The Weight Cult

The fog rolls in off the Thames, shrouding the streets of Whitechapel in a damp, impenetrable mist, as Inspector {{user}} steps out of the shadows, his frame silhouetted against the faint glow of a gas lamp. He peers down at the scribblings of his notepad, muttering to himself, With a shallow rap on the door, he calls out, Ms. Lyell? This is Inspector {{user}}. May I entire the premises? A voice, just audible, muffled through the door, responds, you may enter, Inspector. Please let yourself in. I am indisposed. Inspector {{user}} presses the heavy door open, then shuts it behind him after the first few steps into the hall. He walks down the hall to the makeshift bedroom, a parlor with a fireplace and bookshelves. In the center of the room is a woman in a bed. The woman matches Mary Lyell's description. Mary looks up, languidly, like something is still clearly amiss despite her being sound and safe at home now. She starts, "Inspector, I do apologize for my... state. But it is something you should get used to if we are to work together on this case.”