"What do you mean?"
Russell frowned. "Whether he confesses has nothing to do with whether there's evidence."
"A slow-acting poison is difficult to tie to an act of poisoning with direct proof. If he refuses to confess, Lestrade can hold him for at most two days," Charlotte explained, her tone even.
"So the problem now is simple: how do we make him confess?"
"Sorry. That's not something I can help with. Psychology isn't my major."
Russell set the file down, his eyes drifting to the photograph of the unfinished painting.
At its center was a burning sunset—so intensely saturated it seemed ready to spill off the canvas. It was vivid, frantic, radiant in a way that felt like the last flare of life at the end of the world.
For some reason, the painting felt… off.
He even felt that the apprentice's grief didn't seem fake.
A man who murdered his teacher for money ought to show greed and fear in his eyes—not that kind of emptiness, like a world collapsing into a void.
Maybe it was because he'd lived with the system for too long, but he'd developed a beastlike instinct for malice in people.
In any case, it had nothing to do with him.
Confession or no confession—either way, it wasn't his business.
Russell withdrew his gaze, left Charlotte's room, and shut out the air next door—an unsettling blend of chemical reagents and eccentric genius.
He collapsed onto his bed, exhausted in a way he hadn't felt in years.
The last time had been when he was cramming all night to get into Imperial College.
At this point, the best solution was obvious: sleep first. Recover. Tonight he still had to make another trip to the Morstan residence and return the brooch.
—
Russell was awakened by a burst of frantic violin.
It sounded like a pack of drunk cats brawling in an alley—no structure, all irritation and violence.
He sat up, rubbed his bleary eyes, and didn't need to guess where the noise came from.
The great detective next door was having trouble with her suspect.
Russell glanced out the window. The sky was already approaching dusk; orange-red light washed over London's rooftops, gilding them in gentle gold.
He stretched, and his stomach chose that moment to growl.
He hadn't eaten dinner yet, but something mattered more than dinner.
Professional ethics.
A gentleman thief who broke his word wasn't fit to be a gentleman thief.
He pulled his gear from the hidden compartment under the bed and changed with practiced efficiency.
In the mirror, the lazy university freshman Russell vanished, replaced by a figure in black, a white mask hiding his face.
The gentleman thief: Moriarty.
He opened the window. Night air, slightly cold, poured in.
The noise of Baker Street fell away, becoming the river of lights beneath his feet.
Russell moved like a nimble night cat across the rooftops, and within minutes he disappeared into London's deep, settling darkness.
—
The Morstan residence.
Unlike last night's quiet, tonight felt… too quiet.
Russell crouched atop a clock tower across the street, observing his target through binoculars purchased from the system.
The mansion was brightly lit. Everything looked normal. There was no sign of reinforced security after being visited by a gentleman thief.
That wasn't normal.
But after their encounter during the day, Russell could confirm one thing:
Mary Morstan wasn't normal either.
Straight-A student. Social butterfly. Cultured, poised duke's daughter—those were only masks meant to fool other people.
What did that have to do with him, a law-abiding gentleman returning lost property?
Return the brooch. Go home. Sleep.
Even if it was a trap—so what?
Fortune favors the bold.
You can be as mysterious as you like; you're still not more mysterious than my magical assortment of tools.
Do you understand the value of smoke that seals information, leaves no trace, and lets me "blink" through obstacles?
With that thought, Russell stopped hesitating.
He adjusted his angle and used a grappling gun purchased from the shop to move between buildings without a sound. Like a ghost, he slipped into the Morstan grounds.
This time, he had no intention of going back to the collection room.
If he was going to chase excitement, he might as well commit all the way.
He was headed somewhere more private.
Mary Morstan's bedroom.
Following the layout map, he avoided patrolling servants with ease. His silhouette melted into the shadows of the estate until he reached an ornate French window carved with delicate patterns.
Second floor. A small door leading to a balcony.
From here, he could enter Mary's room.
Russell produced a thin silver pick and slipped it into the lock.
Sleight of Hand (C+): Activate.
Click.
A sound so faint it barely existed.
The lock opened.
Russell eased the glass door aside and slipped inside.
A cool fragrance met him—white tea mixed with ink—nothing like the stale, heavy air of the collection room.
The room was large, yet unexpectedly minimalist.
A massive bookshelf covered one entire wall, crammed with books in multiple languages—from classical philosophy to the latest mechanical engineering texts. A chaotic, intimidating breadth.
The vanity held no glittering heap of jewelry. Only several bottles of clearly expensive skincare and a small, elegant lamp.
A few oil paintings hung on the walls—works he didn't understand but assumed were costly. The style felt oddly familiar.
Everything was tasteful.
Everything was also strangely cold—far too cold for a girl her age.
Russell had no time to admire it.
He walked to the vanity, took the brooch from his pocket, and set it on the tabletop.
Then he looked around. After a moment, he picked up a lipstick and started to write on a sheet of white paper he'd prepared.
He had brought a pen. But Russell thought using lipstick would probably make her angrier.
So he deliberately chose one that looked the reddest—and the most expensive.
He hadn't even begun the first stroke when slow, unhurried footsteps sounded behind him.
Russell's hand paused. He turned toward the doorway.
The newcomer made no attempt to hide their steps. The approach was calm—like an owner returning to her own territory.
Trouble.
Russell thought that instinctively.
Then he corrected himself.
No. He was the intruder.
So what now—run?
His eyes flicked to the window.
If he left right now, he could still get away.
But… did he need to?
He hadn't harvested any malice yet. If he ran without getting paid, this trip would be pointless.
That would not do.
He was a gentleman thief. Was he supposed to "avoid her edge"?
Absolutely not.
So he stayed where he was, like the true master of the room, waiting for the footsteps to arrive.
Then Mary Morstan appeared in the doorway.
She had already changed out of her daytime freshman uniform. She wore a silk nightgown, her silver hair loose over her shoulders.
Less of the day's cool restraint.
More of the night's languid danger.
She wasn't holding a gun—only a cup of steaming red tea. On her face was a smile that was almost a smile, but not quite.
"Good evening, Mr. Moriarty," she said softly, her eyes dropping to the lipstick in Russell's hand.
"It seems that even a gentleman thief of your reputation has a bit of a girlish heart?"
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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