Chapter 23: When You're Out There, You Choose Who You Are
Russell adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose and spoke in a timid, overly polite tone.
His voice flattened, completely losing its usual warmth and magnetism.
**[Plain Black-Framed Glasses:**
*A completely ordinary pair of glasses. Once worn, no one can recognize who you really are—*
*not even if you're Superman.*
*Remaining uses: 2*
*(Removing the glasses counts as ending one use.)*]**
Timmy Roy frowned even deeper.
The man in front of him had dull eyes and a stiff, lifeless presence, like one of those low-level clerks who spent their entire lives buried in paperwork at city hall.
No matter how he looked at him, this guy didn't resemble a sneaky paparazzo at all.
Had he made a mistake?
"What were you doing here just now?" Timmy asked, keeping his guard up, his tone shifting into an interrogator's.
"I… I just got off work and was waiting… waiting for my wife to go home together," Russell stammered.
He avoided eye contact, his gaze darting around, the perfect image of an honest man shrinking under the questioning of the powerful.
"Off work?" Timmy glanced around. This was one of the most elite neighborhoods in all of London. What kind of company would hire someone like *him* here?
"N-no," Russell hurriedly waved his hands.
"I… I work at *The Daily Chronicle*. I'm a layout worker.
"I came here today to interview Viscount Armand, who lives nearby, about his collection of antique clocks…"
He spoke with surprising detail and even pulled a worn-out press badge from his pocket.
**[Custom Identity Card:**
*A card that can be customized into any identity you need.*
*For just 50 malice points, you can become whoever you want to be.*
*When you're out in the world, your identity is yours to decide.*]**
Timmy Roy took the battered press badge. The ink was so faded it was barely readable.
*The Daily Chronicle*—a third-rate tabloid he'd never even heard of, the kind that thrived on street gossip and celebrity rumors. In their circles, it wasn't even worthy of being used as toilet paper.
He handed the badge back, half-believing, half-doubting. Most of his anger had already been diluted by how ridiculous the situation felt.
A journalist like this probably couldn't even afford a camera.
Expecting someone like him to capture anything meaningful was more unlikely than hoping his own father would suddenly lose his mind and go confess everything to the press.
Still, as the son of a cabinet minister, Timmy wasn't willing to let it go that easily.
"What's your name?" he pressed on, trying to catch a slip in the man's words.
"It… it's on the card, sir… Clark Kent," Russell answered hesitantly.
"Clark Kent…"
Timmy rolled the name around in his mouth. The suspicion in his eyes slowly gave way to irritation.
Behind him, the guards exchanged confused looks, clearly unsure why their young master was making such a fuss over an ordinary passerby.
Timmy circled Russell twice, inspecting him like a questionable piece of merchandise.
His critical gaze moved from the cheap cap on Russell's head, to the worn cuffs of his rough jacket, and finally to the scuffed leather shoes speckled with dried mud.
Everything fit.
This was exactly what a small, struggling nobody at the bottom of London society should look like.
Unfashionable. Timid. Reeking of cheapness from head to toe.
**[Timmy Roy begins to doubt his own judgment and grows irritated. Malice +10]**
Russell laughed quietly to himself, though his face remained full of submissive politeness.
"Sir… if there's nothing else… m-may I go?" he asked softly.
Clutching the newspaper to his chest, his body slightly hunched, he sounded almost pleading.
"My wife is still waiting… she… she isn't very well…"
That pitiful display erased the last trace of doubt from Timmy's mind.
Maybe he really had been too jumpy, making a mountain out of a molehill.
If someone with bad intentions saw this and took photos, then spun a story about him harassing civilians, he'd have no way to explain himself.
And that would definitely earn him another furious lecture from his father.
"Get lost."
Timmy waved him away impatiently, as if swatting a fly.
Spending even one more second with someone like this felt beneath him.
"Thank you! Thank you so much, sir!"
Russell bowed repeatedly, as though spared from execution, then turned and hurried off, nearly jogging as he disappeared into the crowd at the street corner—his retreating figure panicked, like a startled rat.
Timmy Roy stood where he was, watching that direction, his face dark enough to drip with anger.
"Young master?" one of the guards asked.
"It's nothing," Timmy waved him off, though the irritation in his chest only grew stronger.
"Let's go."
He spat out the words coldly and turned back toward the mansion. The heavy, carved doors closed behind him with a dull thud.
**[Timmy Roy feels annoyed by his own paranoia and redirects his anger toward you. Malice +20]**
Elsewhere, having successfully slipped away, Russell slowed his pace after turning a corner and confirming no one was following him.
He removed the plain black-framed glasses and let out a long breath.
"That was close."
That moment had been the closest he'd come to being exposed since becoming a phantom thief.
If his thief identity had been discovered, his student life would've been over.
Russell carefully tucked the expensive glasses back into his pocket.
They were pricey, sure—but undeniably useful.
Too bad two hundred malice points only bought three uses. Buying it outright would cost a full five thousand.
Even a landlord doesn't have endless grain, after all.
Fortunately, the investigation was basically complete. All that remained was the operation in a couple of nights.
Whistling lightly, he headed toward the tram stop.
By the time Russell returned to 221B Baker Street, night had fully settled over the city.
Mrs. Hudson already had dinner ready, and as soon as she saw him, she launched into her usual lecture about how young people shouldn't wander around outside all the time.
Russell smiled and played along as he took his seat at the table.
The atmosphere was warm and cozy. Charlotte, unusually, hadn't locked herself away in her room and was sitting at the table as well.
She still looked indifferent to everything around her, calmly cutting her food with knife and fork.
Halfway through dinner, Charlotte suddenly spoke.
"I've changed my mind."
"Hm?" Russell looked up from his sausage.
Charlotte met his gaze, then took out the invitation once more.
"I've decided to see what that so-called ice-breaking party is about."
---
### Chapter 24: Life Will Change
Hearing that, Russell raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.
"Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Think of it as killing time," Charlotte said as she set the invitation aside and continued cutting her food.
"Besides, it's mainly because of Mary Morstan. To be honest, I'm a little curious about what kind of person she is."
"I think the two of you would get along quite well," Russell said calmly. "Anyway, I hope you have fun."
"You're not going?" Charlotte asked.
"I don't think rubbing salt into someone's wounds is a very decent thing to do."
"The invitation requires a dance partner. You could invite Mary Morstan—that would give you a perfectly legitimate reason to attend, and you'd get to slap that idiot in the face at the same time.
"If she refuses, I don't mind being your stand-in."
