This newcomer was backlit, near-blinding golden sunlight outlining a tall, slim silhouette. She looked like she might be late, but showed not the faintest hint of regret, striding straight into the hall.
In her wake, the sunlight swept into the shadowy corner, letting Russell see the newcomer clearly—a young woman even more striking than Mary.
Her slightly wavy, black hair hung loosely at her shoulders, a few stray locks sticking to her pale cheeks. Instead of the standard uniform, she wore an oversized brown trench coat, clearly not her size. Her eyes were an unusual grayish blue.
Paying no mind to anyone's plans to escape, she scanned the hall in a rapid, practiced sweep, as if calculating silently all she saw—from ceiling height to seat layout to emotions on faces.
At last, her gaze froze on Russell, catching him mid-escape.
If locking eyes with Mary was like tumbling into an ice cavern, meeting this woman's stare was like being scanned by a high-powered x-ray.
"Is this your first time? Looking for a seat?" Russell asked, breaking the awkward silence.
The woman didn't answer. She cocked her head, gazed at him a moment with those storm-grey eyes, then sat boldly down at his side.
So much for running away.
Russell sighed and quietly withdrew his foot, sitting up straight like the very model of an attentive student.
This uninvited arrival had the effect of tossing a boulder into a calm pond.
Suddenly, every bored student in the back rows stared at Russell out of curiosity. He felt horribly exposed.
Meanwhile, the woman next to him didn't seem to notice. She slouched back, legs crossed, surveying the hall with a detective's eye—lacking any curiosity or awe a new student should have.
No, not police.
A detective. That was it.
Russell scowled, unable to explain why that word popped into his mind. But everything about her screamed "detective" rather than "cop".
As he pondered, the woman suddenly turned to him.
"You're nervous."
It wasn't a question, just a statement.
"Uh?" Russell hesitated, then forced a smile. "No, it's just a bit warm."
"Since I sat down, your left index finger has unconsciously tapped your thigh eleven times. That's a common physiological response in anxious states."
She spoke fast and clear, as though reading off a report.
"Also, the soles of your shoes bear traces of the coal-dust-and-clay mix unique to the back alleys of Baker Street, and your left pant leg has a half-dried water stain—meaning you stepped in a puddle on your way out. From evaporation, you left home about an hour and fifteen minutes ago. It only takes 40 minutes on foot from Baker Street. Most likely, you lingered purposely to take a back-row seat. Your posture is tense, gaze flicking between the doors and the podium."
"Conclusion—you were planning to slip out early."
Russell gaped. As he tried to process, the woman put the finishing touch:
"Russell Watson."
Damn it!
His mind went blank, chilled as if his blood had frozen.
Apart from meeting his system face-to-face, this was the most supernatural moment in his nineteen years of rebirth.
The woman ignored his shock and carried on.
"You live at 221B Baker Street. Your hobbies are late-night mischief and pointless pranks.
There's some ink stains at your cuff, but your finger joints are clean—so you rarely do much writing. Still, for all that, your logic isn't bad. Judging by that knit brow, my arrival clearly disrupted your escape plans. Before I apologize, I'd like to check—did I get anything wrong?"
Her logical, punctuation-perfect deductions left Russell lost for words.
Was there a problem here?
It was spot on.
Should he give her a prize?
"How... how did you know?" Russell forced a weak smile.
This amused the woman; her lips curled ever so slightly.
"Just basic observation and deduction," she replied blandly. "Let's start from the simplest—the name."
She nodded at his chest, "It's on your nametag, Russell Watson."
Russell glanced down; sure enough, his nametag, which he'd forgotten about, was dangling from his chest.
"And the address?" he prompted.
"When I moved in, Mrs. Hudson told me all about you. That the tenant next door at 221B is a lazy prankster, yet somewhat handsome."
She let her gaze linger on Russell's face for two seconds. "She's exactly right in every regard."
"..."
"There's one more thing," she added, her tone clear but bored.
"People who get interrupted while trying to escape a boring lecture will always display certain subtle expressions and body language. There's a persistent consistency."
"...."
Russell didn't know what to say. The woman's deductions left him so disoriented, he barely remembered Mary Morstan at all.
He had only one thought—
Whose assistant is this?
"Charlotte Holmes," the woman introduced herself, "Your new neighbor and classmate."
The name gave Russell a start, but then relief.
Oh, Sherlock Holmes.
Of course—
Charlotte... Holmes?!
…