The pure white mask fit perfectly over his originally calm face, hiding his deep black eyes and the last trace of pity left in this world.
On the contrary, there was something about it that made one's soul tremble.
The wind howled. The one standing before you now was none other than a demon.
The wind and snow on this rainy day seemed to have changed direction at this very moment. The assassin's pupils contracted instantly, and the veins on the back of the hand gripping the gun bulged.
Without the slightest hesitation and without uttering a single unnecessary word, he relied solely on the instincts he had cultivated through years of life-and-death struggles and pulled the trigger without delay.
The suppressed pistol emitted a muffled sound, and the flash from the muzzle vanished into the swirling snow.
However, the howling bullet only pierced through the black double-breasted coat, leaving behind a fleeting afterimage in the wind.
Amid the wind and snow, the phantom thief's figure had already disappeared.
The assassin's heart froze. The sensation of being targeted by an apex predator instantly ran through his entire body.
But he did not lose his composure. The moment Russell vanished, he stomped hard on the ground, lowered his body, and drew a military dagger from his sleeve with his left hand.
There was no escape route. The only option left was a fight to the death.
He suddenly turned around and, relying on instinct, fired a blind shot toward the darkest shadow on the left where the snow was deepest. At the same time, he lunged forward like a taut spring. The dagger traced an arc as it thrust toward the faintly visible figure in the snow.
His movements were precise and efficient, without the slightest hesitation.
Even if he had been facing a Scotland Yard detective or a battle-hardened soldier, he would have been confident of victory.
Unfortunately, he was facing a ghost-like phantom thief.
"Smack."
With a sudden, faint sound, the fatal blow that should have succeeded stopped abruptly just three inches (about 7.6 cm) away from the black coat and could advance no further.
Amid the swirling snow, a black-gloved hand—its knuckles clearly protruding like an iron clamp—effortlessly grabbed the wrist holding the knife.
"Not bad."
There was a faint note of admiration in the voice beneath the mask, as though the speaker was genuinely praising a work of art.
"Swiss-made, hand-forged, blade angle of 30 degrees—suitable for both thrusting and cutting. You're quite particular."
The assassin's eyes widened.
It wasn't because the other side knew its value.
Rather, it was because Russell had only used one hand.
His right hand had remained hanging at his side from beginning to end, never moving.
With just a light twist of his wrist, an irresistible, terrifying force instantly coiled around the assassin's arm.
"Snap!"
With a sickening sound of breaking bone, the assassin's right wrist was twisted at an unbearable angle.
"Guh—!"
The assassin let out a groan of pain, but at the same time, the pistol slipped from his hand. He caught it effortlessly with his uninjured left hand. Enduring the intense pain, he pressed the muzzle against Russell's chest. As a desperate criminal, he was truly ruthless.
However, Russell was faster. Enhanced by the phantom thief's attire, his physical abilities far surpassed those of an ordinary person. In the blizzard, the hem of his coat fluttered. Without even glancing at the gun, Russell slid his left foot across the ice with the elegance of death itself. He shifted his body slightly, and the moment he dodged the gun, his knee—already fully charged—slammed into the assassin's abdomen.
"Bang!"
It was as though a carriage charging at full speed had collided head-on with their bodies. In the silent snow, the sound of ribs breaking could be clearly heard.
The air and fighting spirit that had accumulated in his chest were completely shattered by this knee strike.
His body collapsed uncontrollably. He could no longer hold the gun. The pistol fell powerlessly onto the thick snow.
But the punishment did not end there.
Just as he fell to the ground, unable to endure the intense pain, Russell's hand—the same one that had just broken his wrist—reached out, grabbed his throat, and with a sudden burst of strength, lifted the similarly robust adult male with one arm and hurled him forward.
"Bang!"
The assassin was slammed violently against the ice-covered brick wall at the street corner.
The tremendous impact caused the entire wall to shake dully. The accumulated snow cascaded down like a waterfall, instantly enveloping the two men in a cloud of white dust. The assassin's body slid limply down the snow like a lump of mud. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose, staining the pure white snow like vivid red plum blossoms.
