earth? From… from history? T-the Victorian times...?"
Warolk's eyes narrowed slightly.
"The same," he said.
My stomach dropped.
"The urban legend," I whispered. "The unsolved serial killer. Victorian London. Five victims. Whitechapel."
The room felt suddenly colder.
"Yes," Warolk confirmed. "From your Earth's recorded history."
Helena's expression shifted. "Wait. You're saying this was… real?"
"It was real," Warolk said. "And now it's wrong."
He gestured, and Cai's voice joined in—precise, neutral, unflinching.
"Displaying FATE-approved timeline," Cai said.
The hologram reorganized.
"Original record: five victims between August and November 1888. Killings clustered. Escalatory behaviour observed. Activity terminates naturally."
The dates pulsed once… then shifted.
"Anomalous timeline divergence detected," Cai continued. "Current pattern: one confirmed kill every fourteen days."
The new sequence appeared. Longer. Colder. Deliberate.
"Instead of burning out," Warolk said, "this version stabilized."
Helena crossed her arms. "He slowed down."
"He disciplined himself," Warolk corrected. "No frenzy. No mistakes. He waits. He watches. He strikes on schedule."
Peter frowned. "That doesn't sound human."
"It is human," Warolk said. "That's what makes it dangerous."
The hologram zoomed in on locations—streets, alleys, patrol routes.
"This deviation increases victim count," Cai added. "Extends public fear. Alters policing reforms. Political responses shift earlier than FATE projections."
"And every change compounds," Warolk said. "Left unchecked, this anomaly reshapes the timeline far beyond Whitechapel. And that means, that the timeline given by the FATEs is being altered. Drastically."
I stared at the dates.
"He… he's killing more people," I said quietly.
"Yes," Warolk replied. "And he will continue. But that's not all. We have an inkling that... one of his targets... It's Queen Victoria."
I swallowed, the silence pressing in. One that felt... final.
"You're being deployed," Warolk said, voice firm. "Not because you're the strongest. Not because you're ready. Not even because this concerns the future of one of your teammate's planet's future."
He looked directly at me.
"Rather, It's because you recognize the pattern. You understand the myth. And you know what happens if it's allowed to grow."
The final projection appeared.
DEPLOYMENT DATE: NOVEMBER 16, 1888
"Your mission, Team Delta Seven," Warolk concluded, "is to capture Jack the Ripper before the pattern completes itself."
Silence followed.
The legend I'd grown up hearing about—the faceless monster, the unsolved mystery—was no longer history.
It was alive.
And we were being sent to stop it.