But Timmy cut himself off, standing there dumbstruck.
He stared at the man in front of him: black-rimmed glasses, an expressionless face, and—not a trace of anger.
Wasn't this him...?
The build was familiar, but something felt off. In fact, the instant the man turned to face him, Timmy felt as though something profound had abruptly shifted—his own eyes and mind couldn't trust what they were perceiving.
Gone was the guy from his memory who always bristled with defiance and pride.
Instead, he was faced by the most ordinary of city clerks: dull-eyed, with an apathetic manner, like a minor functionary destined to spend his life shuffling paperwork.
"Um, can I help you?"
Russell (now, 'Clark Kent') pushed up his glasses, his tone meek and sycophantic, utterly devoid of his usual charm.
[Ordinary Black-Rimmed Glasses: Just ordinary glasses, but when you wear them, nobody can recognize your true identity. Not even Superman. Remaining uses: 2 (Removes effect when taken off).]
Timmy's frown deepened. The voice was wrong too. Was it really not him?
"Why were you here?" Timmy demanded warily.
"I... just finished work. I'm waiting here—for my wife, so we can go home together," Russell answered, eyes darting evasively, acting the very model of a timid, browbeaten commoner questioned by the authorities.
"Work? You work around here?" Timmy asked, looking at the upscale surroundings. There was no way a company would hire someone like this here.
"No, no, not here," Russell waved his hands urgently.
"I work at the Daily News as a typesetter. Today, I was sent to interview Viscount Armand—he lives nearby—about his antique clock collection."
As he spoke, he pulled out a battered press pass from his pocket, speaking in a voice full of conviction.
[Customizable Business Card: Shape your identity as needed. Become whoever you want, for just 50 points!]
Change your identity as the moment demands.
Timmy accepted the press card. It was old, the ink faded, issued by the Daily Chronicle—a third-rate tabloid known for covering gossip and celebrity scandals, so trashy it was considered beneath toilet paper.
He returned the card, some skepticism remaining, but most of his anger replaced by disbelief.
Did I really misread?
But that familiar, maddening feeling in his gut wouldn't go away.
"What's your name?" Timmy prodded, hoping to catch him out.
"It's written right on the card: Clark Kent..." Russell stammered.
"Clark Kent...?"
Timmy pondered the name, suspicion shifting toward embarrassment.
Behind him, even the guards exchanged confused glances, wondering why their young master was harassing such an obviously honest stranger.
"Young master, are you sure you're not mistaking him for someone else?" a guard whispered.
"Silence," Timmy snapped.
He circled Russell twice, scrutinizing everything from his cheap baseball cap to the frayed cuffs of his battered jacket, to the muddy, worn-out shoes.
Everything was perfectly plausible.
He looked exactly like another struggling member of London's underclass—plain, timid, and helplessly shabby.
This was nothing like the defiant, proud Russell Watson who had stood up to him at school, let alone the one who'd walked beside Mary Morstan.
[Timmy Roy begins doubting his own judgment. Malice level +10.]
Russell, inside, was almost laughing, but outwardly he maintained his humble, ingratiating expression.
"Sir, if there's nothing else—may I go...?" he asked in a pleading tone, clutching his newspaper against his chest.
"My wife is waiting for me... she isn't well..."
This pitiful display finally dispelled the last of Timmy's doubts.
Impossible.
No way it's him.
Russell Watson might be an underhanded bumpkin, but he had the tenacity and pride of wild grass.
Even if forced into a corner, he'd never stoop to groveling like this.
"Get lost," Timmy waved his hand, as if shooing a pesky fly. He couldn't bear to spend another second in such company.
"Thank you, thank you!"
Russell, feeling like he'd just been pardoned, bowed repeatedly and hurried away like a startled mouse, disappearing into the crowd at the corner without a backward glance.
Timmy Roy stood there watching the direction Russell had vanished, his expression so dark it was practically dripping.
"Young Master?"
The guard stepped forward again.
"Nothing," Timmy waved irritably, though his bad mood only worsened.
Maybe the stress is getting to me and everyone's starting to look like Russell Watson...
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became, and he silently blamed Russell for all his woes.
"Let's go," he muttered, spinning on his heel to return home. The heavy, carved gates shut ominously behind him.
[Timmy Roy is now taking out his paranoia on you. Malice level +20.]
Meanwhile, Russell, now safe, rounded the corner and, seeing no one tailing him, slowed his pace. He slipped off the black-rimmed glasses, exhaling a long sigh.
"That was close," he muttered, pocketing the precious glasses with care.
For a thief like him, that was the most dangerous brush with exposure he'd ever had—if his secret identity was ever uncovered, his student life would be over.
They're expensive, but these glasses are invaluable—too bad you can only buy them three times with 200 malice points each, unless you want to drop 5,000 for a permanent version. Not even a landowner can afford that much surplus grain.
Still, his mission was successful—he'd gathered enough information, and was ready to act in a few days.
Whistling, he made for the tram platform.
…
By the time he returned to 221B Baker Street, London was fully wrapped in night. Mrs. Hudson had dinner ready; upon Russell's return, she immediately began her usual chiding about young people always needing to be out and about.
Russell smiled and sat down at the table. The dinner atmosphere was warm, cozy. Even Charlotte, uncharacteristically, sat at the dining table rather than staying holed up in her room. She seemed no more interested in her surroundings than usual but methodically cut up her food with knife and fork.
Halfway through dinner, Charlotte suddenly spoke.
"I've changed my mind."
"Hmm?" Russell looked up from his sausage.
She stared at him for a second, then took out the invitation again.
"I've decided to have a look at this so-called icebreaker party."
…