Russell entered the bedroom again and stopped in front of the massive oak wardrobe.
This time, he didn't bother tapping the wall. Instead, he pretended to be studying the woodwork itself.
"Truly remarkable craftsmanship, ma'am." As he spoke, he let his fingertips drift across the elaborate Baroque carvings. "Was this wardrobe left behind by your husband?"
"No, no." The old woman shook her head. "When I moved in, it was already here. It was so heavy my husband and I never tried to move it—and honestly, it's in a good spot."
"It really is," Russell nodded. "In every sense of the word."
His fingers slid along the grooves, unhurried, casual—until they landed on that inconspicuous, slightly recessed flower center.
Then, with the pad of his finger, he pressed inward.
There was no dramatic click of a spring mechanism.
Just as Professor Fields had said: the sound was as faint as a lady's sigh.
"What is it, dear?" Mrs. Joy asked when she saw him staring at the wardrobe.
"Oh, nothing, ma'am." Russell straightened with a bright smile. "Everything's fine."
He didn't linger.
After confirming every hypothesis, he politely took his leave and promised the problem would be resolved soon.
The old woman walked him to the door, insisting on stuffing a bag of her homemade biscuits into his hands, telling him to be careful on the way.
Russell didn't refuse her kindness. Holding the bag—still warm—he went down the stairs under her benevolent gaze.
Only after he heard the door close behind him did he turn around at a leisurely pace, go back up the stairs, and re-enter Holly David's apartment.
He walked straight to the phone table, picked up the receiver, and prepared to report the results to Charlotte.
But when he dialed, the expected sound never came.
There was only dead silence.
As Russell frowned in confusion, the corner of his eye caught something beside the phone.
He bent down, picked up a black cable, and examined it between his fingers.
It was a phone line.
More precisely—a phone line that had been cut.
And ten minutes ago, it had been intact.
"Breaking into someone's home is already illegal," Russell said, letting the severed cable fall back to the floor as he set the receiver down again. "Now you've added property damage."
"This is an extra charge, Mr. Ghost."
No response.
As if he were talking to himself.
Russell wasn't in a hurry.
He strolled to the center of the living room, pulled up a chair, and sat down with idle ease, one leg crossed over the other.
His posture was so relaxed, you'd think this was his own home.
He opened the bag of biscuits Mrs. Joy had given him, pinched one between his fingers, and popped it into his mouth.
The aroma of milk and butter, paired with the sweetness of sugar, spread perfectly across his tongue.
"Mmh. Mrs. Joy really is a good baker," he said, taking another. "No wonder you've decided to паразitize her place."
He ate a second biscuit and continued, "But then again—if you're a volunteer from the orphanage, you're not even a coworker of Ms. David's, are you?"
The room remained deathly quiet.
"You know, at first Charlotte and I suspected you might be someone close to Ms. David. Didn't expect you to be a total nobody."
Russell's tone sharpened, disdain seeping into each word.
"That's… genuinely nauseating."
[Malice Points from Lucas +5]
There it is.
The corner of Russell's mouth curled.
The other party was clearly hiding somewhere inside this apartment.
Now that Russell knew that, the rest was simple.
He just had to make him come out on his own.
If Russell went searching, he risked getting outplayed. Better to take the safer route.
And he could farm malice points while he was at it. Why not?
"You really think you love her, don't you?" Russell went on.
"You think watering her flowers is taking care of her. Warming her bed is being considerate."
"And forging her handwriting to write yourself letters—you think that's some kind of soulful communion."
He snorted.
Don't make me laugh.
"Resonance, my ass. Trick other people if you want—just don't fool yourself too."
"You don't actually think she likes you, do you? No way."
"Who would ever like a parasite hiding in someone else's home? She practically has the word 'disgusting' written on her face, you know that?"
"In the end, she probably doesn't even want to know your name."
[Malice Points from Lucas +15]
Another spike.
Lies don't hurt. The truth is the blade.
Russell stood and paced the room once, then unhurriedly poured himself a glass of water and sat back down.
He could feel it—on the other side of the wall, that rat's breathing had grown heavy. But it was still holding back.
Still clinging to the fantasy that if it didn't come out, this was nothing more than an intruder's impotent rage.
Still clinging to the fantasy that Miss Holly belonged to it—pure and untouched.
Unfortunately—
Fantasy time was over.
"By the way," Russell said, taking a sip of water and clearing his throat, "there's something you might not know."
"When we left yesterday, Ms. David told us a bit about herself."
"She said she actually has someone she likes."
"A decent man. Successful. Handsome—at the very least, definitely better-looking than you."
"They're still in that ambiguous stage, so why don't you guess—when Ms. David said she'd be staying at a friend's place, which friend do you think she meant?"
[Malice Points from Lucas +20]
"But don't worry too much. She'll probably be back in a couple days."
"Just… for safety reasons, she might bring that gentleman back with her."
"So you won't need to help warm the bed anymore."
"Though, considering how devoted you are… I suppose letting you listen from the shadows isn't completely out of the question."
[Malice Points from Lucas +20]
That should do it.
Russell thought so.
The "wall of the heart" was probably already shattered. Next came the follow-up smash.
"I heard from Mrs. Joy that you work at the nearby orphanage," he continued. "But honestly, I don't think that place suits you."
"Making you a volunteer is a waste of talent. I know somewhere far more appropriate."
He paused, then spoke with pure, unfiltered mockery:
"I've got a few connections at the Royal Circus. They're hiring clowns."
"Interested in applying?"
"No need to submit a résumé—just tell them what you've been doing."
"I guarantee you'll be hired on the spot. No internship required."
As the last word fell—
Something invisible seemed to snap.
A string.
A string holding sanity in place.
Every line of Russell's ridicule had been like a knife, testing that string—pressing it, sawing at it.
Now, it broke.
The room was still silent.
Russell didn't add another blow.
The blade of words had done its job—splitting open the shell of self-deception cleanly, exposing the rotten, stinking mess inside.
All that remained—
was to wait.
Wait for the stink to spread.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three—
…
From the bedroom came a sound, like a panel being lifted.
Then heavy footsteps.
Russell stayed seated, eyes fixed on the bedroom doorway, watching a tall, thin figure slowly appear in his view.
Fists clenched.
Eyes bloodshot.
The look he gave Russell was so full of murderous intent it seemed like he wanted to skin him alive.
Russell met that gaze and, unhurriedly, smiled.
"Hello there, Mr. Clown."
As he spoke, he picked up a deck of playing cards he'd noticed while pacing earlier. He drew one card and flicked it onto the floor at the man's feet.
"You dropped your ID."
....
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