The card spun and struck Lucas, then fluttered to the floor. Lucas glanced down and recognized the black-and-white Joker on it—just as Russell had described.
Lucas couldn't hold back his anger anymore.
[Lucas's malice +20]
"What do you know?" he growled, his voice like a beast's snarl. "That's my love for her. You don't understand anything!"
"You've never seen her struggle with a design. You've never heard her sigh when inspiration runs dry late at night. You don't know anything about her—so how dare you judge me?"
He took a step forward, toes nearly brushing the Joker card.
"I'm the only one who knows what kind of coffee she likes, how she always bites her lower lip when reading, and that she waters her flowers at nine every morning."
"We understand each other. You and that detective know nothing. So what right do you have to taint all this?"
[Lucas's malice +10]
Russell listened quietly, but to Lucas, it seemed as though Russell wasn't really paying him any mind at all. He casually grabbed another biscuit and munched on it with interest.
"Are you quite done?"
Russell asked idly, chewing.
"You're right—I don't know you or understand you," he spoke slowly, deliberately. "Because I'm not a pervert who moves into someone else's house to spy on their life."
"Shut up!"
Lucas screamed in fury, as if it was the only weapon left to preserve his pitiful dignity. He snatched a pen from the bedroom and, unhesitating, stabbed at Russell's throat.
Russell stood quietly, setting the biscuit bag aside, and propped one foot on a nearby chair. Then, as Lucas charged, Russell kicked out with his right foot, sending both the chair and Lucas flying.
Lucas's thigh slammed into the chair, staggering him in pain. Russell seized the moment, lunged in, caught Lucas's wrist, and twisted it mercilessly.
Snap—the sound of bone dislocating filled the air—as did Lucas's cry of pain. The pen slipped from fingers; ink splattered everywhere.
"If your forehand isn't good, your backhand will be weak too," Russell quipped.
[Lucas: malice +30]
Without giving Lucas a chance, Russell seized his throat, slammed him to the ground, and pressed a knee to his chest. He had no intent to kill, but Lucas needed to be subdued.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door—frantic, almost as if trying to break it down.
Just as Russell turned, a deafening blast thundered through the apartment. The door had been kicked open.
Russell turned to see a pistol aimed right at his head.
· · ·
Twenty minutes earlier.
221B Baker Street.
The call had disconnected. Only the sound of the receiver being replaced echoed in the apartment.
Charlotte resumed her seat, sipped her cooling coffee, and waited for Russell to report.
Five minutes passed. The phone didn't ring.
Charlotte frowned, but soon calmed herself. Maybe persuading the old neighbor would take more time. She could wait a bit longer.
Another five minutes went by. Still, silence.
Charlotte clicked her tongue, annoyed.
"Someone needs to be prompted even for a simple report," she complained, stood up again, walked to the phone, and dialed. Only silence greeted her.
With Holly David's apartment's poor sound insulation, Russell couldn't possibly miss the call if he was next door. Yet, he didn't pick up.
That left only two possibilities: Either the arrogant fool was deliberately ignoring her, or—he was unable to answer. Perhaps the line was dead; maybe he was simply busy.
But either way, it was not a good sign.
"Tch," Charlotte replaced the receiver, donned her coat, slipped a pistol into her pocket—already loaded.
She didn't consider transportation or time costs. Her mind had already provided the optimal solution; her body just needed to carry it out.
A taxi's wheels raced through London. The scenery outside blurred and faded until she saw nothing but meaningless colors.
Ascending the stairs to Holly David's apartment, Charlotte heard screams from inside. The Charlotte from before might have analyzed the tone to determine whose scream it was, but she had no time for that now.
She knocked twice and, getting no response, resorted to the simplest, most direct, and effective method.
She stepped back two steps and raised her foot.
"Bang!!"
The ancient oak door burst open with a snap. The instant it was kicked in, time seemed to resume.
Charlotte's gaze cut through the flying wood and dust, precisely locking onto the figure at the scene's center—and everything stilled.
Her gun was aimed directly at that all-too-familiar, albeit now shocked, face.
She took in Russell's astonished look, the purple face of the man beneath him—struggling for air—the broken pen on the ground, and the Joker card beneath his feet.
In just one second, Charlotte's mind palace had processed and analyzed all the scene's information.
She had been too anxious.
"Why are you here?" Russell asked, still restraining Lucas, but curious.
"Someone wasn't replying to my messages, so I started suspecting you'd died," Charlotte replied, putting away her pistol as she stepped inside and looked down at Lucas. "So, is this the ghost?"