Night.
Deep in the muddy, forgotten alleys of the Southwark district, beyond even the reach of the gas lamps, thick smoke filled the upstairs room of a bar—smoke as dense as London fog.
The air stung the eyes with the sharp odor of cheap gin, wet wool, and cheap cigarettes.
A burly man sat wiping a knuckle-knife with an oily rag.
Across from him, a skinny man, his fingers trembling with nerves, repeatedly took apart and reassembled a dial-lock's cylinder.
The room's owner always sat hidden in the shadows, showing only a hand adorned with a brass ring as he quietly smoked.
This was London's underworld.
"Creak…"
The old door opened just a crack.
A boy in a beret slipped in.
He couldn't have been more than ten, but his face bore a blank, numb expression far older than his years.
Saying nothing, the boy moved forward, laying a spotless letter on the table, and then silently retreated.
The two men in the room stopped what they were doing, eyes drawn to the letter.
The man in the shadows raised a hand to pick it up, stroking it with his fingers.
The paper was clearly of exceptional quality—the kind that emanated the air of the upper class.
He unfolded it, eyes quickly passing over the delicate handwriting.
The man finished reading, lowering his gaze to the signature.
[The Professor]
The Professor.
In London's criminal underworld, that name spoke of one thing alone: authority.
As if, tiring of the blundering ways of criminals, the Professor had written a textbook of crime himself.
Every time the name appeared, it meant a perfect crime had taken place.
Yet for the past year, the name had vanished, disappearing as mysteriously as it had first arrived.
No one knew who the Professor was, or whether he was even still alive.
That is, until three days ago, when a letter bearing that forgotten signature landed on his desk.
The letter was entirely businesslike, offering no formalities or greetings—just a direct explanation of the layout and security of Lloyd's Bank's lobby.
At first, the man had no idea what it meant. It read like an incomplete manual, nothing more than an empty outline of a target.
But then came the second and third letters—each day, a new message appeared, every one providing deeper insights and analysis into Lloyd's Bank.
Including this one, it was now the fourth letter received this week.
Instead of lengthy explanations, this one provided complete, detailed instructions for the coming operation.
The man stared silently at the letter.
The precise, delicate handwriting could not have been forged, and the plan itself was too elegant to be meaningless.
Only one requirement:
Pick a certain vault door, open it, and empty the safe within.
It sounded almost ridiculously simple.
For this, the Professor had even thoughtfully provided a combination code for one of the vaults. Which safe in particular was not stated—meaning they would have to try each one.
"He vanishes for a whole year, and his first move back is a heist against London's largest private bank…?"
The man murmured to himself, letting out a quiet laugh.
Still, orchestrating a job for the Professor was an honor—and if they succeeded, if they cracked Lloyd's tremor-proof underground vault, the payout could keep him comfortable for life.
"All right. Gather the men."
He called to his underlings.
"We're about to pull off something big."
…
Frederick slumped in his battered old chair and stuffed the last greasy bite of meat pie into his mouth, then grabbed the wine jug off the table and downed it straight from the spout.
Caustic whiskey burned down his throat, driving out the bone-deep chill that clung to his body.
This meal finished, it would soon be time for his next shift.
Truth be told, he really hated working in that dark, dismal place.
Sure, he knew that the place was filled with noblemen's gold and silver treasures—perhaps even things more valuable than gold and silver.
But what did it matter? They'd never be his, and never could be.
He was merely a watchman—just a guard dog for the rich.
Would the bank pay him a penny more just because he did his job well?
No.
He gave a satisfied belch, the air thick with the mingled smells of gravy and cheap liquor.
Sinking back into his chair, he closed his eyes, planning to savor the last few moments of peace before this shift was done.
Strangely, a heavy drowsiness began to settle over him after dinner.
But that was surely just the whiskey's fault, Frederick thought.
He really shouldn't have had the wine. He'd just get scolded later, but if he missed the chance tonight, who knew when it would come again?
At worst, he'd just splash his face with cold water to wake himself up.
Thinking thus, he grasped the banister and pulled himself to his feet.
But the world seemed to spin the moment he stood up, streaks of lamplight blurring in his eyes.
At last, his vision went completely black.
Before he could even shout, all strength left his limbs and he collapsed to the floor.
Thud.
That dull sound was the last thing to echo through the apartment.
All was silent again.
A further five minutes passed.
Once it was certain the man on the floor was truly unconscious, a shadowy figure emerged from the near-darkness.
"It's done. It's done."
Russell strode over to Frederick, half-crouching down, and pressed two fingers to Frederick's throat to check his pulse.
Steady, but weak.
The special sleeping drug he'd slipped into the whiskey worked even better than expected.
Without hesitation, and with practiced speed, Russell began stripping the still-warm security uniform off Frederick.
The cloth was coarse, cuffs frayed, and it bore a faint scent of sweat and tobacco.
Russell didn't care. The uniform was a bit large on him, but he wore it without complaint.
Next, he pulled something out of his pocket—a small, soft lump of translucent gel.
Imitation Soft Rubber:
a disposable facial prop that can perfectly simulate the facial features of anyone he's seen in the past hour.
[Price: 100 Malice Points.]
Russell smeared the soft adhesive over his face, a cool sensation spreading.
Then, as if alive, the gel began to creep and expand, slowly covering all of his features.
For a moment, he felt a strange tingle, as if his bone structure were subtly shifting.
Russell stepped over to the cracked, full-length mirror—the only clean-ish one in the room.
Staring back was no longer the sharp-eyed young Russell Watson.
Instead, he saw a pale, baggy-eyed, exhausted, and nondescript middle-aged man.
Frederick.
Russell forced a smile, and his reflection returned the same awkward, stiff smirk.
Perfect.
"Time to get to work."
…