"Don't kill me… don't kill me…" he gasped, his voice barely audible, as though fragments of bone were embedded in his lungs. "Please, just spare my life…"
Hearing this, Russell crouched down to meet his gaze.
"Reason?"
He asked. "You saw my face, yet you still tried to kill my subordinate. Is there any reason for me to spare your life?"
"There's a letter in my pocket… on the left side."
The assassin said painfully.
Hearing this, Russell reached into the coat pocket and indeed found a piece of paper inside.
He took it out and unfolded it. It was high-quality stationery with a very short message written on it.
Just one sentence:
[Prevent the meeting between Charlotte Holmes and Charles Brown.]
It was clearly a letter sent to him by Mary, and he had intended to use it as a bargaining chip to buy his own life.
Moreover, this fool seemed to have misunderstood something. There were many ways to stop it, yet he had chosen the method that would lead to the most severe consequences.
Three days ago, Russell might have considered it. It was like a one-million-pound lottery ticket that could still be cashed three days ago, but he had waited until after the redemption period had passed before trying to cash it. What was the point?
Now, the only use for this item was probably to engage in some strange coercive play with Mary.
Russell quietly stared at the letter in his hand. It had seemed irreplaceable, but at this moment, it felt completely worthless.
Amid the swirling snowflakes, the pure white mask hid an expressionless face.
"You're three days late."
He said in a low voice, but still tucked it into his pocket.
The assassin's pupils widened in despair. Every time he gasped for air, a wheezing sound escaped from his punctured lung. With every breath, an intense pain like being cut by a knife assaulted him.
"They all say… you can't kill people…" he spat blood while staring at the black-clad man who resembled the Grim Reaper. Rumor had it that he was the phantom thief who roamed London's nights, acting as he pleased but never killing anyone.
This was his final trump card—the only lifeline he could grasp.
"You're right."
Russell neither confirmed nor denied it. "I really don't like doing that sort of thing."
He looked down at the man, watching the waves of malice only he could see surging toward him.
"Three of your ribs are broken, and one of the fragments has punctured your left lung."
"The temperature is minus four degrees. If you lie here without moving, unless someone kind happens to pass by and help you, you'll die of hypothermia within twenty minutes."
"Unfortunately, this area isn't residential, so no one will pass by for the next week."
The voice beneath the mask was completely devoid of inflection, as though he were reading an insignificant report.
"I won't kill you. If you can wait until a kind person comes before you freeze to death, then you're not fated to die."
"Do your best while you're still alive and have time."
With that, he turned away decisively without looking at the man again and walked quietly toward the corner of the road through the deep snow.
Just as he raised his hand to remove the mask, a slender figure in a dark gray coat suddenly appeared in his field of vision amid the wind and snow. The thick towel beneath the black deerstalker hat swayed slightly in the wind, but the blowing snow could not hide those sharp eyes.
Charlotte Holmes.
She leaned against the wall like an audience member who had just finished watching a performance, her gaze fixed on the phantom thief who had emerged from the alley.
"A magnificent action scene."
Charlotte said, "It seems you didn't pay any attention at Buckingham Palace, did you?"
"Friendship first, competition second."
Russell shrugged.
"I thought you'd already reached the gates of North Hill Sanatorium by now."
"Either way, there's no rush."
Charlotte straightened her posture and walked toward Russell one step at a time.
"I can see Charles Brown anytime, but a spectacle this grand isn't something you can see whenever you want."
She stopped just half a step away from Russell. "I believe I told you before we left that you didn't need to come with me."
She raised her chin and stared at the mask.
"I remember your answer was 'Okay.'"
Russell met her gaze without changing his expression.
Hearing this, Charlotte let out a small snort.
"Just now, someone was saying… that the person who tried to kill was…?"
She smiled faintly and looked at Russell with a slightly mocking gaze.
"Who is your subordinate?"
"Charlotte, having such good ears isn't always a good thing."
Russell said while trying to hide the somewhat forced expression beneath the white mask.
"Really? Did you enjoy what happened in the bedroom last night?"
Charlotte countered with a question.
"You could hear that?"
Russell's eyes widened. "What kind of ears do you have?"
"How could I have heard that? It's just a guess."
Charlotte's eyes turned cold. "Did you really do it?"
"Um… would you believe me if I said I didn't finish in the end?"