Charlotte said this casually.
"Forget it. Not interested. I've got other plans on Saturday," Russell shook his head.
"Using lies to avoid facing wounds isn't a good habit either."
"I'm not lying, Charlotte," Russell replied without changing his expression.
"I'm going back to the orphanage."
"Wait—what orphanage?" Charlotte frowned.
"The one that raised me, obviously," Russell said. "What else would it be?
"I'm going back to visit and tell the headmistress that I got into Imperial College. Mrs. Hudson already knows."
"Is that so?" Charlotte turned to look at Mrs. Hudson.
"Yes," Mrs. Hudson nodded warmly. "That child hasn't had an easy life."
She sympathetically added another helping of mashed potatoes to his plate, spooning on extra gravy as well.
"Mrs. Hudson is basically my second mother," Russell said lightly.
"Eat more," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Look how thin you are."
"So you're planning to spend the entire evening reminiscing with the headmistress?" Charlotte asked.
"Hey, Charlotte—" Mrs. Hudson frowned, but Russell waved it off.
"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson. She doesn't mean any harm. She's just… not very good with words."
He paused, then continued.
"Not exactly. Once I'm done there, I'll head over. The party ends at eight. If I make it in time, I should still be able to dance."
"With whom?" Charlotte asked.
"Mary Morstan."
"You seem rather close to her."
"She's the only one in class I know. What choice do I have?" Russell shrugged.
"And yet you're clearly looking forward to dancing with her," Charlotte pressed on.
"Your pupils dilated when you mentioned her name, and your gaze drifted."
"Just basic social etiquette," he said, tossing the blame onto vague traditions.
"When a lady extends an invitation, showing anticipation is simply good manners. It has nothing to do with who she is."
"Smooth-talker."
Charlotte gave the comment without judgment and didn't pursue the topic further, lowering her head to resume her quiet battle with the food on her plate.
---
The next two days passed in a strange calm, with unseen currents flowing beneath the surface.
Russell remained the same lazy figure sprawled asleep in the back row, while Mary was like a fixed NPC, always refreshing beside him.
She rarely spoke to him on her own. Most of the time, she simply read quietly or took notes.
Occasionally, when the professor droned on about some particularly dull concept, she would turn her head, glance at the soundly sleeping Russell, and smile faintly—so lightly that even she didn't notice it herself.
When class ended, she would place her neatly organized notes on Russell's desk, as if it were an unspoken agreement.
Russell, for his part, accepted this rare and undeserved favor with complete ease—almost as if it were only natural.
And under the murderous stares of his classmates, he felt his system wallet slowly filling back up.
Just like that, the days drifted by, bland and unremarkable, until Saturday arrived.
The day of the ice-breaking party.
Early that morning, Russell got up before dawn.
Under Mrs. Hudson's approving gaze, he picked up a basket of fruit and pastries he had prepared in advance, left Baker Street, and headed toward the outskirts of London.
The orphanage was real.
The headmistress was real.
Russell truly grew up there.
When he first crossed into this world, he was nothing more than a swaddled infant. If not for Headmistress Martha, he would have frozen to death on that cold night.
After leaving the orphanage to live on his own, he returned to visit from time to time. This visit was no exception.
The schedule had been planned long ago.
If anything, the real *unexpected* part was the operation.
Years had passed, yet the orphanage hadn't changed much. The ivy on the walls had grown thicker, and the swing in the courtyard had gained a few more patches of rust.
When the elderly headmistress saw Russell, her cloudy eyes immediately filled with tears.
She held his hand and asked him everything—from his studies to his daily life—chatting nonstop for the entire morning.
Russell listened patiently, answering now and then, a gentle smile always on his face.
He even spent the afternoon playing games with the noisy little troublemakers in the yard, until the evening glow painted the sky red.
When it was time to leave, Russell quietly left behind the last few dozen pounds he had on him, along with the basket of pastries.
The headmistress insisted on refusing, but Russell only smiled.
"Consider it an early birthday gift, Headmistress Martha."
With that, he turned and walked away amid the children's enthusiastic waves, his departing figure carefree—like that of a true wanderer.
On the tram ride back toward the city, Russell watched the scenery rush past the window, feeling an unfamiliar calm settle in his heart.
He closed his eyes.
In his mind, the precise three-dimensional map of the Roy residence slowly took shape.
Night had fallen.
It was time for the phantom thief to move.
---
Night descended like a heavy velvet curtain, slowly covering London's skies.
Under the glow of gas lamps, the city transformed into a sea of shimmering stars.
Inside the Morstan residence, in a second-floor bedroom—
Mary Morstan stood quietly before a large standing mirror as two maids carefully adjusted the folds of her dress.
She wore a moon-white silk gown, the fabric reflecting a soft, pearl-like sheen under the lights.
The design was simple, free of excessive lace or ornamentation. Only a subtle iris pattern, embroidered in silver thread at the waist, traced her slender yet poised figure perfectly.
Minimal, yet elegant—carrying an air of distant refinement.
"Miss, does the dress fit well?" the older maid asked carefully.
"It's fine," Mary replied, her voice calm.
Her gaze rested on the mirror.
Silver hair cascaded like a waterfall. Skin pale as snow. Those blue eyes were quiet and cold, like a frozen sea.
Flawless—perfect, like a carefully sculpted doll.
"What about your hair? Shall we pin it up, or style it like the last palace banquet?" another maid asked.
"Either is fine."
Mary sounded distracted.
Her fingers absentmindedly brushed the lipstick on the vanity—the one that had been lost and found again—while her thoughts drifted back to yesterday's lecture hall.
"If I make it in time, I'll come."
Russell's words replayed in her mind for no reason at all.
That guy… would he really come?
She didn't know.
His behavior was like London's fog—you never knew where it would drift next.
And yet, it was precisely that uncertainty, light as a feather, that kept stirring the still waters of her heart.
Just then, a steady, authoritative voice came from the doorway, pulling her thoughts back.
"Mary."
She turned.
Duke Morstan stood there.
---
**Chapter 25: Twin Stars**
"Father."
Mary dipped her head slightly and performed a flawless curtsy.
"How are the preparations?" The duke's gaze swept over her. There was no warmth in his eyes—only cold appraisal.
"Everything is ready," Mary replied calmly.
"Good." The duke nodded faintly.
"Tonight's reception may look like nothing more than students fooling around," he continued, his tone even,
"but among the guests are the children of cabinet ministers and peers of the Upper House.
Ethan Roy's son, the admiral's daughter…"
He listed names as if reciting treasured items, each one representing a tangled web of influence.
