Timmy Roy was dazed by the slap.
His face burned with pain, a sensation that actually caused the anger from Russell's earlier mockery and humiliation to subside considerably. What now occupied the high ground of his reason was the realization that his reputation seemed to be completely ruined.
"Anne, you..."
Before he could finish, another figure rushed up.
"Scum!"
Isabella White's usually charming face was now flushed red. The young girl raised her hand and delivered another merciless slap.
Slap!
Symmetrical, left and right. Now it was perfect.
Unsuppressed laughter erupted from the crowd. Timmy's friends, who had originally wanted to come up and mediate, now tacitly took a step back, afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.
Although Timmy Roy was the son of a Cabinet Minister, few of those present were pushovers. Although their status might not match a Minister, if they stood on a united front right now, it would be more than enough to force a Cabinet Minister to compromise and yield.
Timmy was completely dumbfounded. His gaze swept over the faces of his friends who used to welcome him with smiles but now looked at him with various expressions, and those ex-girlfriends who looked like they wanted to skin him alive right there.
At this moment, there was only one question in his mind: Those letters, those damn letters, why were they here?
"This isn't true!" Timmy Roy shouted. "This is slander! It's a setup!"
His gaze jerked toward the instigator at the side—the guy who was wearing an innocent look while holding onto his hand, making him unable to resist and forcing him to let the slaps land on his face.
Russell Watson!
"It's you!" Timmy Roy roared like a cornered beast. "You're the one behind this!"
"Mr. Roy, you can eat whatever you like, but you really shouldn't say whatever you like," Russell shrugged innocently. "I am merely defending the legitimate rights and interests of those poor ladies. Speaking of which, this is all thanks to that reporter gentleman."
He spoke, and Timmy's pupils suddenly constricted.
"Reporter... what reporter!"
"A reporter named Clark Kent. I met him on the tram," Russell said. "I chatted with him briefly, and when he found out I was a student at Imperial College, he gave me those letters. He said... he hoped I could lend a hand to those poor ladies who had gone astray."
"Clark Kent?"
The expression on Timmy Roy's face froze. He recognized this name. That subservient reporter he had mistaken for the guy in front of him at the time.
How could he possibly have these things...
"That's right." Russell nodded, even thoughtfully adding details: "A gentleman wearing black-rimmed glasses who looked very honest. Why, do you know him too?"
Timmy Roy's pupils trembled.
That reporter. That damn reporter. That reporter who said he was just from a third-rate newspaper office...
"He is Moriarty!" Timmy Roy shouted. "He's no bullshit reporter, he is the Phantom Thief, that damn Phantom Thief!"
The moment the words fell, everyone present was stunned, leaving only Timmy Roy still struggling constantly.
"Let go of me! Russell Watson, let go of me now!"
If that damn reporter was the Phantom Thief...
"Let me leave here!"
If that damn Phantom Thief had broken into his home...
"Do you hear me? Let go of me!"
Then, would he really have just stolen a few love letters with no value?
"I told you to let go of me, didn't you hear me, Russell Watson!" Timmy Roy roared at Russell.
Hearing this, Russell looked at him with a calm expression. Then, he smiled.
"Don't be in such a hurry," he said, then pressed his hand onto Timmy Roy's shoulder. "You just said that reporter gentleman is Phantom Thief Moriarty. A very interesting hypothesis, Mr. Roy—but where is the evidence?"
He asked.
"Two days ago, when I returned home, I saw that guy sneakily sitting on a bench by the street. He was observing, he was observing the layout of my house. Everything was for tonight's operation!" Timmy Roy shouted. "He is Phantom Thief Moriarty!"
"Alright, alright, let's go with your hypothesis." Russell nodded, looking like he was humoring him. "Since you say that was Moriarty, then doesn't that prove one thing?"
Russell paused, then under everyone's gaze, asked word by word: "You admit that these letters were stolen from your home?"
"I..."
"Didn't you just say I was behind this, that I was slandering you?"
"I..."
Timmy was speechless for a moment, the blood draining from his face at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Russell maintained that harmless smile, but every word that came out of his mouth was pushing Timmy Roy further into the abyss of eternal damnation.
"Of course, there is actually a simpler way," Russell continued. "Let's assume this is all true, that I forged the letters, and even that so-called Mr. Clark Kent is fake. Then, Mr. Timmy Roy, may I ask the ladies present: which one is your one true love?"
The smile on Russell's face grew wider. He released the hand restraining Timmy, and even kindly helped him tidy up the collar he had messed up, his movements as intimate as if he were treating an ignorant younger brother.
"Come, tell everyone, Mr. Roy. Among these beautiful ladies present, which one is the soulmate you wish to spend the rest of your life with? As long as you say it, I believe the misunderstanding will be resolved."
He took a step back, yielding the center of the stage completely to Timmy Roy.
Spotlights, invisible spotlights, seemed to shine precisely on him at this moment. Timmy Roy stood there, soaked through, his hair dripping with a liquid mixture of red wine and humiliation, the symmetrical handprints on his cheeks clearly visible.
He looked around, meeting gazes that were cold, mocking, and gloating. His so-called "friends" had long since shrunk into the corners of the crowd, pretending to admire the murals on the walls. And those former "true loves" looked at him coldly like judges, arms crossed over their chests.
Say it? What could he say?
This was a dead end. A net from which there was no escape, woven meticulously for him by Russell Watson using the simplest of words.
Timmy's lips trembled, and cold sweat slid down from his temples.
[Timmy Roy's sanity is collapsing, suffering a massive mental shock. Malice Points +100]
"What's wrong, Mr. Roy? Can't choose? Or are you a bit tired from standing so long?"
Russell pulled a chair over and placed it by Timmy Roy's feet.
"Sit down first. Speak slowly. Everyone is watching."
He pressed his hand on Timmy Roy's shoulder, his tone remaining gentle.
"Timmy Roy, have a seat."
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