"Frederick, you're late!"
When Russell arrived at the entrance to Lloyd's Bank, the other security guards were already lined up, waiting.
Tommy, having arrived last, didn't try to hide his annoyance.
"Sorry… Mr. Tommy," Russell replied, copying Frederick's tone and manner, "my boarding house is a bit far from here."
"I don't care about your excuses. Next time, just don't bother coming!"
Irritated, Tommy waved his arm. "Enough wasting time already. Everyone's here, so let's get moving."
He signaled, and the security guards followed after him.
The process was smooth.
A routine body check was carried out.
Other than his usual nightstick, Russell carried nothing suspicious.
Go ahead—search me. If you find anything, you can have my surname.
System shop powers, kid.
Russell took his place at the end of the line, patiently waiting as those before him handed off their duties one by one.
Soon, they descended into the basement storage.
Down here, London's damp chill was replaced by another kind of cold—dry and sterile.
Russell noticed that Frederick's lungs likely weren't in great shape. Time spent in a place like this would inevitably bring on coughing fits, which might explain his dislike for basement shifts.
Russell hunched his shoulders and let out a few restrained, dry coughs—entirely in character.
Tommy, walking ahead, glanced back irritably, but Russell ignored him.
Instead, he observed quietly, mentally matching his surroundings with the maps he'd memorized.
"Cheer up, everyone!"
Tommy's voice echoed down the empty corridors, magnified many times.
"Your mission: not even a fly gets in here. Understand?!"
"Understood!" came the chorus, vacant and hollow, as if numbed by habit.
Russell blended in, speaking just loudly enough to merge with the background noise.
Satisfied, Tommy began assigning rotations.
"Frederick, you're teamed up with Richard. Patrol areas A-3 to A-5 every thirty minutes. Clear?"
"Yes," answered Russell and Richard in unison. They fell silent and headed to their stations.
The others drifted off to their posts.
With the handoff complete, Tommy left the basement.
Russell and Richard stood by the iron door leading to the vaults, given a revolver and a nightstick apiece.
Richard, with a thoroughly unprofessional air, slouched against the wall.
He glanced sidelong at his companion's sluggish pose, shrugged, and looked away.
Tonight would require patience.
Russell would need to wait until Tommy and the others had truly vanished before finding an excuse to leave.
As for what to steal, the system had only one requirement:
Something sealed in the vault room.
That meant: Get in, crack a vault, get the goods, and escape safely.
This was actually the simplest part.
Now, all he could do was wait.
In the hushed, amber-lit corridors beneath the building, time flowed as slowly as if set in resin.
There were no clocks.
Russell kept time by counting seconds in his head.
Before long, five minutes had passed.
Richard stood statue-like, eyes occasionally sweeping the empty hall, his numbed face unchanging.
Russell dialed his lazy act up to maximum—slouching against the cold wall, eyelids half-closed, looking ready to doze off at any moment.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the perfect, suspicion-free excuse.
Patrols cycled every thirty minutes. For the next twenty minutes, they would stand here, twin pillars guarding the emptiness.
So he waited.
Another ten minutes slipped by.
Richard shifted, unsteady on his feet.
His boots scraped the floor, echoing lightly.
At that precise moment, Russell let out a fit of harsh, hacking coughs.
"Cough cough… cough cough cough…"
Stooped over and wheezing, his fake face turned red with effort.
The noise made Richard frown in irritation.
"Frederick, keep it down," he warned in a low voice. "If Mr. Tommy hears you, kiss your bonus goodbye this month."
"Sorry… cough… it's an old problem," Russell rasped, with a feeble wave. "This cursed place—so dry and cold. My lungs… cough cough… just can't handle it."
Richard shot him another disapproving look, but seeing the man nearly coughing up his lungs, said nothing further.
"I'm going to the lavatory. Be right back," Russell said, straightening up and panting for effect.
"No, it's not time for patrol," Richard objected, shaking his head. "What if something happens?"
"Please, do you really think something will— cough, cough—?"
