Under Tommy's lead, Russell passed through an inconspicuous side door, isolating the resplendent marble hall and its warm lighting behind him.
The air was filled with the long-sealed scent of paper mixed with metal. This was the skeleton of the bank, the true operating vein that maintained the glamorous exterior.
The smile on Tommy's face had become purely professional, even carrying a hint of fawning. As he led the way, he tried to find some topics of conversation.
"Mr. Kent, is this your first time conducting an audit at our branch? I hope the environment here doesn't make you uncomfortable."
"My job description does not include sensing the environment, Mr. Tommy."
Russell's voice was flat, carrying an attitude of strictly business. His eyes scanned the thickness of the walls, the location of the vents, the intensity of the security...
"I only care about the safety of the client's property."
"Yes, yes, quite right," Tommy nodded hurriedly, a layer of fine sweat seeping from his forehead.
The two continued deeper along the long, narrow corridor, flanked by cold concrete walls. Overhead, a dim explosion-proof lamp appeared only every ten meters, stretching and shrinking their shadows on the ground as if invisible ghosts were chasing them.
"What is the armed configuration for the underground vault security?"
"Guards operate in teams of two. One is assigned a shotgun, the other a revolver, along with batons. This is the standard configuration," Tommy said. "In addition, the ceiling is installed with high-pressure steam or tear gas. It activates immediately upon detecting any attempt at forced entry."
"How often are the mechanisms maintained?"
"Once a week, sir."
"Specifically when?"
"Saturday nights at eleven o'clock, after the bank has closed."
"What about natural disaster evacuation measures?"
"The underground storage room has a dedicated underground safety passage. In the event of an earthquake, the guards can return to the surface through the safety passage," Tommy answered.
Russell nodded. The two continued walking deeper. As Russell walked, his gaze swept around, confirming the layout and security forces of the underground storage room.
Occasionally, he would ask one or two questions, prompting Tommy to answer. Some questions were just casual inquiries, while others were things he truly needed to know.
"How often do the underground storage guards rotate?"
"Every month, sir," Tommy replied. "They are not responsible for underground security for two consecutive months; everyone has a one-month cooling-off period. We strictly follow this."
"Is there a list?"
"There is."
"Show it to me later. I need to confirm them one by one."
"O... okay."
The two walked on, Russell's gaze landing on the iron doors on either side from time to time. Behind every door was an independent storage room; every person of status in London had at least one safe of their own here.
"What encryption method do these private safes use?" Russell suddenly asked. "Dial or key?"
"Both, sir." Tommy paused for a moment, then answered. "The safes utilize two encryption methods. They can be opened with a key or via a code. Every safe has two keys: one for the client, one for us, in case of emergency. Aside from that, only the client knows the password. We do not inquire about it. The safes are custom-made; even dynamite couldn't blast them open."
"Mn." Russell nodded, noting down this information.
Having seen enough, Russell finally stopped and turned to look at Tommy.
"Do you know why Headquarters sent me for a surprise inspection, Mr. Tommy?"
"Wh... why?" Tommy asked in confusion.
"Because of Moriarty," Russell replied. "As the largest private bank in London, we have an obligation to safeguard the property security of every client. We don't care what the clients have actually put inside their safes. We only care about one thing—the customer is God."
Russell's voice grew stern. "They paid high fees and entrusted their privacy to us, so we have the responsibility and the obligation to keep it safe. Otherwise, that is a dereliction of duty. Do you understand?"
Hearing this, Tommy subconsciously straightened his back, cold sweat sliding down his cheek.
"I... I understand, Mr. Kent," Tommy's voice became somewhat hoarse due to nervousness. "I guarantee that the security system of Lloyds Bank is impregnable. We will absolutely never give that damned thief any opportunity to strike."
"Very good." Russell nodded noncommittally.
The audit process did not last too much longer. After confirming all the information he needed to know, Russell ended the surprise inspection.
"That will be all for today. Be proud of yourself, Mr. Tommy. Everything is in order."
Hearing this, Tommy, almost weeping with gratitude, escorted him out of the bank and even gifted him a member's umbrella. Russell naturally did not refuse.
He held the umbrella, walking unhurriedly along the wet street. The suit on his body faded away bit by bit in the curtain of rain, revealing the khaki trench coat beneath. The disguise provided by the System Shop was not a physical object in the true sense, but a kind of illusion similar to a hallucination.
After all, for only 50 Malice Points, one really couldn't ask for more. However, Russell's Phantom Thief outfit actually existed; wearing it could provide buff effects, though the price was naturally much more expensive. That was the difference between a fashion skin and a transmogrification.
Returning to Baker Street, Russell gave the umbrella in his hand to a passerby, then pulled up the hood of his trench coat. He walked a short distance and returned to 221B.
Although he got a little wet, it wasn't a major issue. The important thing was to leave no trace.
