Russell quietly stared into the girl's eyes.
For some reason, he saw a trace of pity and sympathy in them.
The gentleman thief—someone she should have detested—seemed to have stirred a different kind of feeling in Mary's heart.
"If he's a tool Mycroft cultivated… then why would he hand the love letter to me?" Russell asked.
"And why would he… go out of his way to provoke you?"
He really shouldn't have asked that.
But for no particular reason, Russell wanted to hear how Mary would explain it.
He wanted to know what kind of figure Moriarty was—through Mary's eyes.
"Maybe…" Mary said softly, "because the tool developed ideas of his own."
Before Russell could speak, she continued on her own.
"Moriarty is a phantom thief, a shadow, a tool—yet he's still a person, isn't he?
Maybe he gave you that letter the way you said you'd want a double-bacon sandwich—pure human impulse."
She paused, her gaze falling on Russell.
"As a phantom thief, he's lonely. And so are you.
So perhaps he saw a kindred spirit… and that's why he gave you the letter.
Even if it wasn't part of the mission. Even if it was an irrational moment of impulse."
"And you?" Russell asked.
"If what he did to me was protection… then what about the things he said to you—those insults? What were they for?"
Mary lowered her eyes. She stopped looking at Russell and instead looked at the floor—or perhaps at something else entirely.
She fell silent for a moment. Then, after a brief pause, she gave a bitter little smile and spoke quietly:
"Probably… mockery."
When the words fell, she let out a sigh.
It was so light it scattered with the air—yet Russell caught it perfectly before it vanished.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing…" Mary shook her head, her eyes turning faintly wistful. "It's just… I suddenly feel like some illusion has shattered."
"What illusion?" Russell teased with a smile. "That Moriarty is actually a performance artist?"
"Not that kind," Mary laughed too—then her voice sank again.
"I used to think Moriarty was interesting. Maybe not exactly… polite—but at least his soul was interesting."
"And now he isn't?" Russell asked.
"He isn't." Mary shook her head. "Now, in my eyes… he's become ordinary."
"Ordinary?" Russell raised a brow. "Why?"
"Mm… it's hard to describe. It's like… disappointment. A gap between expectation and reality," Mary said.
"Like someone who's never been to the city, who hears from others that the Thames is beautiful. Even in photographs, it truly looks beautiful.
But one day he finally comes into the city and sees the Thames—and realizes the surface is full of trash, and it smells awful."
She explained it plainly.
"I thought Moriarty was someone who lived as he pleased… but now I find he's only Mycroft's shadow-tool.
Everything he does has a traceable pattern—maybe even someone pulling the strings.
It's like a bird that believed it was free… only to discover it was trapped inside a cage that's merely a bit larger.
Do you think that bird is still free?"
Russell didn't answer.
That was enough.
He wasn't a philosopher, and he had no intention of dragging this into some debate about freedom and the human condition.
The purpose from the start was simple: to push Mary's thinking off course—to make her mentally separate him from the role of 'Moriarty.'
That was all.
Perhaps sensing the mood had grown heavy, Mary belatedly took a deep breath and gathered up her scattered thoughts and emotions.
In an instant, she became Miss Morstan again—seemingly flawless.
"Of course," she brightened her tone, letting the ending lift like a child joking, "even if Moriarty has become boring to me…"
"But Russell—you won't do that, right?"
She looked at him. Her Aegean-blue eyes held a teasing smile, but also seemed to hide a plea.
Please… don't become like him.
Don't become ordinary.
Don't make me bored.
Don't make me hate you.
Russell still didn't answer.
He watched the girl in front of him—watched the complicated light in those blue eyes, woven from too many emotions.
How was he supposed to answer a question like that?
How could he possibly live up to that expectation?
In an instant, a dozen replies surfaced in his mind—yet none of them felt satisfying.
Not for him. Not for her.
In the end, Russell gave up thinking.
Say whatever comes to mind. Dream-talk.
"I think being a caged bird doesn't sound so bad," he said lazily.
Mary's brows knit slightly. The Aegean Sea in her eyes seemed to be on the verge of freezing over.
"Look—every day you don't have to do anything. Someone feeds you, someone cleans up, three meals a day, no worries, and you don't even have to find a job."
He leaned back, letting warm sunlight spill over him, his face full of yearning.
"It's basically the retirement life people dream of."
Mary stared at him in silence.
Stared at that utterly shameless, dead-fish I want to lie flat forever expression…
Stared at those clear, spotless black eyes.
There was no ambition in them. No desire. Even the most basic curiosity seemed stingy.
And so, the thin layer of ice on the sea's surface shattered without a sound.
Replacing it was a helpless sigh—as if she truly couldn't do anything about him.
"I take it back," she said softly, pressing a hand to her forehead.
"You won't become ordinary."
"Because you can't even be bothered to be ordinary."
"A man who can't even be bothered to fly—how could he ever be locked in a cage?"
"But…"
This is fine.
The girl said to herself.
This is enough.
"That's good, then," Russell said, accepting the praise with perfect ease. Then he flopped back onto his desk, as if that whole "life and freedom" discussion had never happened at all.
Between them, that strange quiet returned—one outsiders couldn't intrude upon.
Only the old professor's lecture voice, like a lullaby, flowed slowly through the classroom.
A few minutes later, after Mary finished her notes, set down her pen, and—by pure habit—pushed her notes in front of Russell, she seemed to remember something.
"By the way," she asked softly, looking at Russell as he slowly sat up, "what was it you were about to say to me earlier?"
....
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