Charlotte crossed her arms and stared at Russell in front of her.
"Did I say your taste in masks was the worst?"
"What did the white mask do to you?!"
Russell said indignantly, then began spouting a series of nonsense about fundamental logic.
"So, are you going to take it off? Or not?"
She asked, then reached out and touched the cold edge of the mask with her fingertips.
"Or should I do it myself?"
Russell sighed but didn't stop her.
Without hesitation, Charlotte firmly grasped the bottom edge of the pure white mask with her fingers.
With a light press of her fingertips, the cold mask was pushed upward and positioned above Russell's high nose bridge. Then, his clearly defined jawline appeared.
"This looks better."
Charlotte said.
"So, are you planning to leave him there?"
She was referring to the assassin.
"In this situation, he won't survive more than thirty minutes."
"He knows too much."
Russell stated this in a calm yet undeniable tone.
"I thought you had an aversion to killing."
Charlotte raised one eyebrow.
"Think carefully about what you're saying. Why would it be my fault if he froze to death?"
Russell shrugged.
"Besides, the moment he pointed a gun at you, he was already as good as dead to me."
Hearing this, Charlotte's lips curved slightly, then she turned around.
"Let's go."
"Are we going back to the sanatorium?"
Russell quickly followed.
"What else?"
Charlotte countered with a question.
"Even after taking off the mask?"
"One at a time."
Charlotte said, "There's a difference between seeing the answer directly and deriving the process yourself."
"Understood, understood. You decide."
He shrugged and silently followed her.
The two continued walking until they finally reached the entrance of the sanatorium.
"I'm not going in."
Russell said, "I'll wait here."
Charlotte furrowed her brows. "I don't know when I'll be able to get out. Aren't you afraid of freezing to death?"
"Then when the time comes, you can warm me up with your body heat."
"..."
The girl's cheeks flushed, and she retaliated by kicking Russell before turning around and hurriedly entering the sanatorium.
Russell watched her retreating figure, smiled, and found a place to hide.
He didn't know how much time had passed, but just as Russell was trying to attach eyes to the snowman in front of him using stones he had picked up somewhere, Charlotte's voice suddenly rang out from behind him.
"Are you that free?"
She stood at the entrance, watching Russell make the snowman helplessly.
Hearing this, Russell brushed the snow off his gloves and turned around to look at Charlotte standing on the steps.
"I'm just killing time."
He stared at the somewhat comical snowman, placed the last two small black stones on its round head, and walked over.
"How was it?"
"He's been in a fairly decent state the whole time, as long as you don't cause any trouble."
Charlotte said in a calm tone.
"If I had known it would turn out like this, I wouldn't have brought you along from the beginning. The case would have been resolved much faster."
"The result seems to have come out very smoothly."
Russell said.
The two continued down the slope. Since carriages couldn't climb this section, they had to return to where Charlotte had gotten off.
"So, does Charles Brown remember the code?"
On the way, Russell thought of something again and asked.
"He just remembered."
Charlotte nodded.
"What is it?"
Russell asked curiously.
"890725"
Charlotte said. "I've always suspected it was the death anniversary of Arthur Morstan's wife, but just when we were one step away from the truth, someone always barged in and caused a commotion."
She said this, then glared at Russell.
"Should I tell Mycroft about your relationship with Mary?"
"Give it up. He'll kill me."
Russell chuckled twice.
"That's good information."
Charlotte said. "Now your life and death are in my hands."
"Please, Miss Holmes, have mercy."
Russell smiled.
"It depends on your performance, you two."
Charlotte's lips curved slightly upward.
"If she makes me angry again, I'll have Scotland Yard arrest her."
The two continued down the snowy road, taking the opportunity to check on the assassin's condition as well.
To Russell's surprise, he hadn't died in the sub-zero temperatures.
Perhaps to avoid further pain, after Russell left, he had picked up the dagger that had fallen on the ground and cleanly slit his own throat.
Bright red bloodstains splattered across the white snow, resembling vividly blooming red plum blossoms.
"He's dead."
Charlotte said.
"Yes, he's dead."
Russell nodded. "Suicide."
"So, what are you going to do? Leave him here?"
