The next morning, London woke slowly inside damp, cold fog.
The sun hadn't fully clawed its way above the horizon. Gray-white light pierced the mist, sketching the city in blurred outlines.
The streets were quiet at first—only the milkman's bicycle bell chiming now and then.
The quiet didn't last.
Soon, sharp, excited shouts tore through the morning.
"Extra! Extra!"
"The Times! Front page—Moriarty the gentleman thief announces a performance!"
"The Guardian! Five days from now—a grand show begins!"
"The Morning Post!The Daily Telegraph! Every paper has the same story—come see!"
Paperboys burst from Fleet Street like sparrows from a nest, waving fresh sheets that still smelled of ink. They screamed themselves hoarse, flinging one name across every alley and avenue.
Moriarty!
A stone tossed into still water—ripples became waves.
Shopkeepers unlocking their doors.
Housewives carrying baskets to market.
Workers hurrying toward factories.
At that name, feet stopped in unison.
People poured out of buildings, clustering around paperboys. One penny, two pennies—hands traded coins for the day's hottest script.
"God above—it's real! Look at The Times' front page!"
"The Guardian too! Even the layout is identical!"
"Five days… a grand performance… what does that mean? What is he going to do?"
"Who knows—but it'll be a show worth watching!"
Whispers, gasps, stifled thrills—countless small streams merged into a roaring current that swept the entire city.
Fear and anticipation—two emotions that should never coexist—twined together perfectly, becoming an invisible net cast over London.
Baker Street 221B.
Russell woke up because the noise in the street below wouldn't let him sleep.
He sat up lazily, walked to the window, pulled the curtain aside just enough, and looked down at the mild chaos outside with calm satisfaction.
Good.
More explosive than he'd expected.
He nodded to himself, then went to wash up.
By the time he yawned his way downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was holding a cup of tea—and a newspaper lay on the table.
"You're up earlier than usual, Russell."
"It's hard to sleep when it's this loud outside." He smiled and picked up the paper.
Mrs. Hudson read The Times, so naturally that was what she'd bought.
The front page was brutally direct: Moriarty's notice letter printed in full, topped with a bold, dramatic headline.
Russell snorted. "Gabriel's trumpet… that's a bit much."
"I only hope it doesn't cause trouble," Mrs. Hudson sighed.
Russell shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He swallowed the last bite of toast, stood, and slipped on his coat.
"I'm heading out, Mrs. Hudson. I'll buy a few different papers and have a look."
"Be careful, dear."
"Don't worry."
He stepped outside and melted into the crowd.
He didn't rush to buy papers immediately. Instead, he walked like any ordinary Londoner—hands in pockets, unhurried, absorbing the atmosphere.
Eventually, he stopped at a paperboy, paid a few pennies, and bought every major paper he could find.
Arms full of newspapers, he turned toward Baker Street.
And right then, the system chimed again in his head.
Not just Hansen Borel—many nobles and wealthy families read the morning headlines and felt the same sinking dread.
Russell's step paused for a fraction. His mouth curled upward despite itself.
The fun was about to begin.
When Russell returned to 221B with his stack of papers, Charlotte was already sitting in the living room armchair.
She cradled a steaming coffee in one hand and held Mrs. Hudson's Times in the other.
"Oh, you're up?" Russell dropped the pile onto the table with a solid thump.
Charlotte's gaze shifted to the stack. Every paper's front page used nearly the same font, the same headline, the same message.
"A bloated, attention-seeking, unoriginal piece of theater," she said flatly, dripping with contempt. "A waste of money."
"It was a few pennies," Russell replied, pulling up a chair. He grabbed a random paper. "And clearly, the public loves it."
"The masses are always stupid." Charlotte sipped her coffee. "They worship surface spectacle, never the motive behind it."
"And have you deduced the motive, great detective?" Russell asked with a grin. "Why would our gentleman thief stir up a city-wide fuss?"
"Simple." Charlotte set her cup down. "He wants to manufacture fear."
"Obvious enough." Russell nodded along. "And the reason?"
"Who knows," Charlotte said dismissively. "Maybe his ego was bored and needed entertainment. Trying to understand that man's motives is meaningless—and an insult to my brain."
"I agree," Russell said, perfectly sincere.
After finishing his breakfast, he stood and headed for the door.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm off to school."
"Be safe, dear."
Outside Baker Street, Russell took the tram to Imperial College.
The moment he entered the campus, he saw students everywhere holding newspapers, talking animatedly.
The name "Moriarty" popped up again and again, drifting into Russell's ears.
On his way to class, he watched their faces with interest.
Excitement and curiosity dominated—mixed with fear of the unknown and a faint, sour unease.
He even spotted a few familiar faces in the crowd—Annie Brown, Isabella White…
They stood with friends, whispering intensely. Their disgust toward Timmy Roy had been replaced by fascination with Moriarty.
When Russell stepped into the lecture hall, it was supposed to be quiet pre-class waiting time.
Instead, it felt like a lively salon.
Almost everyone had a paper. Small groups traded theories with heated confidence.
Some guessed Moriarty's next target would be a powerful politician.
Others insisted it would be a ruthless business tycoon.
Some marveled at his madness; others condemned him for hijacking public attention.
From the chatter, Russell could roughly divide them into two camps.
Those sympathetic to Moriarty tended to come from ordinary or merely comfortable backgrounds.
Those hostile or critical skewed toward aristocratic or political families.
Two rivers—parallel, separate, unable to merge.
Russell ignored all of it and walked to his private kingdom in the back row.
The sunlight had already warmed his seat. He sat, tossed the newspapers onto the desk, and lowered his head, aiming for a quick nap before the lecture.
And then that familiar scent—white tea mixed with ink—arrived right on schedule.
....
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