Russell quietly listened to the other party haggling.
He watched as the man tried to slash his reward in half with just a few sentences, acting as if it were perfectly reasonable.
"Are you done?" he asked.
"Of course. If you're willing, I can right now—"
"If you're done, then please return the items to me, Mr. Henry. I'm going to The Guardian."
Russell extended his hand toward him.
"I don't think they would be stingy about a mere five hundred pounds."
Hearing this, the expression on Henry's face gradually froze.
"What do you mean?"
"Literal meaning, sir." Russell's hand remained in the air.
"There are a few things you might have misunderstood.
"First, this isn't a gift from Moriarty to your newspaper office. It is from me. I am the one giving it to you.
"Moriarty simply handed the items to me, but he didn't specifically request that I submit them to The Times. So, who I submit to depends entirely on my mood.
"And whoever pays more gets my good mood."
He continued, "Secondly, I don't need you to commend me in some corner of the newspaper. I don't care about those things.
"Compared to such fake things, I prefer something more pragmatic.
"For example, I'm renting a place alone on Baker Street, and I just became a freshman at Imperial College a while ago. Do you know what that means?"
Without waiting for Henry to speak, Russell continued:
"It means I need to cover both rent and tuition, not to mention other expenses.
"Adding these up, the amount I need to spend every year is about four hundred pounds, sir.
"So, you ask me what I think? My answer is—five hundred pounds, not a penny less.
"Either pay up, or give me back my stuff."
After a pause, Russell looked at Henry and added:
"Of course, you can choose to kick me out right now and swallow this explosive scoop without spending a penny.
"But guess whether I'll go to The Guardian and relay exactly what you did to them?
"I think, even if they can't grab the headline, they wouldn't mind stomping hard on a competitor in their own newspaper, right?
"And then you can also guess whether Phantom Thief Moriarty reads the newspaper. If he finds out about your behavior, I can't say for sure who will be the next subject of a leak."
"..."
With every sentence Russell spoke, Henry's expression became a shade uglier.
He stared at the young man, looking at those fearless eyes, and the hand clutching the envelope gradually tightened.
Seeing his constipated expression, a slight smile appeared on Russell's face. Then, before the other party could respond, he offered a timely concession.
"Of course, if you are willing to add another fifty pounds, I can give you another piece of news."
Hearing this, Henry frowned.
"What news?"
"Regarding Cabinet Minister Ethan Roy's stupid son, Timmy Roy."
Russell said.
"Just tonight, at the Imperial College freshman Icebreaker Party, the romantic story of his simultaneous intimate entanglements with several noble daughters was exposed in public.
"And purely by coincidence, I was on the scene and watched the entire process from beginning to end."
Henry's eyes instantly lit up.
As a seasoned newsman, he instantly sniffed out the immense value within this.
A Cabinet Minister was about to fall due to a corruption scandal, and his son, in whom high hopes were placed, was ruined on the same night due to a chaotic private life.
Father and son, the political arena and the social circle—collapsing simultaneously.
And most importantly, Timmy Roy had hooked up with other noble daughters.
"I can also tell you some details," Russell's voice was like the whisper of a devil.
"For example, which young ladies slapped him in public, and who their fathers are..."
"Say no more!" Henry clapped his hands, cutting off Russell's words. The hesitation in his mind just moments ago had completely vanished.
For this news—as long as he could get the exclusive report on this news.
What was a mere five hundred pounds?
Their sales performance could add another zero behind that number!
Henry pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a money bag, and counted the contents.
"There's three hundred pounds here... Damn it, wait for me a moment!"
As he spoke, he slapped the money onto the table and threw the door open.
"Everyone, now, immediately, right now! Stop whatever work you have in your hands!"
He shouted loudly.
"Everyone, scrape together two hundred and fifty pounds for me! Hurry!"
Henry's voice was like a thunderclap, exploding in the hall that was originally excited but relatively orderly.
The reporters who had been shut out were stunned at first, but they reacted immediately.
Something big was coming!
"My wallet is upstairs, I'll go get it!"
"My house is right next door, I'll go now!"
"Damn it, who has extra change? Lend it to me first, I'll pay you back double when my salary comes next month!"
The sound of pockets being rummaged through, hurried footsteps, and excited cursing mixed together into a chaotic mess.
For a moment, the entire office of The Times seemed to have become London's largest stock exchange.
Russell stood at the office door, watching the restless crowd outside, the corners of his mouth hooking up slightly.
Unhurriedly, he walked to Henry's desk, pulled over a chair to sit down, and even picked up a piece of gossip news with great interest, pretending to read it.
This composure and calmness formed a stark contrast with the turmoil outside.
Very quickly, a stack of banknotes, both large and small denominations, was sent in.
A young reporter carried the money in his hat, running breathlessly up to Henry.
"Editor-in-Chief... gathered... gathered it all!"
Henry took the hat from him, dumped the pile of money onto the table, and counted it quickly with a hand speed fast enough to leave afterimages, professional as a bank teller.
"Five hundred and fifty pounds. Not a penny more, not a penny less."
He raised his head and pushed the pile of money toward Russell. Russell put down the newspaper, not even glancing at the money, and simply stated names one after another in a flat tone.
Anne Brown, Isabella White, Joey Carter...
Henry was stunned at first, but then he reacted, grabbing a pen to record every name Russell spoke.
Russell's narration was plain, yet full of vivid imagery, leaving Henry, this old newsman, listening in enchantment.
The pen in his hand danced madly on the paper, recording every keyword sufficient to become an explosive sub-headline.
"...That's about it." When Russell finished his story, Henry stopped his pen as if waking from a dream.
He looked at the shorthand filling his notebook, feeling his blood burning throughout his body.
He could already see tomorrow's newspaper.
No, not just tomorrow.
The headlines for the coming week—no, even the coming month—would be firmly occupied by The Times!
"Brilliant! Truly brilliant!"
Henry couldn't help but marvel. The look in his eyes when he looked at Russell had completely changed.
"Young man, who exactly are you?"
Russell stood up with a smile, unhurriedly stuffing the pile of money on the table into his pocket.
"Me?"
He raised his head, meeting Henry's eyes filled with inquiry, and revealed a pure, harmless smile.
"I am just a university student short of money, a passing, relatively lucky ordinary citizen."
Having said that, he gave Henry no further chance to question him, turning and walking toward the door.
"Well then, I won't disturb you further. Pleasure doing business, Mr. Henry."
Click.
The office door opened, then gently closed.
Leaving only Henry Scott, sitting blankly in place.
After a long time, he let out a long breath, leaned back, and slumped into his chair.
He picked up a fresh cigar, lit it with a slightly trembling hand, and took a deep drag.
The pungent smoke made him cough, but he laughed happily.
Laughing like a child who had gotten a beloved toy.
Ordinary citizen?
Screw that 'ordinary citizen'.
But... who cares?
Even if he is Moriarty, so what? It doesn't matter.
What matters is, I'm going to be rich.
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