Pushing open the door to 221B, a wave of warmth rushed over him, driving away the damp chill that still clung to his body. Mrs. Hudson was still taking her afternoon nap; only a dim wall lamp was lit in the living room.
Russell walked lightly up the stairs. As he passed Charlotte's door, he curiously glanced inside. The door wasn't shut tight; the warm, dancing orange light of the fireplace spilled through the crack.
Russell pushed the door open curiously. The lights in the room were off; the only illumination came from the burning flames. Charlotte had moved the armchair next to the fireplace and was leaning near the warm source, flipping through a newspaper in her hands.
She was still wearing a loose nightgown, her black curly hair a mess, but she seemed not to care in the least. Hearing Russell enter, she simply raised her eyes to glance at him, then withdrew her gaze.
She didn't calmly state Russell's whereabouts like she usually did. Perhaps the temperature difference between the rainy day and the fireplace had made her genius brain feel fatigued.
Russell took off his wet trench coat, draped it casually over the back of a chair, then walked to Charlotte's side. He pulled up a chair and sat down, borrowing the fireplace's warmth.
"It's really cold," he lamented.
"Where did you go?" Charlotte asked.
"Went to the bank to deposit money." Russell didn't hide it. "I sold the Timmy Roy matter to The Times and exchanged it for some money from them."
Hearing this, Charlotte raised an eyebrow but didn't pay it much mind. The air fell into silence once again, with only the crackling sound of the burning flames echoing softly in the quiet room.
Raindrops tapped against the windowpane, the rhythm alternating between urgent and slow, like a lullaby with no end. Charlotte didn't look at the newspaper in her hand anymore. Her line of sight moved over the top edge of the paper, landing on Russell.
She looked at his wet black short hair, water droplets dripping from the tips and vanishing into his dark collar. She looked at his distinct, bony hands reaching toward the fire, his fingertips appearing somewhat pale due to the cold. She watched him sigh with satisfaction, his whole body relaxing like a stray cat that had finally found a stove.
"Is it very cold outside?" she asked.
"It's alright," Russell didn't look back. "I'll be warm in a bit."
He thought Charlotte would do as usual—deduce how long he had been outside and how long he had been blown by the cold wind based on the temperature of his palms and the color of his skin. But unexpectedly, Charlotte did not do that.
After listening to what he said, she simply put down the newspaper, stood up, and walked to the coffee table on the side. A delicate tea set sat there, something Mrs. Hudson had just scavenged from the market last week and hadn't really used yet.
Charlotte picked up the teapot, added some tea leaves, then lifted the scalding copper kettle from beside the fireplace and poured in hot water. Warm white mist rose instantly, blurring her face that always carried a hint of detachment.
Russell watched her actions with curiosity.
"You seem to enjoy dealing with those people," Charlotte asked seemingly unintentionally as she brewed the tea.
"Which people?"
"Newspaper editors-in-chief, merchants, noble scions... even Mycroft." Charlotte listed the professions one by one.
"Forced by life, you know." Russell smiled, retracting his hands and stuffing them into his pockets. "Those born in an orphanage always have to learn to read people's expressions."
Charlotte didn't refute him. She poured the brewed black tea into two cups, then picked one up, walked to Russell's side, and handed it to him.
"Here."
Russell reached out to take it. The warm touch of the porcelain transmitted through his fingertips, driving away the last trace of chill. "Thank you," he said softly.
"You shouldn't thank me," Charlotte returned to her armchair, picking up the newspaper again, though her gaze didn't focus on it. "You should thank Mrs. Hudson. She was the one who insisted I prepare an extra cup. Her reason was—what if a guest comes?"
Russell smiled and didn't speak, only taking small sips of the hot tea in his cup. The room fell into silence once again. Only the flames in the fireplace danced tirelessly.
"Russell."
"Mn?"
"What do you think this world looks like?"
Charlotte suddenly asked a question completely irrelevant to everything before her. Russell held the teacup, thought for a moment, and then answered in an uncertain tone:
"A theater."
"A theater?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow, then took a sip of tea. "That's a fitting metaphor. Only in the stalls of a theater do the tears of good people and bad people blend together. Every play is scripted; often, hearing one sentence from a character allows you to deduce their next sentence, or even the ending. That is why I don't like watching plays."
"Because it's boring?" Russell asked.
"Obviously." Charlotte nodded.
"But..."
Her voice rang out again. She turned her head, her gray-blue eyes gazing quietly at Russell through the dancing firelight.
"Occasionally, there are exceptions."
Hearing this, Russell locked eyes with her. He didn't pursue what the so-called exception was. He simply raised the teacup in his hand, gesturing gently in her direction.
"Then... to the exception."
Charlotte looked at him, looked at that tacit smile on his face, and the corners of her mouth extremely rarely hooked up into an imperceptible arc.
"To the exception."
She also raised her own cup.
Clink.
A soft sound rang out, appearing exceptionally crisp in the quiet room. The rain outside the window seemed to have lightened a little.
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