Timmy Roy collapsed into the chair. At that moment, he could think of nothing. The words lashing at him didn't stop, but Timmy no longer fought back.
None of it mattered anymore. It was over.
From this day, he could never again walk the halls of Imperial College London with pride. In fact, with everything revealed, he wondered if he'd even be allowed to continue his studies there.
[Timmy Roy despairs for his future; Malice Level +200]
Russell stood quietly, listening as the system notifications rang in his heart, the barest hint of a smile playing across his lips.
This had only been the appetizer. Greater things had yet to come.
Ignoring the now-broken Timmy, Russell turned to stand beside Mary and Charlotte.
"What an excuse, 'Clark Kent the journalist'." Charlotte said calmly; Mary looked on with equal curiosity. "Where did those letters really come from?"
"I'm telling the truth," Russell replied seriously. "I really did meet him on the tram."
Both Charlotte and Mary frowned at him.
"Is that so?" Charlotte asked.
"There are only two possibilities," Russell said coolly. "Either I'm telling the truth, or I'm Moriarty. Choose."
"If that's the case, I'd rather believe in Clark Kent's existence," Charlotte relented.
"So would I," Mary nodded in agreement.
Their skills were not at the highest level. Mary had witnessed the whole fight. Russell hadn't struck back, but his evasive moves suggested plenty of special training—a true novice thief could never accomplish that. Given this, she could almost rule out the possibility of Russell being the thief.
"So, on your way here, you ran into the thief—disguised as Clark Kent—just after his theft at Roy's estate, chatted, and, on realizing you were a student, he handed you the love letters?"
"Something like that," Russell shrugged.
"But didn't you suspect he was Moriarty?" Charlotte asked.
"Was I supposed to?" Russell retorted. "Even if I had, who would believe me? If you accuse a seemingly honest reporter on a tram of being Moriarty—especially after he showed me his business card?"
"What card?" Charlotte interrogated.
"It said he was a reporter for the 'Daily News'."
"And does this paper even exist in London?"
"How should I know? As far as London papers go, I only know The Guardian and The Times. Why, are you not interested in the thief?"
"Sorry. My mistake, I shouldn't have expected so much from your knowledge." Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose.
Mary, having found the argument interesting, took the chance to come in, "So, about that thief—Clark Kent—do you remember his face?"
"White shirt, black-rimmed glasses, faded tie. Didn't look like much of an elite," Russell replied.
"Could you be more specific?" Mary pressed. "Facial features, for instance?"
"Hm…" Russell frowned, as if straining to recall. "Nothing stands out."
"Nothing at all?" Mary frowned.
"In other words," she mused, "the man's so plain that every time he works, he needs a flashy mask. Or perhaps Russell Watson himself is the one with no distinct face—maybe that's why no one recalls his."
Charlotte shrugged.
"Thanks, but I am not faceless," Russell shot back.
"If he had anything memorable, I'd surely remember. But he didn't," Russell finished. "Apart from the glasses, toss him on the street and five people would look just like him."
Hearing this, Charlotte and Mary fell silent. They exchanged glances, minds communicating something only geniuses could understand.
Is he lying?
Not really… but something's odd.
Mary jotted down a mental note to check on this later. For now…
Mary's gaze strayed over Russell's shoulder—to Timmy, still slumped in the chair, a shell of a man.
"What next?"
"What else is there to do?" Russell shrugged. "Celebrate a hugely successful party, of course!"
He glanced around. The once-bustling hall was nearly empty. Most guests had quietly chosen to leave early, not wanting to get embroiled in this farce between heirs of wealthy families. The few who remained huddled in corners, quietly whispering.
The music had stopped, and after a moment's hesitation, some of Timmy's friends finally dared to lift him from the chair, intent on whisking him away.
"Russell Watson…" Timmy gazed dully as he passed. "It's all your fault—"
"You're welcome," Russell replied lightly, as though bidding farewell to an old friend, raising his glass as he did. "Take care out there. Don't trip on the way home."
[Timmy Roy's humiliation and grudge peak: malice +130]
After watching Timmy's disheveled figure disappear at the door, Russell turned away with satisfaction.
Current malice balance: 900.
It truly was a fruitful night!
Filled with the joy of the harvest, he turned to his companions, "Let's go."
"No reason to stay here," Charlotte nodded vaguely, Mary smiling in agreement.
And so, under the gaze of a few remaining guests, the three of them left together. Cool night air blew away the perfume and alcohol-laden gloom of the hall.
They walked along the paved campus path beneath moonlight, their shadows stretching behind.
As Mary approached the gate, her eyes landed on a black carriage waiting by the street. It had been there a while; at her appearance, the coachman nodded.
The girl's smile gradually faded, as if waking from a beautiful dream. She took a deep breath and forced a cheerful look once more.
"My coachman's arrived," she said, pointing at the carriage. "I'll go now. See you the day after tomorrow, Russell. And may I call you Charlotte?"
"Fine, but I doubt I'll see you the day after," Charlotte shrugged.
"That's okay." Mary smiled at Russell.
"See you the day after tomorrow, Mary," he said.
Mary waved to both of them, her moon-white skirt fluttering like a lily about to fade into the darkness. With a final look back, she walked gracefully toward the pitch-black carriage bearing the Morstan family crest.
"Go…"
She murmured quietly. "It's time to go home."