Led by Tommy, Russell passed through an unremarkable side door, leaving the gilded marble hall and its warm lights sealed away behind him.
The air here carried the stale, long-shut smell of paper and metal.
This was the bank's skeleton—beneath the polished façade, the hidden framework that kept everything truly running.
Tommy's smile had turned professional, even faintly obsequious.
As he walked ahead to guide the way, he tried to make conversation.
"Mr. Kent, this is your first time auditing our branch, isn't it? I hope the environment here won't make you uncomfortable."
"My job doesn't include experiencing the environment, Mr. Tommy," Russell replied, his voice flat, businesslike.
Wall thickness. Vent placement. Security coverage…
"I only care about the safety of our clients' assets."
"Yes—yes, of course. You're absolutely right." Tommy nodded quickly, fine beads of sweat forming at his temples.
They continued deeper down the narrow corridor, cold concrete walls on both sides.
Overhead, a dim explosion-proof lamp appeared only every ten meters, stretching and shrinking their shadows along the floor as if invisible ghosts were chasing them from behind.
"What's the standard security armament configuration for the underground vault?" Russell asked.
"Guards operate in pairs. One is issued a shotgun, the other a revolver, plus batons. That's the standard loadout," Tommy said.
"In addition, the ceiling has high-pressure steam or tear gas installed. If the system detects an attempted breach, it activates."
"How often is that mechanism maintained?"
"Once a week, sir."
"When, specifically?"
"Saturday night at eleven—after the bank closes."
"What about disaster contingencies?"
"The vault has a dedicated underground safety passage. In the event of an earthquake, guards can use it to return to the surface," Tommy answered.
Russell nodded.
They pressed on.
As he walked, Russell's eyes scanned the surroundings, confirming the layout and the strength of the vault's defenses.
Every so often he asked a question, prompting Tommy to answer.
Some questions were offhand.
Others were exactly what he needed.
"How often do the vault guards rotate?"
"Monthly, sir," Tommy replied. "No one stays on underground duty for two consecutive months. Each guard has a one-month cooldown period afterward. We follow that strictly."
"Do you have a roster?"
"We do."
"Show it to me later. I'll need to verify each one."
"Y-yes, sir."
They kept walking, and Russell's gaze drifted now and then to the iron doors lining both sides.
Behind every door was an independent storage room. Anyone with a name in London had at least one safety deposit box here.
"What encryption method do the private boxes use?" Russell asked abruptly. "Combination wheels, or keys?"
"Both, sir." Tommy paused, then continued, "Each box uses two mechanisms. It can be opened with a key or with a code."
"Each box has two keys: the client holds one, and we keep one for contingencies."
"As for the code—only the client knows it. We don't ask. And the boxes are custom-built. Even explosives can't crack them open."
"Mhm." Russell nodded, filing the information away.
Once he'd seen enough, Russell stopped and turned to face Tommy.
"Do you know why headquarters sent me for a surprise inspection, Mr. Tommy?"
"W-why?" Tommy asked, confused.
"Because of Moriarty," Russell said.
"As London's largest private bank, we are obliged to safeguard every client's property."
"We don't care what a client puts in their box. We care about one thing: the client is God."
"They pay enormous fees and entrust their privacy to us—then we have the responsibility, the obligation, to protect it."
"Otherwise, it's negligence."
"Do you understand?"
Tommy straightened reflexively. Cold sweat slid down his cheek.
"I… I understand, Mr. Kent." His voice had turned hoarse with tension.
"I guarantee Lloyds Bank's security system is impregnable. We will not give that damned thief any opportunity."
"Good." Russell gave a noncommittal nod.
The audit didn't take long.
After confirming everything he needed, Russell ended the surprise inspection.
"That's all for today. Be proud of yourself, Mr. Tommy—there are no issues."
Tommy looked like he could cry with gratitude as he escorted Russell out of the bank—and even gifted him a members-only umbrella.
Russell accepted it without hesitation.
Holding the umbrella, he walked at an unhurried pace along the wet streets. In the curtain of rain, the suit began to shed its disguise, little by little, returning to his khaki trench coat.
The "disguise" provided by the system shop wasn't a real physical item—more like an illusion, a perceptual trick.
After all, it only cost fifty Malice points. You got what you paid for.
But his Phantom Thief outfit did physically exist—wearing it granted buffs, and naturally it was far more expensive.
That was the difference between costumes and transmogs.
Back on Baker Street, Russell gave the umbrella to a passerby. Then he pulled up the hood of his coat, walked a short distance, and returned to 221B.
He was a bit damp, but it didn't matter.