Charlotte asked.
"I don't think there's any problem leaving him here. Besides, in this weather, no one will walk on this road for a week."
Russell said this, then looked at Charlotte.
"It would affect the city's scenery."
"So what do you think we should do?"
"I didn't kill him."
Charlotte shrugged.
"He clearly committed suicide."
When Russell said this, Charlotte's eyes widened as she looked around.
"Let's find a place to hide him first. This kind of thing requires professional help."
She said.
"For example, there's a young woman named Morstan."
When they finally reached the bottom of the slope, one carriage was already lightly covered in snow.
The coachman was stamping his feet, exhaling white steam as he spun in place. His eyelashes were covered in frost.
"Ah, what a relief! Miss Holmes, you finally made it back!"
The coachman was so moved he looked as though he was about to cry.
"This is…" He looked at Russell with a puzzled expression.
"We're heading in the same direction."
Russell smiled and said. "You can take me too. I'll pay for two people."
"Understood, understood, understood."
The coachman tacitly refrained from asking any further questions and quickly opened the carriage door.
"Please get in, everyone. We're heading back to Baker Street."
The carriage door slammed shut, blocking out the howling wind and snow of the rainy day.
In the narrow space, the cold air hadn't completely dissipated, and a chilly atmosphere lingered from the seats.
The carriage slowly began moving along the snow-covered road. The only sound echoing in the space was the wheels kicking up snow.
Charlotte took off her deerstalker hat, which still had snowflakes on it, and casually set it aside. Her curls, which had been held back until now, fell down in relief, exuding a slightly disheveled beauty.
She exhaled and pulled her cold-reddened hands out of her coat pockets, gently rubbing them together.
"Are you cold?"
Seeing this, Russell naturally reached out and pulled those cold hands into his generous, warm embrace.
"It's fine."
Charlotte didn't pull her hands away and let him hold them, but her gaze slowly moved from their clasped hands upward, finally resting on Russell's face, which appeared even deeper in the dim light and shadows.
"So, Mr. Moriarty."
She suddenly spoke. There was a faint note of mockery in her voice.
"Are these the hands of a phantom thief? The ones that can break a professional assassin's wrist in an instant and come and go freely from Lloyd's Bank?"
Russell paused for a moment, then shrugged.
"Besides that, these hands are also responsible for cutting bacon, frying eggs, and maintaining the violin. Miss Holmes, do you have any objections to these hands?"
"Were these the hands that gave Mary Morstan such ecstasy?"
"...If you don't mind, I'd like you to call it a massage."
Russell said.
"Haha, a massage, is it?"
Charlotte said mockingly. "Do you think I'd believe that?"
"Then may I ask, what is the definition of a massage?"
"A physical stimulation therapy that applies specific techniques to the skin, muscles, soft tissues, meridians, or acupoints for the purpose of relaxing the mind and body, treating diseases, or promoting health."
"If I said I was giving her a massage, is there a problem?"
Russell countered with a question.
Charlotte was momentarily speechless.
"No problem," she said through gritted teeth. "Of course there's no problem."
"If there's no problem, then that's fine."
Russell said.
The moment those words were spoken, the air inside the carriage seemed to undergo an extremely subtle chemical reaction.
"Since it's just a massage, you can give me one too, right? No problem, yeah?"
Charlotte asked.
"Um…"
"What's wrong? I've been through a lot lately, and my muscles are a bit sore. Will you give me a massage?"
Charlotte stared straight into Russell's eyes.
"Or is this a privilege reserved only for Mary Morstan?"
"Of course not."
Russell smiled, then looked at Charlotte meaningfully.
"But… do you really want to do it here?"
"Who told you to do it here?"
Charlotte's eyes widened.
"Let's go back. We'll talk when we get back!"
"Understood, understood. We'll talk when we get back."
Russell avoided making a direct statement and leaned back deeply in his chair.
Then, he heard Charlotte's voice again.
"But before that..."
"Before that?"
Russell raised one eyebrow and watched as Charlotte pulled her hand out of his palm, then grabbed his collar.
"Before that——"
Charlotte's body quickly approached, and her hot breath hit his face.
"I need to collect an advance payment first."
With that, she pressed her lips against his.