"I know you're not interested in these things," the duke said, abruptly changing tack, his voice leaving no room for argument.
"But you need to build relationships with them. If our family's trade routes are to gain more convenience in Parliament, we'll need the support of these future power-holders.
"This will benefit you—and the Morstan family as a whole."
There it was again.
Tools. Bargaining chips. Exchanges of interest.
From the moment Mary could remember, these were the words she heard most.
A young girl's life was like a meticulously drafted blueprint—everything designed to serve the family's interests, with those interests placed above all else.
Mary lowered her eyes. Her long lashes hid the brief flash of mockery and disdain in her blue gaze.
"I understand, Father."
Words that went against her heart.
"Very good."
The duke seemed pleased with her obedience. He stepped forward and, like a caring father, adjusted a strand of silver hair on her shoulder. The gesture, however, was stiff—nothing like that of a real parent.
"Remember, my child," he said lightly, as if discussing something trivial.
"Never forget who you are."
That casual sentence seemed to awaken some sealed memory. Mary's voice grew soft and compliant, as though the momentary rebellion had never existed.
"I understand, Father."
"The carriage is waiting outside. Don't be late."
The door closed, and the room fell silent once more.
The maids hardly dared to breathe as they carefully fastened a pair of delicate sapphire earrings onto Mary's ears.
The cold touch against her earlobes cleared her mind.
She looked at the flawless image of Miss Morstan in the mirror and suddenly felt a wave of irritation.
She picked up a hairpin from the vanity and casually twisted her silver hair into a loose bun at the back of her head.
A few stray strands fell naturally along her neck, breaking the rigid elegance and adding a hint of laziness and freedom.
This was one of the few rebellions the girl was capable of.
"This will do," she said flatly.
No amount of dressing up would change anything anyway.
---
At six in the evening, the ice-breaking reception was in full swing in the grand hall of Imperial Polytechnic University.
A flowing waltz, glittering crystal chandeliers, young men and women in formal wear holding champagne—everything looked dazzling, brimming with the beauty of youth.
Timmy Roy, the host of the event, moved proudly through the crowd, thoroughly enjoying the admiration and flattery directed his way.
Even as he basked in it, his eyes kept drifting toward the entrance, as if waiting for someone important.
Charlotte Holmes.
If she showed up, it would prove that even that arrogant genius had to give Timmy Roy face.
As for Russell Watson, that country bumpkin?
Timmy hoped he wouldn't come at all.
A man without even an invitation—showing up would only humiliate himself.
Just then, a small commotion arose at the entrance.
Timmy immediately looked over, his smile growing brighter.
Charlotte Holmes had arrived.
She was still wearing that oversized coat, hands in her pockets, looking no different from usual.
Compared to the other students who had dressed up specially for the occasion, she looked like a passerby who had wandered in by mistake.
But that didn't matter.
What she wore wasn't important. What mattered was that she came—and the identity she represented.
Charlotte Holmes, the younger sister of Mycroft Holmes, the man rumored to *be* the British government.
Besides, even without dressing up, Charlotte's looks alone were enough to outshine most people.
As everyone's attention focused on Charlotte, a silver-haired girl in a moon-white gown appeared right behind her.
Mary Morstan.
If Charlotte's arrival was an expected delight, then Mary's appearance was a miracle—something far beyond anyone's expectations.
Countless gazes—awed, admiring, jealous—instantly fixed on the moon-colored figure at the entrance.
She stood there quietly, darkness of night behind her, brilliant lights before her.
Light and shadow met upon her, making her seem less like a mortal and more like a cold moon goddess stepped out of myth.
Timmy Roy hurried over at once, his ingratiating smile brighter than if he were greeting his own father.
"Miss Holmes, Miss Morstan, welcome! Your presence truly makes this evening shine."
Faced with such eager flattery, Charlotte merely glanced at him indifferently, said nothing, and walked straight past.
She didn't spare him even the smallest bit of attention.
Timmy's expression stiffened. He could only turn his gaze to Mary.
"Miss Morstan—"
"Mr. Roy," Mary said with a polite smile, cutting him off at just the right moment.
"Enjoy yourself."
With that, she passed him as well and headed toward Charlotte.
Timmy Roy's smile froze completely.
Mary walked up beside Charlotte, who seemed to notice her gaze.
The eyes of two geniuses met across the space.
There were no sparks, no tension, not even a basic greeting.
Only the calm, mutual understanding of evenly matched opponents.
Their eye contact lasted just a few seconds before both looked away.
Mary stood by the drinks table, holding a glass of lemonade, quietly watching the figures spinning in the center of the dance floor.
Her gaze occasionally swept across the entire hall, as if appreciating its layout, before withdrawing without leaving a trace.
She was looking for someone.
The one who had said, *"If I make it in time, I'll come."*
Time ticked by. One dance ended, another began. The people on the floor changed again and again.
Mary's glass of lemonade was empty, yet the familiar figure still hadn't appeared.
He wouldn't really… not come, would he?
The thought had barely formed before she forcibly suppressed it.
She unconsciously tightened her grip on the glass. The cold sensation steadied her racing thoughts.
What exactly was she expecting?
That he would come?
And then what?
Invite her to dance?
Or was it simply that, in a place filled with hypocrisy and calculation, she wanted to see someone different—someone real and alive?
Even Mary couldn't say.
All she knew was that when her eyes swept over the empty entrance for the umpteenth time, the vague irritation in her chest was on the verge of breaking free.
Just as that irritation was about to rise into dissatisfaction—perhaps even malice—a cold voice suddenly sounded by her ear:
"He should be at St. Jude's Orphanage right now."
Mary turned instinctively and met a pair of gray-blue eyes that seemed to see through everything.
Charlotte Holmes.
She held a glass of champagne—no one knew where she'd gotten it—and leaned lazily against a Roman column, utterly out of place at the party, like a living dividing line.
"I'm sorry, Miss Holmes," Mary said, her expression returning to flawless elegance.
"I don't quite understand what you mean."
"No, you do," Charlotte replied calmly, with absolute certainty.
"You're looking for someone—someone who's absent. And I just happen to know where he went today."
Mary fell silent.
This detective was more troublesome than she had imagined.
**Chapter 26: Infiltration Investigator**
"Why do you think I'm looking for him?"
Mary neither admitted nor denied it. Instead, she posed the question back to her.
"Because of your gaze."
Charlotte swirled the liquid in her glass. The golden champagne refracted hazy light beneath the crystal chandeliers.
