Guided by Tommy, Russell slipped through an inconspicuous side door, leaving the splendid marble hall and warm lighting behind. The air was thick with largely forgotten paper and metal scents—the bones behind the bank's glamorous face.
Tommy's smile became almost servile, trying to make conversation.
"First time auditing this branch, Mr. Kent? I hope the environment isn't making you uncomfortable."
"I'm not here to enjoy the environment, Mr. Tommy," Russell's tone was flat and official. He silently noted the wall thickness, vent placements, security thresholds.
"My only concern is the safety of clients' assets."
"Of course, of course!" Tommy nodded rapidly, sweat beading on his brow.
They walked through the chilly, concrete-walled corridor, intermittent dim blast-proof lights above stretching and shrinking their shadows—a pair of invisible ghosts in pursuit.
"How are the vault guards arranged?"
"Two per post. One with a shotgun, the other with a revolver and baton—standard issue," Tommy answered. "There's also high-pressure steam and tear gas installed in the ceiling, triggered by forced entry."
"How often is maintenance?"
"Weekly—every Saturday at 11 p.m., after hours."
"And natural disaster mitigation?"
"There's a special underground safety tunnel for vaults. If an earthquake strikes, guards use it to return above."
Russell nodded.
They moved deeper. Occasionally, Russell asked a question—sometimes idly, sometimes on points he needed to know.
"How often do the vault guards rotate?"
"One month. Duty in the underground vault relieves you from two months of regular duty. One-month cooling-off periods for everyone—strictly enforced."
"There's a list?"
"We have a few."
"Let me see them later. I need to check them all."
"Of course..."
They walked through, Russell glancing at each iron-gated door—it hid a private vault. Any London notable owned at least one.
"What encryption method is used for personal vaults?" Russell asked abruptly. "Wheel, or key?"
"Both," Tommy answered after pausing. "Every safe can be opened with a key or password. Two keys for each—one for the client, the other for backup. The password is known only to the client, never asked, and the vaults are custom-made. Not even explosives could open them."
"I see," Russell nodded, taking mental notes.
After completing his required checks, Russell ended the spot inspection.
"That's all for today. Tommy, be proud—everything's in order."
Tommy looked nearly in tears with relief as he handed Russell a members' umbrella.
Russell took it, exiting into the rain, the suit jacket fading into a khaki trench coat as he walked—an illusion crafted by the system for only 50 points. For a true master thief's outfit with real power, he'd need to spend much more.
…
Back at Baker Street, Russell handed his umbrella to a passerby, pulled up his trench coat hood, and walked the short distance back to 221B, a little damp but unconcerned. Most important was leaving no trace.
Opening the door, warmth swept away the last chill. Mrs. Hudson was napping; only the wall lamp lit the living room shadows.
Russell moved quietly up the stairs. Passing Charlotte's room, he glanced in curiously—the door ajar, firelight flickering.
Charlotte had moved her armchair by the hearth, draped in a large bathrobe, dark curls unkempt, absorbed in the paper. She glanced up when Russell entered, then back down.
Russell, removing his wet trench coat and throwing it over a chair, drew his own seat by the fire, savoring the warmth.
"It's very cold today."
"Where did you go?" Charlotte asked.
"Bank. Made a deposit," Russell replied honestly. "I sold Timmy Roy's story to The Times and earned a tidy sum."
Charlotte raised her eyebrows but clearly wasn't bothered.
Quiet fell, punctuated only by the crackle of flames and rain against the windows.
Charlotte stopped reading, looking across the paper at Russell—studying his wet hair, water dripping from the ends onto his collar, his thin hand stretched toward the fire, knuckles pale with cold, finally relaxing like a stray finding a fireplace after a long search.
"Is it cold outside?"
"I'll feel better soon," Russell said without turning.
Charlotte would probably try to guess how long he'd been outside from his skin color and hand temperature—as always. Surprisingly, Charlotte did not.
She simply rose, set her paper aside, and walked to the coffee table. There, a tea set forwarded by Mrs. Hudson sat almost unused.
Charlotte filled the teapot, poured in hot water, and soon a soft steam obscured her typically remote face.
Russell watched curiously as she prepared the tea.
"You seem to enjoy mixing with those kinds of people," Charlotte remarked offhandedly. "Who are they, anyway?"
"Newspaper editors, businessmen, young noblemen... even Mycroft," Charlotte listed.
"Life forced me to," Russell smiled quietly, putting his hands in his pockets. "Orphans must learn to read the faces of others."
Charlotte didn't argue. She poured hot tea into two cups, took one to Russell, and handed it to him.
"Here."
He accepted—the smooth, warm porcelain banishing every trace of chill.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Charlotte replied casually, returning to her chair and picking up her newspaper, though her gaze did not fall on it. "You ought to thank Mrs. Hudson. She's the one who told me to make an extra cup for guests."
Russell only smiled and sipped his tea. Silence returned, filled only by the flicker of flames.
"Russell."
"Yes?"
"What do you think of the world?" Charlotte suddenly asked, a question unrelated to anything before.
Russell thought for a moment.
"A theater."
"A theater?" Charlotte arched an eyebrow, sipped her tea. "Quite an apt analogy."
"Only in the theater do the good and the wicked cry together. Every play is thoroughly planned. Sometimes, from a single line a character speaks, you can guess all that will follow and even the ending. That's why I don't like plays."
"Because they're boring?" Russell asked.
"Naturally." Charlotte nodded. "But..."
Her voice lingered in the air. She turned and stared at Russell through the wavering glow with those gray-blue eyes.
"Sometimes, there are exceptions."
Russell met her gaze, not probing for details, but—raising his cup—gestured gently in her direction.
"Then... let's make an exception."
Charlotte looked at him—at the meaningful smile on his lips and the rare, nearly imperceptible curve of her own.
"Respect is the exception," she said.
She raised her glass as well.
"Cheers."
In the quiet room, the gentle sound of glasses touching rang especially clear. Outside, the rain seemed to soften.