He might be that lazybones who always sleeps through class, shows no interest in anything, and shamelessly asks others for their notes afterward.
He might be that dance partner at a social mixer, who, ignoring all the watching eyes, walked toward her against the light and danced with her in the middle of the floor.
He might also be that legendary thief, who wears a cold mask at midnight and spits out the most insulting words in the lightest, most frivolous tone—yet somehow brings a sliver of hope at the most desperate moment.
He can be someone who can do anything, and also someone who can do nothing at all.
Like a perfect chameleon, he can change himself into the least noticeable, or the most eye-catching, depending on his surroundings and his own needs.
And all the while, he himself had no idea, and foolishly talked to that side of himself about his other identity again and again.
As a result, he had said so many things that now, just thinking of them makes him want to cover his face.
How am I supposed to describe exactly how I felt back then?
Was it anger, or was it ecstasy—or both?
Moonlight streamed in through the window and lit up the girl's face, bringing out a blush that was a mix of embarrassment and delight.
"What an utterly unpleasant… Russell Watson."
Mary murmured softly. Her usual kindness and gentleness had completely vanished from those blue eyes.
In their place, an almost pathological fanaticism spread.
She picked up the notebook and casually flipped through the pages. A hurried scrawl—yet an all too familiar handwriting—leapt into view, and it seemed to carry a mocking sneer.
"Very well done," the girl said, closing the notebook. But the smile on her lips gradually turned dangerous.
"You like to act, don't you? Then I'll play along with you to the very end and see who breaks down first."
…
The next day.
London had still not recovered from the tremendous shock Moriarty had caused.
For Phineas Black and others like him, that newspaper was no different from Gabriel's trumpet.
To them, Judgment Day had truly arrived.
The instant the scandal broke, Buckingham Palace was the first to react.
While swiftly and decisively dealing with the named individuals one by one in the papers, they maintained complete silence regarding Moriarty's visit.
Likewise, the newspapers collectively, if tacitly, avoided spending time on that matter in the next morning's edition, and instead shifted their focus to the criminals being put on trial.
There was only one exception.
While other newspapers were still basking in the glory of profit-sharing, one paper had already set up its own table—taking the chance to land a vicious blow on its competitors.
Today's headline in The Guardian was about Lloyds Bank.
There was no Moriarty, and no Judgment Day.
Only a huge, striking headline:
[The Collapse of Integrity: Lloyds Bank Accused of Deceiving Customers and Covering Up Major Theft!]
Written in a highly provocative yet eloquent style, the report laid out Lloyds Bank's crimes in detail.
To avoid enormous compensation claims following the heist, they had colluded with The Times to conceal the truth of the theft from the public and from their customers.
The author deftly portrayed Lloyds Bank as arrogant, greedy, dishonest capitalists who cared nothing for their clients' interests, and The Times as their accomplice, willing to sell out journalistic ethics for an exclusive scoop.
As evidence, the appendix to the report included copies of commercial contracts owned by the Morstan family—documents that should have been stored in Lloyds' vault.
The proof was unmistakable, black and white.
This article, like a bomb, drove even deeper fissures into a London that Moriarty had only just turned upside down.
Before long, crowds of protestors gathered outside Lloyds Bank, and many nobles who had dealings with the bank also began applying pressure, calling for a thorough investigation.
The moment the market opened, the bank's stock price plummeted. Countless investors lost everything.
The Times found itself in just as dire a situation.
They quickly held a press conference, trying to distance themselves from the scandal, claiming it was all due to deceit on Lloyds Bank's part.
According to them, Lloyds had informed their reporters that there had been no losses at all in the underground vaults, which had led to The Times' misjudgment and erroneous reporting.
Despite this swift response, The Times' sales were still severely affected.
Of course, none of this was Russell's concern.
What mattered most to him right now was returning the music box to Princess Louise.
This time was different from last time.
Last time, he had given them seven days and then stolen the music box from them. This time, he was demanding to return it seven days later.
Although the exact time had not been set, Buckingham Palace would undeniably begin tightening security from today onward.
But that was fine. The props had already been prepared in advance.
They understood they had to strengthen security and prevent intruders from getting in from the outside.
But who would have imagined that he wouldn't even use the front door?
I won't use the front door, he thought. And I won't use the side entrance, either.
I can't help laughing at the queen's lack of strategy and Mycroft's lack of wit.
Oi, what will you do if I just teleport in? If you're so capable, try stopping me right at the teleportation point.
Unfortunately for them, they couldn't block that.
Humming a tune that was half a key off, Russell slowly made his way to the lecture hall.
To his surprise, Mary had arrived very early today.
No sooner had Russell stepped through the door than he saw a familiar figure in a familiar seat.
She seemed to be in an excellent mood.
The girl sat in her usual place, bathed in warm sunlight, a book of poetry in her hands, quietly reading.
Her beautiful blue eyes shone with a gentle smile, like the surface of a spring lake. It was as if the storm raging outside had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
"You're here quite early today."
Russell sat down beside her and casually set the newspaper he'd bought on the desk.
"Good morning, Mr. Russell."
Mary closed her poetry book and turned to him with a bright smile.
"You seem to be in a good mood today," Russell asked curiously. "Did something good happen?"
"Well… something like that."
Mary did not deny it. Instead, she pointed out the window.
"It's such a lovely day."
Following her gaze, Russell looked outside. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue—a rare spell of truly fine weather.
"Speaking of which," Mary said, turning her eyes to The Guardian, "London is really lively today."
"Yeah." Russell nudged the newspaper toward her. "Have you read it yet?"
"Of course." Mary picked up the paper and glanced at the front page. There was a just-right mix of surprise and schadenfreude in her tone.
"I never would've thought Lloyds Bank would do something like this. They're in serious trouble now."
"Was this your father's idea?"
Russell asked the question casually, without thinking too much about it.
"He held back for a full week before exposing them in The Guardian. He really has a talent for enduring hardship."
"To achieve great things, you always need patience."
Mary did not deny it.
Her gaze lightly brushed over the newspaper, then, without her even noticing, drifted back to Russell.
"Strictly speaking, we should thank Moriarty for this."
As she said this, she carefully watched Russell's reaction.
"Why would he choose to give those documents to me," she asked, "after stealing them from Lloyds' vault, instead of returning them to the bank?"
…