"From the moment you entered until now, you've scanned the entrance thirty-seven times—an average of once per minute.
Your eyes linger on other people for about 0.8 seconds on average, but at the entrance, your gaze stays for over three seconds each time.
"Putting all that together—you're waiting for someone who's late."
Charlotte wasn't speaking quickly. She even took the time to nibble on a couple of cookies before continuing at her unhurried pace.
"And among all the freshmen invited to Imperial Polytechnic today, there's only one person who didn't receive an invitation yet has a legitimate reason to be absent."
She paused, then said the name calmly:
"Russell Watson."
After a brief pause, as if recalling something else, Charlotte added,
"Of course, that conclusion is purely from a reasoning perspective."
"Then what about from a non-reasoning perspective?" Mary asked.
"From a non-reasoning perspective—he told me himself earlier.
I just worked backward from the answer." Charlotte shrugged.
"Tsk."
Mary clicked her tongue softly, her brows knitting together.
"Oh, by the way."
Charlotte glanced at Mary, taking in the subtle change in her expression before speaking again.
"What?" Mary looked sideways at her.
"He *was* looking forward to the idea of **dancing with you**."
"..."
---
At the same time, on Hyde Street.
[Mary Morstan is displeased by your loose tongue. Malice +10]
Russell listened silently to the system notification echoing in his mind, his emotions complicated.
What did I even do this time?
Sure, gaining malice points was technically a good thing… but not like this, right?
At this rate, I'll end up sitting at the same table as the Japanese emperor.
Forget it.
Better finish this quickly and head to the party.
Hopefully, there's still time.
Russell took a deep breath. The cold night air filled his lungs, sweeping away the cluttered thoughts in his head.
He slowly put on the white mask painted with an eerie smiling face, then adjusted his collar one last time.
The night was a phantom thief's best disguise.
Moriarty—time to take the stage.
The night wind on Hyde Street was especially cold, lifting fallen leaves into swirling spirals.
Russell lowered the brim of his hat. His figure melted into the darkness as he silently vaulted over the tall—but largely decorative—iron fence of the Roy estate.
His toes touched down lightly. Not a sound.
The lawn inside was trimmed like a carpet, soft enough to absorb any noise.
He pulled out a grappling launcher from inside his coat and fired it toward the second-floor balcony.
"*Chh—*"
The hook slid perfectly through the gap in the railing and embedded itself into the stone wall behind it.
With a light leap, Russell reeled himself up to the second floor.
The balcony was empty under the moonlight. He retracted the grappling line and slipped into the dark room, then moved to the door leading into the corridor.
He didn't open it right away.
Instead, he pressed his ear against the door, quietly listening.
Ethan Roy and his wife were still in the first-floor living room. Faint voices drifted up—apparently on the phone—with the occasional chuckle characteristic of old money.
Aside from that, there were footsteps on the second floor.
More than one.
Clearly, these were the estate's guards.
Russell placed a hand on the doorknob. When the footsteps moved away, he cracked the door open just enough to slip through.
He observed the movement patterns through the gap in the door and the shadows beneath it.
The internal layout of the Roy estate surfaced clearly in his mind. One by one, he marked the guards' positions onto that mental map.
More troublesome than expected.
Loose on the outside, tight on the inside.
Minister Ethan Roy was more cautious than Russell had anticipated.
In the corridor, two guards patrolled along fixed routes, their footsteps steady and firm.
Their paths covered nearly every key area. The overlapping lines of sight formed a near-perfect net.
Near-perfect.
Russell's gaze fell on the elongated shadows cast at their feet by the lights.
A bold idea took shape in his mind.
He would only get one chance.
He took a slow breath, lowered his body, and carefully observed their movements.
Then—at the instant when one guard turned around, crossing paths back-to-back with the other—
Russell slid out through the doorway, utterly silent, his movements feather-light.
The **[Stealth C++]** skill gave him absolute control over every muscle in his body.
He didn't choose to hide in the shadows.
That was too conventional—and too easy to notice.
Instead, he chose the most dangerous place… and the safest.
Inside the guard's shadow.
Russell stepped precisely into the visual blind spot left during the guard's turn, his body pressed close to the man's back. His footsteps matched the guard's rhythm perfectly.
Even his breathing adjusted to sync with the other man's.
The guard's broad frame completely concealed him. Russell became a ghost at his back—a walking shadow under full light.
The guard suddenly felt something, a faint chill crawling up the back of his neck. He turned around instinctively.
There was nothing there.
Only his partner's steady silhouette at the end of the corridor.
He shook his head with a self-mocking smile, assuming he was just too tense, and continued his patrol.
Russell followed less than a centimeter behind him, keeping perfect pace—boldly, silently, moving through the estate.
Where the guard went, he went. Even when they passed the destination, he didn't stop.
Because he was waiting.
Waiting for the three-minute window during the shift change.
When the dull chime of the clock tower rang out, the two guards stopped at an intersection.
They exchanged a glance and nodded in unison, then walked off in opposite directions.
Shift change.
At the moment their backs turned and their lines of sight fully separated, Russell peeled himself away from the guard's shadow like a wisp of smoke.
Without making a sound, he sprang lightly into the corridor on the left, moving toward the study with feline grace.
The operation had officially begun.
The study door was fitted with an old-fashioned cross lock.
For someone with **[Sleight of Hand C+]**, it took no more than ten seconds.
"*Click.*"
A nearly inaudible sound, and the door opened.
The scent of cigars mixed with old books rushed out.
Russell slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him.
The system map lit up in his mind. The red marker indicating a high-value item was hidden behind the bookshelf.
He turned to the neatly arranged shelves. They were packed with books, though most were little more than decoration.
Russell stepped forward, removed one unremarkable book, and carried it to another shelf already filled to capacity.
His fingers brushed across the spines before stopping on one. He tapped it twice.
Hollow.
He took it out and replaced it with the book he was holding.
The instant it slid into place, the sound of internal machinery echoed softly through the room.
---
**[2026-01-06 — Hotfix Update]**
* Urgently fixed an issue with the Malice Value level-up algorithm. Each level now correctly requires a corresponding Malice cost (leveling up is now more difficult).
* No rollback or Malice deduction will be applied to users who upgraded attributes before this fix.
* Compensation: Update ×1 (expected to be released at 20:00—please check the chapter list).
**Chapter 27: Since I'm Already Here**
As the sound of internal machinery faded, Russell's gaze shifted to the desk.
He pulled open a drawer, found the hidden compartment inside, and opened it.
A yellowed envelope lay quietly within.
