Russell gazed quietly into the young girl's eyes.
Unknown to him why, he perceived a trace of pity and sympathy within them.
The Phantom Thief, who should have been an object of her disgust, seemed to have birthed a different kind of sentiment in Mary's heart at this moment.
"If he is a tool nurtured by Mycroft, why did he give the love letter to you?" Russell asked. "And why did he go out of his way to provoke you?"
Actually, he shouldn't have asked this question.
But Russell simply wanted to hear, for no particular reason, how Mary would explain it.
He was somewhat curious to know exactly what kind of figure Moriarty was in Mary's eyes.
"Perhaps because... the tool had other thoughts," Mary said softly.
Without waiting for Russell to speak, she continued on her own.
"Moriarty is a Phantom Thief, a shadow, and a tool, but he is ultimately a human, isn't he?
"Perhaps he handed the love letter to you, just like you said about wanting to eat a sandwich with double bacon—it was his instinct as a human."
She paused, her gaze falling upon Russell.
"As a Phantom Thief, he is lonely, and so are you.
"So, perhaps he felt he saw a kindred spirit, and that is why he gave the letter to you.
"Even if this wasn't part of his mission at all, even if it was just an irrational impulse."
"Then what about you?" Russell asked. "If his actions toward me were out of protection, then what was the purpose of those offensive words he said to you?"
Hearing this, Mary lowered her eyes slightly. Her gaze no longer focused on Russell but looked at the ground, or perhaps, at something else entirely.
She fell into a brief silence. Only after a moment did she give a bitter smile and speak softly:
"Probably... it was mockery."
The young girl spoke in a whisper, and after her voice faded, she let out a sigh.
The sigh was so light it scattered with the wind, yet in the final moment before it dissipated, it was precisely captured by Russell's ears.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing..." Mary shook her head, her expression becoming somewhat wistful. "I just suddenly feel that... some fantasies have been shattered."
"What fantasy?" Russell asked with a smile. "The fact that Moriarty is actually a performance artist?"
"Not that kind." Mary smiled as well, then her voice lowered again. "I originally thought Moriarty was an interesting fellow. Although he wasn't exactly... polite, at least his soul was interesting."
"Is he not interesting anymore?"
"Not anymore." Mary shook her head. "In my eyes, the current him has become mundane."
"Become mundane?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Mm... it's hard to describe this feeling. It's probably a sense of... disparity," Mary said.
"It's like someone who has never entered the city hearing from others that the River Thames is beautiful. Even in photos, it indeed looks beautiful.
"But the day he truly enters the city and sees the River Thames, he discovers that there is actually a lot of garbage floating on the river surface, and it smells terrible, too."
She explained.
"I thought Moriarty was a person who followed his own heart, but now I realize he is merely Mycroft's shadow tool.
"Everything he does is actually traceable, perhaps even dictated by others.
"It is like a free bird that one day discovers it is merely trapped in a slightly larger cage.
"Do you think such a bird is still free?"
Russell did not answer.
Stopping here was enough.
He was no philosopher, nor did he intend to get involved in any philosophical speculation on this topic.
The purpose of all this from the beginning was merely to lead Mary's train of thought astray, to make her mentally dissociate him from the character of Moriarty.
That was all.
Seeming to sense that the atmosphere had become somewhat heavy, Mary took a deep breath, belatedly reigning in her divergent thoughts and emotions.
In an instant, she reverted to that seemingly flawless Miss Morstan.
"Of course, although Moriarty makes me feel bored now,"
She made her tone become light and brisk, her ending intonation rising, just like a little girl cracking a joke.
"But, Russell, you wouldn't do that, right?"
She looked at Russell, her azure eyes holding a teasing smile, yet seeming to hide a plea.
I beg you, do not be like him.
Do not become mundane.
Do not make me feel bored.
Do not make me dislike you.
Russell still did not answer.
He quietly looked at the young girl before him, observing the complex light mixed with many emotions in her azure eyes.
How should he answer this question?
How could he live up to this expectation?
For a split second, many answers flashed through his mind, but none seemed quite satisfactory.
Neither to himself nor to her.
After thinking it over, Russell gave up thinking.
Just say whatever I dream up.
"I actually think being a bird in a cage seems pretty nice," he said lazily.
Hearing this, Mary's brows furrowed slightly, and the Aegean Sea in her eyes seemed to show a faint trend of freezing over.
"Look, having to do nothing every day, being fed, having the cleaning done for you. Three meals a day with no worries, not even needing to look for a job."
He leaned back, letting the warm sunlight sprinkle over him, a look of yearning appearing on his face.
"It is simply the dream retirement life."
Hearing this, Mary looked at him in silence.
She looked at his salted-fish appearance—looking as if he wished he could just lie flat right now—and looked at his pair of clear, impurity-free black eyes.
There was no ambition in there, no desire; even the most basic curiosity appeared so stingy.
Thus, upon the sea surface, that layer of thin ice that had just condensed shattered silently.
Replacing it was a sigh of helplessness, as if she could do absolutely nothing about him.
"I take back my previous words," she said softly, holding her forehead. "You won't become mundane."
Because you are too lazy to even bother becoming mundane.
How could a guy who is too lazy to even fly be locked into a cage?
But...
This is fine,
the young girl said in her heart.
This is enough.
"That's good."
Russell accepted this praise with a clear conscience, then sprawled back onto the desk, as if that profound discussion about life and freedom just now had never happened.
The two returned to that strange tranquility that no outsider could intervene in.
Only the old professor's lecture, sounding like a lullaby, flowed slowly through the classroom.
A few minutes later, when Mary finished taking notes, put down the pen in her hand, and incomparably skillfully pushed the notes in front of Russell, she seemed to think of something again.
"Speaking of which," she asked softly, looking at Russell who was slowly straightening up his body,
"What were you trying to say to me earlier?"
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