Russell didn't so much as flinch.
He even raised the lipstick in front of his face with exaggerated solemnity, as though admiring a fine piece of art.
"If I say yes, Miss Morstan, will you be generous enough to gift it to me?"
His voice carried a smile. Filtered through the mask, it sounded faintly distorted—playful, teasing.
"That won't do," Mary shook her head lightly. "This lipstick is expensive. I only use it for important occasions."
"Not even on account of me returning your brooch?"
"Stealing someone's property and then returning it isn't exactly praiseworthy," Mary said coolly.
"And climbing into a lady's bedroom through the window is generally classified as harassment, not a greeting, Mr. Moriarty."
"That only means whoever coined the definition lacks imagination." Russell shrugged and, under her watchful eyes, slipped the lipstick into his pocket.
"I believe I just said you can't have it."
"I know."
"Then you still put it in your pocket—openly?"
"Whether you're willing to give it to me has nothing to do with whether I decide to take it," Russell replied, sounding perfectly righteous.
Mary's smile stalled for a fraction of a second.
How could someone be this shameless?
[Mary Morstan finds your brazen behavior absurd — Malice +50]
Good. She's irritated.
Russell couldn't help laughing.
"It seems, Mr. Gentleman Thief—so famous within Scotland Yard—your understanding of ethics and the rule of law is missing some very basic fundamentals."
Mary finished the tea in her cup in one clean drink. The warmth slid down her throat, chasing away the chill in her body.
Then she stepped into the room while speaking, and closed the door behind her.
Click.
The sound of the lock falling into place rang sharply in the quiet.
Russell remained where he was, with no intention of running. If anything, he looked entertained, hands tucked lazily as he watched Mary approach step by measured step.
Under his gaze, she bent slightly, picked up a cane resting near the vanity, and with deft ease spun it in her hand as if flourishing a blade.
The tip of the cane leveled straight at him.
"If you don't mind, shall I provide you with a bit of the most basic education?" Mary asked. "The process may be somewhat painful."
Russell raised his brows, glancing between the girl and the "weapon" in her hand.
To be fair, she didn't look like a decorative aristocrat.
Just the two casual motions she'd made—Russell was confident he couldn't replicate them.
That was at least two or three years of proper self-defense training.
Still, if she thought this would make him afraid, she was underestimating him.
"To be taught one-on-one by the Morstan family's young lady—why, that's an opportunity countless noble sons would beg for," he said lightly, completely ignoring the cane pointed at his face and dancing shamelessly on Mary's every boundary.
"Would the beautiful, elegant Miss Mary Morstan be so kind as to teach me how to become someone like you?"
He paused, then added with deliberate sweetness—
"A… social darling who can charm anyone?"
The moment that last phrase drifted from Russell's lips, the air in the room seemed to freeze solid.
The faint, almost-smile on Mary's face vanished.
In its place appeared a coldness so sharp it felt absolute.
In the depths of those Aegean-blue eyes, something like a storm began to gather.
The cane in her hand trembled slightly, the tip moving closer—so close Russell could almost feel the metallic chill through the mask.
[Mary Morstan is intensely angered by your insulting remark — Malice +100]
There it is. The big one.
Russell was delighted on the inside. On the outside, he wore the same playful, suicidal expression as ever.
He even leaned forward, bringing his face nearer to the cane's tip, as if inviting her to punch straight through his mask.
"What's wrong, Miss Morstan? You don't look very happy. Did I say something incorrect?"
He lowered his voice, feigning innocence with a tone steeped in provocation.
"If I apologize, would you feel better?"
"Apologize?"
Mary repeated the word. She didn't step back, and she didn't strike immediately.
She simply stared at him—hard—like she meant to see through the mask and drag his true face into the light.
"If apologies worked," she said, "what would Scotland Yard be for, Mr. Moriarty?"
"On the off chance they do?" Russell spread his hands. "Ladies are always magnanimous, aren't they?"
With every extra word he spoke, the temperature in Mary's eyes dropped—and his Malice Points climbed.
[Mary Morstan has reached the limit of her patience with your behavior — Malice +150]
The jackpot is still growing.
Mary stopped speaking. But the pressure in the room sank low enough to suffocate.
Then—no warning, no flourish, no wasted motion—
The cane became a streak of silver, snapping in from a vicious angle and striking for the wrist of the hand holding the lipstick.
Fast. Ruthless. Precise.
The speed was beyond Russell's expectations—yet before the blow could land, he rolled away, widening the distance between them.
Not because his reflexes were miraculous—
But because the instant Mary moved, the system prompt sounded in his mind again.
[Mary Morstan intends to attack you — Malice +100]
That single alert bought him the fraction of time he needed.
If he'd taken the hit head-on, it would have hurt. A lot.
"You don't even say hello before swinging—where's your chivalry?" Russell called out mid-dodge, still finding time to needle her.
"Why would you discuss chivalry with a lady?" Mary replied, her hands never pausing. The cane hissed through the air again and again—each strike cutting a clean line of force—yet each time Russell escaped by a hair's breadth.
"I can see it now, Mr. Moriarty," Mary said, her voice stripped of emotion.
"You're not lacking in common sense. You're not lacking in etiquette."
"You're simply… begging for a beating."
As the last word fell, Mary's footwork shifted sharply.
She stopped throwing broad swings. Instead, she stepped in close.
The cane in her hand moved like a serpent, flicking, stabbing, tapping—every point and thrust precisely sealing off Russell's possible routes.
Her offense tightened into a net.
And Russell was the trapped animal inside it.
"Tch. You really don't hold back," Russell complained, even as his body twisted and slid through spaces measured in millimeters.
Each "near miss" was perfectly timed—just enough to avoid the cane's bite.
He looked like a clown dancing on a blade's edge: awkward, frantic, yet never truly wounded.
All thanks to the system's outrageously unfair warnings.
[Mary Morstan intends to strike your left shoulder — Malice +20]
[Mary Morstan intends to sweep your legs — Malice +30]
[Mary Morstan's patience is running out — Malice +50]
Listening to the steady, pleasant "accounting" in his head, Russell felt excellent.
He even had time to observe the room's layout, calculating which angle of escape would look the most stylish once he decided to leave.
Then the system chimed again.
[Mary Morstan is preparing to pierce your kidney — Malice +150]
…What?
Russell's pupils contracted violently.
Isn't that a little too far?!
Had she snapped that hard?
-------
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