Russell took it out and, with mild curiosity, opened it, pulling out the transaction records inside.
Good.
He didn't recognize a single name on it.
Didn't matter whether *he* recognized them or not.
Mycroft—and the people at *The Times*—definitely would.
He put the envelope away and restored the scene to its original state.
No need to leave a calling card just yet.
After all, there were still two more places left to search.
Without the slightest hesitation, Russell turned and melted into the shadows of the study, like a drop of ink dissolving into water—silent and invisible.
Next target: the guest room.
Objective: scandal photos.
As for the jewels in the master bedroom safe… he'd decide when he got there.
If there was time after getting the photos, he'd take them too.
If not, he'd let it go.
Dancing was more important.
---
The guest room was at the far end of the corridor. Unlike the oppressive atmosphere of the study, this place carried a cold emptiness, as though it hadn't been used in a long time.
Clearly meant for overnight guests—but Minister Roy's estate hadn't hosted anyone for quite a while.
Russell stepped inside. A faint scent of air freshener lingered in the air.
He searched the room briefly and, with barely any effort or time, found another envelope.
Inside was a stack of photographs, about as thick as a coin.
He casually pulled one out and glanced at it by the moonlight streaming through the window.
In the photo, Minister Ethan Roy was being intimate with a young blonde woman—blue-eyed, voluptuous—the background clearly a hotel suite.
And she wasn't the only one.
There were several other women in the photos as well. Some Russell recognized from advertisements; others he'd only heard about.
Without exception: beautiful, well-figured, and modestly famous.
"Living quite the comfortable life," Russell muttered.
He shrugged and slipped the photos back inside.
After thinking for a moment, he pulled one photo out again and tucked it into his pocket.
Once done, he glanced at the clock hanging in the guest room.
Seven o'clock.
Cut and run—or go for perfection?
Russell pondered briefly.
Hyde Street wasn't far from Imperial Polytechnic University. Even on foot, it would take no more than ten minutes…
Ah, whatever.
Since I'm already here.
If you're chasing thrills, you might as well go all the way.
---
The master bedroom was on the third floor—the most heavily guarded area of the entire estate.
But for Russell, who already knew the patrol routes by heart, it simply meant climbing a few more flights of stairs.
Like an elegant night raven, he landed silently on the carpeted third-floor corridor.
The lock on the master bedroom door was more complex than those of the study and guest room—a state-of-the-art Swiss mechanical lock.
But for **[Sleight of Hand C+]**, it only meant the difference between ten seconds and thirty.
Russell held his breath as the silver needle danced lightly within the lock. In his mind, he could almost visualize every turn of the internal gears.
"Click."
The lock opened.
Luxury washed over him as he entered—thick Persian carpets, a massive four-poster bed, and a huge oil painting of Ethan Roy himself on the wall.
The minister in the painting looked stern, sharp-eyed, as though scrutinizing every intruder.
Russell ignored it completely.
His target was the waist-high, seemingly impregnable German-made safe in the corner.
He crouched down and pressed his ear against the cold metal door.
This time, he used no tools—only his fingertips, gently turning the combination dial.
"Click… clack… click…"
The faint mechanical sounds traveled through bone conduction, crystal clear in his mind.
With **[Listening C+]** amplifying every subtle difference in sound, each number revealed itself.
In under a minute, the heavy safe door let out a dull *hum* and swung open.
Inside, jewels practically spilled out.
Diamond necklaces, ruby rings, sapphire brooches—dazzling enough to drive any real thief mad.
But there was not a trace of greed in Russell's eyes.
He calmly took out the most conspicuous piece—a massive diamond necklace—tested its weight, and nodded in satisfaction.
Then he pulled out the single photo he'd set aside earlier—the intimate shot of Ethan Roy with a famous actress.
He flipped it over and, with the fountain pen he carried, scrawled a line on the back in bold, flamboyant handwriting:
**"A trivial little gift, to Mrs. Roy — Moriarty."**
He placed the signed photo prominently in the very center of the safe.
Then he closed the door and restored everything to its original state.
He wasn't worried that Ethan Roy would check the safe first and destroy the evidence.
After discovering his house had been visited by a phantom thief, the first places Roy would inspect would be the study and the guest room.
After all—Russell had a record.
And even in the worst-case scenario, if Ethan Roy *did* find the photo in the safe and destroyed it—
He could destroy one.
Could he destroy a whole stack?
The rest would reach *The Times* soon enough.
---
Russell stood up, diamond necklace in hand, left the master bedroom, and slipped into Timmy Roy's room.
Timmy Roy's room—much like the man himself—reeked of vulgar ostentation.
Its decor screamed the gaudy excess of a young noble.
Polo ribbons hung on the walls. Fashion magazines and cigar boxes were strewn messily across the desk.
The air was heavy with expensive cologne, desperately trying to mask the lingering hormones of adolescence.
Russell had no interest in a teenager's bedroom—and even less interest in whatever *mystical forbidden books* might be hiding under the bed.
He walked straight to the bedside table, opened the drawer, and casually tossed the valuable diamond necklace inside, as if discarding a worthless toy.
The diamonds clinked crisply as they collided with a jumble of cufflinks and tie clips.
Russell dusted off his hands, ready to call it a night.
But just as he was about to leave, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention—
A half-open drawer on the desk.
Inside was something that looked like… letters?
Driven by curiosity and a phantom thief's instincts, he stepped closer and picked one up.
It was a letter detailing Timmy Roy's flirtatious exchanges with a girl named Annie Brown.
In plain terms: a love letter.
Nothing special. Just excessively saccharine.
Russell rolled his eyes—then noticed there were quite a few more letters like it in the drawer.
Since he was already here, he took them all out and opened them one by one.
Without exception, they were all flirtatious letters.
The only difference was—
The female lead wasn't always Annie Brown.
Now *that* was interesting.
Annie Brown. Isabella White. Joy Carter…
A quick glance showed at least five or six different women, each once hailed by Timmy Roy as his "one true love."
Every letter was beautifully worded, overflowing with sincerity, as if the writer had laid his entire heart bare for the recipient.
And by sheer coincidence—
Russell had seen every one of those names on his **Malice Value** list.
Look at that mess.
He gathered the letters neatly, then glanced up at the clock.
7:45 p.m.
"About time."
Russell secured the letters, ran toward the balcony, and leapt down.
"Time to keep my appointment."
**Chapter 28: A Visitor from Beyond**
Imperial Polytechnic University, Grand Hall.
7:45 p.m.
