As night deepened, 221B Baker Street sank into utter silence.
The flames in the fireplace had already gone out, leaving only a few crimson embers still flickering within.
Russell opened his eyes without a sound and sat up in bed.
He closed them again, listening carefully for a moment, confirming the movements within the house.
Mrs. Hudson had already gone to sleep, and Charlotte seemed to have retired as well.
Good.
Russell rolled out of bed, dragged a case out from underneath it, and took out the Phantom Thief outfit inside.
After putting the clothes on, Russell lowered his head and glanced at the leather case.
Never mind—when he came back tonight, he'd think of some way to stash this outfit somewhere else.
As for this case… he could just stuff a couple of summer garments inside to pad it out.
Thinking this, Russell kicked the leather case back under the bed, then went to the window, vaulted out, and melted into the night.
London tonight was far colder than usual—just breathing out produced a conspicuous white mist.
Fortunately, the Phantom Thief outfit came with quite a few features. Not only was it stab-proof and fireproof, its insulation was also second to none.
If the thing weren't a little too flashy, Russell would honestly have treated it as casual wear.
According to the plan, tonight he intended to make a trip to Fleet Street first.
Not to visit The Times, nor The Guardian, but to visit that little tabloid office.
Of course, he certainly wasn't going there for revenge.
He was merely going to have a friendly, courteous, and equal little conversation with their editor-in-chief.
The steel cable of the grappling hook gun carved a cold arc through the air, precisely hooking onto the eaves of a distant building.
He swung through mid-air like a pendulum, weaving through this jungle of steel and brick—elegant and lethal.
Next stop, Fleet Street.
That obscure little newspaper office sat in an inconspicuous corner of the street.
Compared to the buildings of The Times and The Guardian, it looked exceptionally shabby.
Even the sign on its outer wall had rusted and peeled under the wash of time, teetering precariously in the cold wind.
Russell landed soundlessly on the rooftop across from the newspaper office, crouched down, and began to observe.
The lights inside the office were still on, and a few listless-looking editors were slumped over their desks, dozing.
Clearly, the reversal of public opinion brought about by The Guardian and The Times had dealt them no small blow.
After confirming the general distribution of personnel, Russell stood up, leapt down from the rooftop, and at the same time reached out to lightly pat his clothes.
Accompanied by the deduction of 50 Malice Points, a temporary set of casual, warm attire replaced the original Phantom Thief outfit.
Russell brushed himself off, then walked toward the door and pushed it open, striding straight in.
"Ding-a-ling—"
The bell hanging on the door let out a crisp jingle, startling awake the several editors slumped over their desks.
Bleary-eyed, when they saw the young man at the door in a thick overcoat and a scarf, they couldn't help but freeze for a moment.
"Sorry, we're already closed," said one of the men who looked like the editor-in-chief.
"I know," Russell said, stepping into the room. "I'm not here to buy a newspaper."
"Then what are you here for?" The editor-in-chief furrowed his brow. "If you've got some piece of news to sell…"
"I'm not here to sell news either," Russell cut him off.
"I'm here to ask you a few questions," he said. "On Mr. Moriarty's behalf."
As the words fell, the still-groggy editors instantly snapped awake, as though drenched from head to toe in ice water.
They exchanged a terrified glance, and then the man who looked like the editor-in-chief jerked his head toward Russell.
"Moriarty… Mr. Moriarty?" he stammered.
"He… what business does he have with us?"
"What do you think, gentlemen?" Russell smiled, tossing the question back at them.
"What do you think Mr. Moriarty might want with you?"
As he spoke, he pulled over a chair and, under everyone's frightened, uneasy gazes, sat down leisurely, his posture as casual as if he were the master of the place.
Or rather, he came across like some petty townsman borrowing another's ferocity to bully—strutting about, issuing orders to others on the strength of Moriarty's name.
"I… we…" The editor-in-chief's throat went dry. Looking at this messenger of Moriarty before him, he was at a loss for what to say.
"Please rest assured, gentlemen," Russell turned his gaze toward him with a gentle smile.
"Mr. Moriarty says he has no intention of blaming you," he said.
At these words, the others instinctively looked up, expressions of pleasant surprise appearing on their faces.
"Re… really?"
"Of course," Russell nodded. "He says you're all newspapermen, and he can understand your motives for doing what you did.
He also admits that he did indeed overlook the interests of some of the smaller tabloids, so he doesn't blame you."
"Th… thank you, Mr. Moriarty!"
"Don't be so quick to thank him," Russell's tone shifted abruptly, cutting off what the man was about to say next.
"Although Mr. Moriarty doesn't blame you, that doesn't mean this matter simply passes by just like that."
As the words fell, the hope that had only just risen in the hearts of everyone in the office plummeted back into the abyss in an instant.
The editor-in-chief's face turned pale once again. "Then… then what does Mr. Moriarty intend to do?"
"It's very simple," Russell leaned back against the chair, crossing his legs, his hands folded together.
"Mr. Moriarty wants to know who sold the news to you.
Every grievance has its source, every debt its debtor—he doesn't plan to trouble you, but someone has to pay the price for this, don't they?"
Russell looked at the editor-in-chief, meeting those eyes that seemed like a drowning man catching sight of a straw, and slowly spoke:
"This is the sincerity Mr. Moriarty hopes to see.
He doesn't ask for much—only a name, one accurate name."
At these words, the editor-in-chief looked at the young messenger before him, at those pitch-black eyes, feeling the pressure emanating from him that did not belong to someone of his age.
Though he knew this young man before him was merely borrowing another's ferocity, merely putting on airs on the strength of Moriarty's name—
and yet… there was nothing they could do.
He had no doubt that if he refused, then tomorrow—no, perhaps it wouldn't even take until tomorrow.
The moment that single "no" left his mouth, within five minutes the other newspapers would receive an exposé about him—one enough to destroy this entire office.
He had no choice at all.
Or rather, what reason did he have to say no?
That woman—it was all because of the false news she'd brought that he was in his current predicament.
In just a few sentences, she had given them a roller-coaster ride from heaven to hell.
What reason did he have to protect her privacy?
"I understand," the editor-in-chief drew a deep breath.
"That woman is the maid of the Hannigan household," he said.
"The name," Russell's tone remained calm.
"Emily," the editor-in-chief answered.
"Emily Collins."
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