One single shot rang out over London's cold smoggy streets, accompanied by a lady's high pitched scream. Jim Taylor fell to the floor, a red rose of blood spreading over his shirt. The men that did it snuck away, with no punishment, as no-one of high society cared for a lowly Cockney shop boy. Sally Lockhart did though. She ran to his side, like the cobbled street was a race track, with no lumps or potholes to break her path. She held him as he lay dying, crying as his breathing shuddered to a halt, and as chaos started to fall from the stars.

* * *

The busy London markets were full of people, hurrying to carry on with their business without anyone else knowing. Suddenly a tall young man, with a mop of brown hair and startlingly green eyes came sprinting through the street, looking over his shoulder as if being chased. He rounded the corner, trying not to run into any of the carriages crossing across the roads as he slowed, and casually carried on walking up an alleyway, reaching a blue box at the end. He nervously fiddled in his pocket, before pulling out a small key, and with a somewhat triumphant face, opened the door.