At the peak of the hall's domed ceiling, the enormous cuckoo clock poked out its mechanical bird head. With a string of overly crisp chimes, it announced a simple truth—
Only fifteen minutes remained before this spectacle of glitter and excess came to its end.
Fifteen minutes until the ball was over.
At some point, the music at the center of the dance floor had shifted. The passionate waltz had given way to a slower, more social kind of dance—gentle, restrained, unhurried.
Even the expensive perfume lingering in the air seemed to grow lazy, like the final moments of a lavish play just before the curtain fell.
Mary Morstan stood in the shadows at the edge of the hall, like a white statue that refused to melt into the warm light—utterly out of place.
The lemonade in her hand was already her third glass.
Cold droplets condensed on the surface of the cup, sliding silently along her pale fingers, like a miniature rainy season meant for her alone.
But this faint chill did nothing to extinguish the nameless fire burning hotter and hotter in her chest.
She was angry.
There was no denying it—even to herself.
Angry at *him* for breaking his word.
Angry that he had brushed her off with an excuse so flimsy it could be pierced at a touch.
And even angrier at herself—for actually believing that excuse, for standing here like a fool waiting for a first Christmas present, watching over an hour of her life be wasted on nothing.
"I'll wait for you."
The words she'd said to him in the classroom echoed in her mind now, every syllable sharpened with irony.
An indescribable disappointment seeped through her heart like ink dropped into clear water—slow, stubborn, turning the entire lake of her emotions a dull gray.
"Tsk."
Mary drained the last mouthful of lemonade in one go, the sour taste spreading across her tongue.
The excessive sharpness exploded on her taste buds, like a belated punishment for misplaced expectations.
So in the end… was I just expecting too much?
She set the empty glass down hard on a waiter's tray. *Clink.*
The crisp sound drew a startled glance from the server.
Boring.
This is unbearably boring.
This ball—this gathering filled with fake smiles and tedious small talk—now looked no different to Mary than a carefully staged funeral.
She turned around, her moon-white skirt tracing a cold arc behind her as she prepared to leave.
She had given him enough time.
Now, she didn't want to wait anymore.
Just as she took her first step, Charlotte's lazy voice sounded behind her once again.
"Leaving already?"
Charlotte held a champagne flute in her hand, looking at her with mild curiosity.
"What else would I do?" Mary replied without turning around, irritation seeping into her voice before she could stop it.
"Stay and admire Mr. Roy's dreadful social performance?"
"Wait five more minutes," Charlotte said calmly. "He'll come."
"And what brilliant deduction is *that* based on?" Mary turned back, a hint of mockery in her tone.
"None." Charlotte shook her head honestly.
"Just intuition. Or maybe a baseless fantasy born of boredom."
She swirled the champagne in her glass, gray-blue eyes gazing through the golden liquid toward the dance floor.
"Aren't you curious, though? Whether Russell Watson will really not show up."
"What matters isn't whether he's late," she added lightly.
"What matters is whether he comes at all."
Mary fell silent.
She had to admit it—perhaps the only reason she was still here was to gamble on that last, insignificant sliver of possibility.
So she stopped, leaning back once more against the cold Roman pillar.
Five minutes.
Just five minutes.
If he still doesn't come after that…
Her fingernails dug unconsciously into her palm.
Time passed, second by second, like the final grains of golden sand slipping through an hourglass.
The opening dance of the ball—he hadn't come.
Back then, Mary had been calm. She told herself he was still at the orphanage. A man who kept his promises would always deal with more important matters first.
The social dance—he still hadn't come.
She remained calm. Maybe he was stuck in traffic. London traffic was always terrible.
The performance dance—he didn't come.
That was when irritation began to creep in. She wondered if he had spoken casually, while she had taken it seriously.
And now—
The final dance of the ball was about to begin.
The slow four-step melody drifted toward its conclusion. The conductor had already raised his baton, ready to strike the final rest.
He still hadn't come.
...
He wasn't coming anymore.
I won't wait anymore.
The moment that thought fully took shape—
The heavy, carved oak doors of the grand hall let out a long *creak* as they were pushed open from the outside.
"Bang."
The student in charge of the entrance, seemingly impatient, moved to shut the door again.
But a hand clad in a black leather glove pressed firmly against the door panel, stopping it from closing.
Then a figure stepped in, unhurried, silhouetted against the deep night beyond the doorway.
In that instant, it felt as though the light of the entire hall was drawn toward him.
Countless gazes—curious, surprised, disdainful—turned in unison.
The newcomer wore a plain black casual suit, no tie. It looked oddly out of place, clashing sharply with this world of luxury and finery.
His hair was slightly messy, as if from running, a few black strands falling freely over his forehead. His breathing hadn't quite settled yet, carrying a faint trace of urgency.
His face was expressionless, but under the brilliant lights, his black eyes shone startlingly bright—
Like two silent sparks newly lit in the dark.
He stood there, utterly incompatible with the glittering, jewel-studded hall, like a reckless outsider who had blundered into high society.
—Russell Watson.
Timmy Roy's expression darkened instantly. He set down his glass and took a step forward, clearly intending to confront this uninvited country bumpkin.
Charlotte, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow, a faint smile curling at her lips as she finished the last sip of her champagne.
And Mary—
Mary simply stood there, looking at him.
Watching as he walked through the crowd, ignoring every stare, heading straight toward her.
His steps were steady. But with each step closer, her heartbeat quickened just a little more.
At that moment, the noise around her—the music, the chatter, the murmurs—was pulled infinitely far away, blurred, reduced to an indistinct backdrop.
In Mary's world, there was only the figure approaching her…
and the long, wavering shadow trailing behind him.
Russell stopped three steps away from her.
A social distance that was both safe—and dangerous.
He was breathing lightly, a thin sheen of sweat visible at his temple from running, standing in stark contrast to the perfectly groomed noble youths around them.
"I'm sorry," he said.
His voice was slightly hoarse from haste, yet unmistakably clear.
"I'm late."
Mary didn't speak.
She just looked at him, the icy blue of her eyes—frozen for so long—slowly beginning to melt.
The nameless fire that had burned in her all night, the disappointment and irritation she couldn't put into words, vanished in an instant at that simple apology.
"I thought…" she said slowly,
"…that you weren't coming."
"I said I'd try my best."
Russell's breathing had steadied now. He looked at her, a helpless, apologetic smile appearing on his face.
"Something came up on the way. It held me back. And I had to change clothes and all that…"
At that moment, the music struck its final note and faded into silence.
