After leaving Buckingham Palace, Russell arrived on Fleet Street.
Instead of using the magical tool he had prepared in advance, he chose to swing back with a grappling hook. The security at Buckingham Palace turned out not to be as strict as he had imagined. Because of that, the anchor point he had set up beforehand on Baker Street was no longer necessary.
Of course, there was no need to worry about wasting it. He would have to return the music box sooner or later anyway.
Once tomorrow's morning papers reported that he had snuck into Buckingham Palace, it would hardly be easy to get back in again.
So, before leaving Buckingham Palace, he used some Malice Points to buy a new one and reset the anchor, making sure he could come back next time.
After one fan meeting, another awaited him. His schedule today was truly packed.
Russell took a deep breath and checked over the evidence he had gathered in the past seven days, as well as the small souvenir he had casually taken with him before leaving Buckingham Palace, both tucked safely in his pocket.
Then he climbed up and stood on the back of the several meter tall black iron fire dragon statue in the middle of Fleet Street, a megaphone in his hand.
"Hmm…" Russell cleared his throat, drew in a breath, raised the megaphone, and shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Good evening, all you fine newspaper people of Fleet Street!"
The sound, amplified by the loudhailer, thundered through the stillness of the night like a bolt from the blue, shattering the drowsy silence of Fleet Street in an instant.
"Your good friend and neighbor, Moriarty, has come to deliver your Christmas presents!"
For a heartbeat, the whole of Fleet Street seemed to freeze.
In that same moment, editors, reporters, proofreaders—everyone in the newspaper offices—stopped what they were doing all at once.
They had been waiting all night.
They had begun waiting the moment the clock struck midnight yesterday. They had been waiting for the curtain to rise on the play Moriarty had promised.
They had waited from noon to night, from sunrise to sunset, yet saw and heard nothing of him.
Just when everyone felt sure they had been fooled—at that precise moment, just as they were about to give up—they finally heard his voice.
In that instant, countless heads snapped upward. Bloodshot eyes flickered first with confusion and absurdity, then almost instantly burned with frenzied excitement.
"God above, it's Moriarty!"
No one knew who shouted it first.
But right after that, the whole of Fleet Street erupted into uproar, as if a massive boulder had been hurled into a still lake.
"Hurry! Get to the roof!"
"Photographer! Where's the photographer?! Bring the flash!"
"He's there! On top of the monument!"
The brightly lit newspaper buildings suddenly looked like overturned hornets' nests. People swarmed to the windows to peer outside or poured out through the front doors in a chaotic flood.
Like pilgrims, they craned their necks with a mixture of awe and feverish devotion, staring up at the massive fire dragon statue in the middle of the street.
And there, upon the back of the fierce black iron fire dragon, a lone figure had appeared.
He wore a well tailored black trench coat and his trademark white mask. Under the cool moonlight, he radiated a solitary, mysterious aura, like some midnight god descended to earth.
Flashes burst like clustered stars, streaking madly across every corner of the street as photographers tried to capture this historic moment.
The hum of the crowd, the frantic clatter of camera shutters, and the incoherent shouts of overexcited reporters all mingled together into a strange symphony dedicated to the phantom thief.
This was the first time any of them had laid eyes on Moriarty himself.
His face was impossible to see beneath the mask and cloak, and yet—
Russell stood atop the towering statue, looking down at the chaos he had unleashed. Beneath the mask, his lips curved into a satisfied smile.
This was the moment he had been waiting for.
"Quiet."
He turned up the volume on the loudhailer once more. The sound was not deafening, yet it clearly reached every ear.
The once noisy street fell silent as if by miracle.
Holding their breath, everyone gazed up at the figure high above, just as theatergoers wait for the leading actor to deliver the next line.
"To my dear friends of the press, and to everyone who works so hard to keep this city running," Russell's voice rang out from the speaker into the still night sky.
"I do apologize for dragging all of you out of your warm offices on such a cold night."
He paused, his tone laced with just the right touch of playful teasing.
"But with a grand performance about to begin, surely no one would mind a little overtime?"
A ripple of irrepressible, good natured laughter rose from the crowd.
"Of course we don't!" a reporter shouted back.
"In that case, let's get straight to the point."
Russell casually tossed the loudhailer away and let it fall from the sky. A small gasp and murmur ran through the crowd as all eyes followed it down.
Then, under their collective gaze, he reached into the inner pocket of his trench coat.
At that moment, everyone felt their hearts leap into their throats.
They did not know what he kept in that pocket—but they knew that whatever it was would become the biggest story in all of London tonight, and for the week to come.
Russell slowly pulled out a thick stack of documents.
Records of bribes received by the Chancellor of the Exchequer; smuggling ledgers belonging to a certain businessman; and scandalous letters exchanged between an earl and his stepdaughter—these were the fruits of his travels through the wealthy districts of London over the past seven days, now resting quietly in the palm of his hand.
Each sheet represented a scandal that could make the upper classes tremble.
Each piece of paper was heavy enough to crush an eminent family.
"Here is your overtime pay."
He spoke softly, his voice not loud, yet to everyone's ears it boomed like thunder.
And as the crowd stared in disbelief, Russell spread his arms wide.
He scattered all that damning evidence—enough to plunge society into chaos—into the night sky like seeds of hope.
"Let the curtain rise!"
Countless yellowed sheets of paper whirled, danced, and fluttered in the night wind like butterflies given life.
They poured down onto the streets, into the crowd, and into the outstretched, trembling hands reaching up to grab them.
The onlookers went utterly wild.
The reporters, like sharks smelling blood, hurled themselves fearlessly at the headlines raining from the sky, shouting and scrambling over one another. The atmosphere at the scene surged toward the very limits of chaos and violence.
Yet just as everyone's attention was fixed on the fluttering sheets in the damp air, something else appeared in Russell's hand.
It was a small snuffbox, made of pure gold and inlaid with tiny rubies.
Its craftsmanship was exquisite, and the royal crest engraved on the lid was clearly visible.
Even from a distance, anyone with decent eyesight, upon seeing the snuffbox in the composite photographs later, would be able to tell exactly what it was.
It was part of the Buckingham Palace collection.
Russell toyed with the snuffbox in his hand, savoring the cold metal gliding across his fingertips.
He said nothing, yet through that simple gesture, he quietly told everyone something else.
This was proof that tonight's performance had been a complete success.
Then, as if tossing away a useless pebble, he casually flung the priceless snuffbox into the crowd.
After finishing all this, Russell clapped his hands with the contentment of an artist who had just completed his masterpiece and prepared to leave.
He took one last look at the chaotic yet vibrant scene at his feet, and a faint smile touched his lips beneath the mask.
"Well then, good night, Fleet Street."
He spoke quietly, then gave the crowd below a graceful bow.
The moment those words left his mouth, a puff of black smoke silently exploded at the phantom thief's feet.
"Poof."
It was that familiar, soft sound that always heralded the falling of the curtain.
Smoke billowed and spread, swallowing up the surroundings and blotting out all sight.
By the time the reporters finally calmed down enough to tear their eyes away from the papers and look back up at the fire dragon statue, the figure atop it was gone.
Only the cold moonlight remained, shining icily down on the black iron statue, as if all that had just happened were nothing more than a grand, absurd dream jointly imagined by the people of Fleet Street.
Only the scattered evidence clutched tightly in countless hands, and the snuffbox glinting as it changed owners again and again within the crowd, silently testified that it had all been real.
…