The card spun through the air, struck Lucas in the chest, then drifted down onto the floor.
Lucas lowered his head. His gaze landed on the black-and-white card, and only then did he see the pattern clearly.
A joker.
Just like Russell had called him.
And with that, Lucas could no longer contain his rage.
[Lucas is angered by your mockery. Malice +20]
"You don't understand…" His voice dropped low—like an animal's growl.
"That's my love for her. You don't understand anything!
You've never seen her torment herself over a design.
You've never heard her late-night sighs when inspiration runs dry.
You know nothing… so how dare you question me here!"
He stepped forward, his toe pinning the joker card beneath it.
"Only I—only I know what kind of coffee she likes, know how she bites her lower lip when she reads, know that she waters the flowers at nine in the morning.
She and I can understand each other. You and that detective—you don't understand anything. So what right do you have to stain all of this!"
[Malice from Lucas +10]
Russell listened quietly, but his attention wasn't on the man at all.
He even pulled out another biscuit with some amusement and popped it into his mouth.
"Finished?" Russell asked around a mouthful, the words indistinct as he chewed.
"I really don't know you, and I don't understand you," he said unhurriedly.
"You got that part right."
Then he added, calmly:
"Because I'm not some pervert who parasites in other people's homes and spies on their lives."
"Shut up!!"
Lucas roared in fury. He snatched a fountain pen from the bedroom—like it was the only weapon left to defend that pathetic shred of pride.
The pen tip flashed coldly as he drove it straight for Russell's throat.
Russell rose without a word, set the bag of biscuits aside, and planted one foot on the chair in front of him.
Then he kicked.
The chair flew forward—meeting Lucas' charge head-on.
The chair slammed into Lucas' thigh. Pain broke his momentum, making him stagger.
Russell seized the instant, closing in. He caught Lucas' pen hand by the wrist and twisted hard—without hesitation.
"Crack—"
The crisp pop of a joint displaced landed at the same time as Lucas' strangled groan.
The pen flew from his grip, skittering across the floor; ink droplets splashed.
"Clumsy on the front hand," Russell said flatly, "weak on the backhand."
[Your counterattack causes Lucas intense pain and frustration. Malice +30]
Russell didn't give him a second to recover. His free hand slid up and locked around Lucas' throat, then he slammed him onto the floor.
"Footwork sloppy. Reaction slow. Not a single thing about you is worth a damn!"
"Thud!"
A dull impact shook the room. Lucas' head struck hard; the world spun.
The buzzing in his skull drowned out thought—leaving only raw fear.
He tried to struggle, but that hand didn't move an inch. All he could feel was oxygen draining from his lungs.
Russell bent down and dropped to one knee on Lucas' chest, dumping his full weight onto him.
He had no intention of killing the man—but making Lucas incapable of resisting was necessary.
Just then, he heard knocking at the door behind him.
It wasn't polite knocking. It was brutal—like someone wanted to punch a hole straight through the wood.
Russell was about to turn when the pounding stopped abruptly.
And then—
A deafening boom reverberated through the entire building.
The door had been kicked in.
In the instant Russell turned his head, a dark gun barrel was aimed straight at his face.
·
·
Twenty minutes earlier.
221B Baker Street.
The call ended.
When the receiver was placed back on the hook, the sound was the only movement in the flat.
Charlotte returned to her armchair, kept drinking the coffee that had already gone cool, and waited for Russell's good news.
Five minutes passed.
The phone didn't ring.
Charlotte frowned—then smoothed her expression away.
Maybe persuading the elderly woman next door was taking time. Fine. She could wait.
Another five minutes.
Still no call.
Charlotte clicked her tongue in irritation.
"Even reporting needs someone to push you."
She stood, returned to the phone again, picked up the receiver, and dialed back.
But the other end was dead silent.
No answer.
Holly David's apartment wasn't well soundproofed. If the phone rang, Russell—right next door—couldn't possibly miss it.
But he wasn't answering.
There were only two possibilities.
Either the audacious idiot was ignoring her on purpose.
Or he couldn't answer.
Maybe the phone line had been cut. Maybe he'd been tied up.
Either way, it wasn't good.
"Tsk."
Charlotte set the receiver down, threw on her coat, and slipped that** into her pocket.
It was already fully loaded.
She didn't think about transport. She didn't calculate time cost.
Her brain had already produced the optimal solution. Her body only needed to execute.
The wheels of a hired cab rattled across London's streets. Outside the window, scenery sped backward, blurred, and collapsed into meaningless smears of color.
When she reached the door of Holly David's apartment, a scream came from inside at just that moment.
Normally, Charlotte might have analyzed the timbre and identified who it belonged to.
But she didn't have time.
After two hard knocks got no response, she chose the simplest, most brutal—and most effective method.
She took two steps back.
Then she lifted her foot.
"BANG—!!"
The old oak door cracked open.
The instant it burst inward, time began moving again.
Charlotte's gaze cut through flying wood splinters and dust, locking precisely onto the figure standing above everything—clearly in control.
Then the dust settled.
Her muzzle remained steady, aimed at a familiar face filled with shock and confusion.
She looked at Russell's stunned expression.
At the man beneath him, his face turning purple from lack of air.
At the broken fountain pen on the floor.
At the joker card crushed underfoot.
In the span of a single second, Charlotte's mind palace had finished reading and processing every piece of information at the scene.
She'd panicked too much.
"Why are you here?" Russell asked, still holding Lucas down, glancing up at her in curiosity.
"Because someone wasn't replying to me," Charlotte snapped, lowering the gun and stepping inside, "and that forced me to consider whether he was dead."
She looked down at Lucas from above.
"This is the 'ghost'?"
....
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