All across the hall, dancers stopped moving, their gazes unconsciously gathering on the man and woman standing in the corner.
In the complete stillness, under everyone's watchful eyes, Russell bent slightly at the waist and extended his right hand toward Mary.
A perfect, impeccable invitation to dance.
"Anyway, Miss Morstan," his voice wasn't loud, but it echoed clearly through the silent hall.
"At the very end of everything—would you be willing to dance with me?"
Mary looked quietly at the hand he offered, then slowly lifted her gaze to his face.
And she asked the same question she had asked that day.
"Is that a question… or an invitation?"
This time, she received a completely different answer.
He said—
"An invitation."
·
·
*(The titles of Chapters 27 and 28 are both songs I listened to while writing. Highly recommended to read with background music.)*
**Chapter 29: Emily**
Of course—it was an invitation.
When that casual yet resolute answer echoed softly through the silent grand hall, time itself seemed to pause.
Mary looked at him quietly, at those black eyes of his glinting beneath the lights.
Gone was his usual laziness, gone the pretense and disguises—
what remained was nothing but sincerity.
And so, the girl smiled.
Not the flawless, practiced smile that belonged to *Miss Morstan*.
But a smile that belonged to *Mary* alone—
warm and genuine, like ice and snow melting for the first time.
In the instant she smiled, even the brilliant lights of the hall seemed to dim for a heartbeat, as if they existed only to frame the starlight rekindled in her eyes.
"Since it's an invitation…"
She spoke softly, extending her right hand and gently placing it into Russell's palm.
Her cool fingers met his warm hand, like a lost bird finding its way home, greedily drawing comfort from that steady warmth.
"Then… I shall gladly accept."
---
He led her forward, through waves of stunned, bewildered, jealous, and utterly disbelieving gazes, walking slowly to the empty center of the dance floor.
The crowd parted for them like the Red Sea before Moses.
The surrounding whispers—and Timmy Roy's barely contained fury—vanished instantly, like snowflakes dissolving into boiling tea.
Russell didn't care how much his **Malice Value** was climbing.
Mary didn't care about the murmurs, or the music that had somehow fallen silent.
They simply held hands—
And danced.
No accompaniment.
No applause.
When Russell's left hand rested lightly on Mary's slender waist and his right hand intertwined with hers, her body stiffened for just a brief moment—
As if someone had brushed against a hidden secret.
"What's wrong?" he asked softly.
"Nothing," Mary replied in a whisper, her gaze lowering slightly to conceal the fleeting hint of panic.
"I just didn't expect Mr. Watson to know how to dance."
"I learned it just now," Russell chuckled. "Compared to Miss Morstan, I might as well say I don't know how at all."
"If I accidentally step on your foot later, I hope you'll forgive me."
"Call me Mary," she said quietly, her voice barely more than a breath.
Russell paused for a moment—then smiled in understanding.
"Then please call me Russell as well."
He truly hadn't learned how to dance before.
So before rushing here, Russell had spent three hundred Malice Points to unlock **[Dance D+]** from the system.
It was only beginner level—
But it was enough.
Enough for him to hold her hand, on this night, under everyone's gaze, and finish this dance.
---
While the two spoke in low voices, Charlotte had already set down her glass and walked straight toward the orchestra.
"If you're just going to stand there watching," she said to one of the violinists,
"mind lending me this for a moment?"
Before the musician could even respond, she had already taken the priceless instrument from his hands.
The very next second, an unheard-of melody—fluid, strange, and quietly captivating—flowed from Charlotte's bow.
It wasn't as structured as a waltz, nor as gentle as a slow four-step.
It was more like an improvised narrative—alive, spirited, and free.
The opening was soft and flowing, like a stream under afternoon sunlight, carrying a hint of tentative curiosity.
At the center of the floor, Russell followed the melody, guiding Mary into the first step.
His movements weren't textbook—some were even clumsy—
But his sense of rhythm was astonishingly good.
Mary didn't need to think. Her body followed him naturally.
Their steps felt like an awkward conversation.
You advance—I retreat.
You spin—I follow.
The moon-white skirt and black trouser hems crossed and turned on the polished floor, like night and day intertwining for the first time.
Russell looked at Mary, so close now—
at those blue eyes that seemed to hold starlight beneath the lamps,
at the familiar scent of white tea and ink that calmed him to the core.
At that moment, all the jealousy around them—
all the rapidly scrolling numbers on the system interface—
None of it mattered anymore.
**[Timmy Roy is furious that you have monopolized Mary. Malice Value +50]**
...
To hell with Malice Value.
Right now, he only wanted to dance this dance well.
---
The conductor stared blankly at the scene, then finally snapped back to his senses.
Listening to Charlotte's melody, he slowly raised his baton.
And so—
The cello's low hum, the flute's clarity, the piano's arpeggios…
A fully improvised ensemble began to play, just for the improvised dancers at the center of the floor.
The violin's melody climbed higher and higher, like a stream joining a river—broad, powerful, and surging.
Russell's movements grew bolder with it. He guided Mary into an elegant spin.
Her pale skirt bloomed in midair, like a night-blooming flower opening at midnight.
Mary was light—so light that the waist beneath his palm felt as though it might snap with the slightest pressure.
And yet—
This very person possessed terrifying physical prowess.
The thought made Russell laugh softly.
"What are you laughing at?" Mary asked, her voice tinged with faint breathlessness from the spin.
"Nothing," he shook his head. "I just think you're lighter than I imagined, Mary."
At his words, her cheeks seemed to take on the faintest blush beneath the warm amber lights.
"Smooth talker," she scolded gently.
The dance continued.
Fine beads of sweat had begun to form at Russell's temple.
He wasn't a professional dancer—
and he'd sprinted all the way here.
Several times, he felt his steps falter.
Sensing his discomfort, Mary subtly slowed half a beat during the next turn.
She stopped merely following—
And began to guide him instead.
A light signal from her hand at his back.
A glance of warning just before he made a mistake.
And so, that awkward conversation gradually smoothed out—
Like two strangers growing familiar through time and shared moments.
A duet replaced the monologue.
As the violin reached its climax, the music surged like a storm, sweeping across the hall.
The orchestra swelled with it—brass and strings intertwining, as if bestowing a final coronation upon the dancers.
Russell drew a deep breath and guided Mary into the final—and most magnificent—spin.
At the peak of her swirling skirt, he gently pulled her into his arms.
Mary responded in perfect harmony, resting one hand on his shoulder, her body arching back slightly into a flawless final pose.
The entire hall fell silent.
