Not long after Russell left, Hansen Borel jerked awake in his bedroom.
His sleep had been dreadful these past two days—so dreadful he was almost used to it.
Normally, at times like this, he would go to his study, confirm his precious "ledger" was still safe, then swallow two sleeping pills and pass out until morning.
So he rose, tightened his robe belt, and headed for the study.
Click.
Warm amber light flooded the black room.
Everything looked exactly the same.
The balcony door was shut. Books on the shelf. Pen on the desk. All unchanged.
Borel exhaled slightly—yet some inexplicable dread still tightened around his heart.
It was so strong that his breathing quickened. His pulse raced.
Frowning, he stepped behind the desk and instinctively ran his hand along a row of spines.
When his fingers touched the thick Bible, the dread peaked.
He yanked it free and flipped quickly under the lamp.
Title page. Table of contents. Old Testament… all normal.
Until he reached the page where his secrets should have been hidden.
Empty.
Borel's mind went white.
He flipped forward—page after page—his careful movements collapsing into frantic, desperate violence.
Nothing.
There was nothing.
Those pages—those proofs that could ruin him—had vanished as if erased by the hand of God.
"No… no way…"
He muttered, then turned the book upside down and shook it wildly, praying the pages had merely slipped somewhere else.
Only a few crumbs of old tobacco fell out.
Nothing more.
Just as panic threatened to devour him, his eyes caught a line of writing on the blank page.
A line he had never seen before.
A line he never wanted to see.
And a signature that made his heart seize.
Thud.
The heavy Bible slipped from his trembling hands and hit the carpet with a dull sound.
Moonlight spilled in through the balcony and landed precisely on the ink.
"The road to redemption lies within — Moriarty."
[Hansen Borel's fear and despair: Malice +80]
Hearing the system chime, Russell nodded in satisfaction.
This was only the beginning.
Let the bullets fly a little longer.
Russell changed his mind—he wouldn't hand his materials to the newspapers yet.
Instead, he would first send a notice to the major Fleet Street papers: in a few days, he would deliver them a grand "gift."
The press would go wild. Publicize it. Spread it. Build anticipation across London.
As the countdown neared zero, the city's excitement would rise—
and in tandem, the panic of the poor bastards he'd visited would ferment until it curdled.
For them, it would be a death countdown—one only they understood.
When you know death is coming, when you know when and how it might fall—
the waiting becomes torture.
Killing wasn't enough.
You had to crush the heart too.
A swift blade ends things quickly.
A dull blade—that was suffering.
And it wouldn't be just Russell's direct targets.
Anyone with a guilty conscience would start imagining themselves next, providing him a steady stream of Malice.
"Time to deliver letters to Fleet Street," Russell yawned. "Might as well earn a little extra on the side."
He vanished into Kensington's night.
Deep night.
Unlike other districts where lights had long gone out, Fleet Street was still blazing.
Russell wore a baseball jacket and cap, hands in his pockets, and pushed open the door to The Times at an easy pace.
The receptionist—mid-yawn—snapped awake the instant he saw a stranger walk in at this hour.
Anyone who worked here long enough knew what a midnight visitor meant.
"How can I help you, sir?" he asked out of habit.
"I'm delivering a letter," Russell said. "A letter from Mr. Moriarty."
He pulled an envelope from his pocket.
"Please wait!" The receptionist grabbed the phone with both hands, almost scrambling. "Hello?! Editor Henry! Santa's here again! Yes! With a present!"
Less than three minutes later, a familiar figure hurried downstairs.
Henry's eyes were bloodshot, but the excitement inside them burned brighter than ever.
"The letter?" he demanded.
Russell pointed at the counter—yet as Henry reached for it, Russell's hand came down and covered the envelope.
"Payment first," Russell said with a pleasant smile, holding out his hand. "One hundred pounds, sir."
Henry frowned—not because Russell wanted money, but because the amount sounded… low.
"One hundred pounds?"
Last time, the Ethan Roy scandal had cost him five hundred.
One fifth the price—could the contents possibly be worth it?
Then again—who cared about "guarantees"?
This was Moriarty.
"Take it." Henry didn't hesitate. He counted out a hundred pounds and slapped it into Russell's hand, then snatched the envelope and tore it open.
No photos. No evidence.
Just a sheet of paper.
This time, Moriarty really had sent a letter.
A notice.
"What is this?" Henry's frown deepened.
"I couldn't tell you, sir." Russell shrugged. "You paid, I delivered. Transaction complete, isn't it?"
Henry didn't answer.
He stared at the page as confusion was swallowed—replaced by a swelling, uncontrollable fervor.
"My God…" he whispered at last.
His eyes moved over the words again and again, as if carving them into his mind.
"To my beloved Times, and likewise my beloved citizens of London:
Five days from now, a grand performance will raise its curtain.
Please, look forward to it.
—Your good neighbor, Moriarty."
The letter was short—almost absurdly so.
But to Henry Scott, a veteran newspaperman, the meaning detonated like a bomb.
"The trumpet of Gabriel…" he breathed, voice shaking with reverence. "It's about to sound."
....
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