What mattered was leaving no trace.
When he pushed open the door to 221B, warmth rushed at him, driving away the chill that still clung to his skin.
Mrs. Hudson was still napping; the sitting room held only the dim glow of a wall lamp.
Russell went upstairs quietly. Passing Charlotte's door, he glanced in with curiosity.
The door wasn't fully shut. Through the crack he saw the fireplace—orange flames dancing warmly inside.
He pushed the door open.
The room was dark; the only light came from the fire.
Charlotte had moved an armchair beside the hearth, and she sat there reading the newspaper, basking in the heat.
She still wore an oversized robe. Her black curls were a mess. She didn't seem to care.
Hearing him enter, she lifted her eyes briefly, then returned her gaze to the page.
She didn't, as she usually would, calmly recite where he'd been—perhaps the rainy-day chill and the hearth's warmth had tired even her brilliant mind.
Russell took off his wet coat and draped it over the chair back. Then he sat beside Charlotte, pulling up a chair to warm himself by the fire.
"Cold out there," he remarked.
"Where did you go?" Charlotte asked.
"To the bank to deposit money." Russell didn't hide it. "I sold Timmy Roy's mess to the Thames and got a bit of cash."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, but didn't seem to care much.
Silence returned—broken only by the soft crackle of burning wood.
Rain tapped the window, the rhythm speeding up and slowing down like an endless lullaby.
Charlotte stopped looking at the newspaper.
Her gaze rose over the top edge of the pages and settled on Russell.
She watched his damp black hair, droplets sliding off the tips and vanishing into the dark collar of his shirt.
She watched his long-fingered hand stretched toward the flames, his fingertips pale from the cold.
She watched him exhale in contentment, his whole body loosening—like a stray cat that had finally found a warm stove.
"Is it cold outside?" she asked.
"Not too bad," Russell answered without turning. "I'll warm up in a bit."
He expected Charlotte, as always, to infer from the warmth of his palms and the color of his skin how long he'd been outside, how long he'd been in the wind.
But unexpectedly—
She didn't.
After hearing him, Charlotte simply put down the newspaper and stood, walking to the side table.
A delicate tea set sat there—something Mrs. Hudson had bought at the market last week and barely used.
Charlotte lifted the teapot, added tea leaves, then took the copper kettle that had been heating beside the fireplace and poured in boiling water.
Warm white steam rose instantly, blurring the face that always seemed a little distant.
Russell watched her, curious.
"You seem to enjoy dealing with those people," Charlotte said, brewing the tea as if it were a casual observation.
"Which people?" Russell asked.
"Newspaper editors, merchants, the children of nobles… even Mycroft." Charlotte listed professions one after another.
"Necessity." Russell smiled, pulling his hands back and tucking them into his pockets. "If you're born in an orphanage, you learn how to read faces."
Charlotte didn't argue.
She poured the black tea into two cups, then picked one up, walked to Russell, and handed it to him.
"Here."
Russell took it. The warmth of the porcelain seeped into his fingertips, driving away the last trace of cold.
"Thanks," he said softly.
"You shouldn't thank me." Charlotte returned to her armchair and picked up the newspaper again—though her eyes didn't truly focus on it.
"You should thank Mrs. Hudson. She insisted I keep an extra cup. Her reason was—what if a guest comes?"
Russell smiled but said nothing, just taking small sips of the hot tea.
The room fell silent again. Only the fire continued its tireless dance.
"Russell," Charlotte said.
"Mm?"
"What do you think this world is like?"
It was a sudden question—utterly unrelated to anything at hand.
Russell cradled his cup, thought for a moment, then answered with uncertainty:
"A theater."
"A theater?" Charlotte lifted her brow and took a sip of tea.
"A fitting metaphor."
"Only in the stalls of a theater do the tears of good people and bad people blend together."
"Every drama is arranged in advance. Often, from a single line spoken by a character, you can infer the next line—sometimes even the ending."
"That's why I don't like plays."
"Because they're boring?" Russell asked.
"Obviously." Charlotte nodded.
"But…"
Her voice came again.
She turned her head. Those gray-blue eyes, through the flicker of firelight, looked steadily at Russell.
"Sometimes… there are exceptions."
Russell met her gaze.
He didn't ask what that "exception" was.
He only raised his teacup toward her, a small gesture.
"Then… here's to exceptions."
Charlotte looked at him—at the wordless understanding in his smile—and, very rarely, the corner of her lips lifted into the faintest arc.
"To exceptions."
She raised her cup as well.
Clink.
A soft chime—crisp and bright in the quiet room.
Outside the window, the rain seemed a little lighter.
....
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