Everyone held their breath, staring at the pair in the center, as if they had stepped out of a painting.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three…
Then, suddenly, thunderous applause erupted, swallowing the hall whole.
The lights fell upon them like a belated spotlight.
Russell slowly helped Mary upright. They exchanged a smile, then bowed together toward the orchestra.
As if this—
Was their award ceremony.
**Chapter 30: Nobody Came for Nothing**
The thunderous applause lingered on, while Russell and Mary moved like partners who had worked together for years.
After finishing their bows, the two of them wordlessly withdrew from the center of the dance floor, returning the stage to the guests who were still dazed by what they had just witnessed.
Charlotte set down the violin and returned it to the musician—who was still standing there in a daze—then stepped off the platform.
There was no particular expression on her face. When her gaze met Russell's, she silently mouthed a single word:
*"Boring."*
Russell understood perfectly and could only respond with a helpless smile.
Just as he was about to find a place to rest—and maybe replenish some energy—a voice heavy with suppressed rage rang out behind him, thoroughly ruining the mood.
"So you really stole the spotlight tonight, didn't you, Mr. Watson?"
Russell paused and turned around.
Timmy Roy stood behind him, the smile he usually wore completely gone.
Those eyes that were always filled with arrogance were now locked onto Russell, as if they might spit fire at any second.
"It was just a dance," Russell said casually, popping a cookie into his mouth.
"Hardly stealing the spotlight."
"As the host of the evening, *Mr. Roy* is the real star tonight, isn't he?"
"Yes. The host," Timmy Roy sneered.
He stepped forward and deliberately lowered his voice, speaking so that only the two of them could hear.
"A country bumpkin who didn't even have an invitation dares to hog the limelight at *my* party.
Should I praise your courage… or say you're courting death?"
**[Timmy Roy is extremely furious about your appearance and your show-stealing behavior. Malice Value +50]**
Russell slowly swallowed the last bite of cookie, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and wore a perfectly harmless smile.
"Come on now. I'm still a student of Imperial College, aren't I?"
"It's a freshman icebreaker party. Others can attend—why can't I?"
He tilted his head and asked calmly.
Timmy Roy's expression darkened further.
Just two days ago, this guy could only swallow his anger when provoked.
How had he suddenly turned into a completely different person?
"Do you really think that just because you danced with Mary Morstan, she's your shield now?" Timmy sneered.
"Do you actually believe her father—the Duke of Morstan—would ever look twice at a nobody like you with no background whatsoever?"
"But I *did* dance with Mary Morstan," Russell replied.
He picked up a glass of lemonade and took a few sips.
"So what? That was nothing more than her pity—charity for a pathetic nobody like you!"
"I held her hand," Russell continued calmly.
"It was really soft. A little cold, too."
"I said that was charity! Just her feeling sorry for you!"
"Oh. And I held her waist," Russell added thoughtfully.
"It was really slender. You know that?"
"You—! All you can do is brag about this kind of thing. Besides that, what do you even have worth showing off?"
"She was waiting for me."
---
"You—!"
**[Timmy Roy has lost his composure. Malice Value +70]**
Timmy Roy could no longer contain the fury boiling in his chest. He lunged forward and grabbed Russell by the collar.
In an instant, all eyes in the hall snapped toward them.
Timmy Roy no longer cared. He clutched Russell's collar tightly, his gaze murderous, as if he wanted to tear him apart on the spot.
"I'd say starting a fight in public isn't very classy, Mr. Roy," Russell said, still smiling.
"Can't we talk this out like civilized people?"
"Talk your—!"
**[Timmy Roy is preparing to violently assault you. Malice Value +20]**
As soon as the words left his mouth, Timmy swung a punch straight at Russell's face.
Against such a half-hearted strike, Russell merely tilted his head slightly and avoided it with ease.
*That's it?*
In his eyes, this didn't even qualify as a street brawl.
After dodging the punch, Russell grabbed Timmy's extended arm, shifted his footing, and smoothly slipped behind him.
Then he slammed Timmy's head straight down into a glass bowl filled with red wine.
"Splash—!"
Dark red liquid flooded over Timmy Roy's head, making it look as if he'd been smashed bloody.
Wine streamed down his hair, soaking the custom-made suit he'd had prepared just for tonight.
The onlookers' eyes went wide in shock.
In the corner, Charlotte—who had been watching the whole thing—finally showed a glimmer of interest, her eyes lighting up as if something *actually* entertaining had begun.
"Russell Watson!"
Timmy Roy roared and charged again like a wild beast.
Faced with the utterly unstructured attack, Russell didn't even bother to look directly at him.
He simply kept retreating—step by step—without striking back.
Using Timmy's reckless charge as cover, Russell deliberately backed toward several specific figures in the crowd.
Then, quite casually, he let the letters hidden in his pocket slip out and fall to the floor.
---
The entire sequence was smooth and natural, without the slightest hint of deliberate staging.
And it was *thorough*.
Every girl Timmy had ever flirted with got one.
Nobody came for nothing.
Once the last letter had been delivered, Russell figured it was about time. He stopped in the center of the hall.
Like a matador, he lifted a hand and beckoned Timmy Roy forward.
Timmy's eyes were bloodshot, his reason completely consumed by rage.
Like an enraged bull, he let out a roar and charged again.
The surrounding guests gasped and hurriedly retreated, clearing an even larger "arena" in the center of the hall.
**[Timmy Roy's anger has reached its peak. Malice Value +80]**
Russell's face still carried that calm, unhurried smile.
Just as Timmy's massive fist was about to smash into his face, Russell moved.
He caught Timmy Roy's arm—firmly—preventing him from advancing even an inch.
Russell didn't counterattack. He simply restrained him, no matter how violently Timmy struggled.
And then—
"Timmy? What does this letter mean? What's your relationship with Isabella?"
A confused, furious female voice suddenly rang out.
In the crowd, Annie Brown stood holding a letter she had just picked up from the floor, her face pale.
That voice was like a signal.
A second voice followed. Then a third.
Annie Brown. Isabella White. Joy Carter…
They all raised the letters in their hands.
The handwriting inside was intimate, every stroke seeming to pour out the writer's heartfelt devotion.
Under normal circumstances, such a love letter would have been enough to move any girl to tears.
*If* the name inside belonged to her—
And not to several other women.
Annie Brown tore her letter into shreds, her face dark as she stepped forward.
Under Timmy Roy's stunned gaze, the girl raised her hand.
"*Smack!*"
A sharp slap rang out—
Like the drumbeat announcing the opening of the second act.