"No means no. Rules are rules." Richard's resolve wavered not one bit. "At least wait until patrol."
"Tch… fine, fine."
Russell clicked his tongue in frustration, pressing his back against the wall and resuming his silent count.
Finally, patrol time arrived.
"Let's go. It's our round," Richard announced, taking the lead.
Russell halted briefly, then followed, peppering their route with the occasional weary cough.
Eventually, Richard's patience ran thin. He paused and glanced back.
"Aren't you going to the lavatory? Be quick."
"Thank you."
Russell gave a grateful nod, then walked away toward the lavatory at the end of the corridor.
Once confident he was out of sight, the sickly routine melted away like a discarded disguise.
Sneaking through the passages, Russell put his complete map knowledge to use.
The most sparsely guarded vault was flagged for him on his map—quite far off, and assigned to a single guard, one Henderson.
Henderson stood by the cold iron gate, off-key humming a country song.
His eyes were unfocused, clearly having lost any sense of vigilance in his boredom.
Russell reached into his pocket; a silent system chime sounded in his mind, and he found a handkerchief in his palm.
"Good evening, Henderson."
Russell strode up and waved enthusiastically.
Henderson, startled by the unanticipated interaction, blinked.
"Frederick, what are you doing here? This isn't your sector, is it?"
"I was heading to the lavatory and happened to pass by," Russell replied with a friendly grin, advancing.
"This is no place to hang around. When this month ends, let's grab a drink, same place as last time—remember?"
"What are you babbling about—?"
Before Henderson could finish, Russell had reached him—pressing the cloth over his face.
Henderson struggled from instinct, but the soporific worked much quicker than expected.
"Relax, take a deep breath. The dizziness is perfectly normal," Russell assured him, gently lowering the body and settling it against the wall.
Done.
Only now did he turn his attention to the heavy vault door.
[Fine Lockpicking Tools – Purchase successful, Points -50]
The system notification chimed, and Russell realized he was holding a slender metal pick.
He slid the pick into the lock and deftly produced several shaped probes.
Cold metal pressed against his fingers as he listened intently for the faint, micro-level sounds from within the cylinder.
But the lock's intricacy was well beyond his expectations.
This wasn't an ordinary pin tumbler lock at all, but a double-safety, complex Swiss mechanical model.
Seconds ticked by, fine sweat beading on Russell's brow.
"Tch… what a nuisance."
He withdrew the probe, noticing its fine tip was bent from too much force.
His mask would last only thirty minutes. Every moment wasted here increased his risk.
He would need to act, and act decisively.
All the Malice he'd accumulated was meant for moments like this.
[Skill: Sleight of Hand C+ – Upgraded! Current level: C++, Malice -600]
[Remaining Malice: 1500]
[Skill: Acoustic Detection C – Enhanced! Current level: C+, Malice -300]
[Remaining Malice: 1200]
After a brief sting, a torrent of unfamiliar sensations and knowledge swept his fingertips—countless tactile memories and mechanical theories embedding themselves directly into his brain and nerves.
A warm current flooded his fingertips.
The lock's inner workings sprang vividly to mind, far clearer than before.
He felt he could almost see through the mechanism, every click and scratch mapping itself out just from sound alone.
This time, his movements were confident, precise.
With a crisp, satisfying click, the heavy steel door swung open.
Inside, the air was cold and dry. Rows of orderly safes stretched away in the shadows.
Russell wasted no time. He slid inside and quietly shut the door behind him.
To complete the task, he simply needed to extract something sealed in the vault room.
He moved toward the nearest safe, half-crouched, pressing his ear to the cold metal as he prepared to crack the code.
But as his fingers were about to touch the keypad—
BANG!
Suddenly, without warning, gunfire erupted—shattering the deathly silence of the underground vault!
A second—then a third shot echoed out.
The quiet world below had suddenly turned chaotic.
Russell froze mid-action, looking sharply at the entrance.
Where had the shots come from?
Wasn't this supposed to be a covert operation, get in and get out?
Who was the genius who decided tonight was pay day?