"Emily Collins"
Russell repeated the name and nodded. "Excellent. I believe you've made a very wise choice."
As he spoke, he rose from his chair, returned it to its original position, and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he paused at the threshold, turned back, and swept his gaze over the people inside the newspaper office. Their faces were etched with the relief of survivors who had just escaped disaster.
"Gentlemen, please do not forget," he said, instantly raising everyone's attention and vigilance to its peak. "Mr. Moriarty is a generous man." His voice was quiet, yet it carried a chilling undertone. "He will forgive a first mistake, but it would be best not to repeat it a second time. After all, every person's patience has its limits… wouldn't you agree?"
The moment he finished speaking, Russell turned, pushed open the door, and vanished into the darkness of the night outside.
The office fell deathly silent.
Only after Russell had been gone for some time did someone finally speak in a trembling voice. "Are we… safe?"
It was clearly a question, yet the instant the words left his mouth, they sounded strangely certain.
The editor-in-chief collapsed weakly into his chair. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back, making him feel utterly miserable. The other editors were panting heavily, like drowning men who had just been pulled to the surface and were gasping for their first breath of fresh air.
No one answered. Every gaze remained fixed on the entrance, staring at the darkness beyond the glass doors—as though a man-eating monster lurked just outside.
…
Russell's silhouette glided across the night sky above Southwark. He looked down at the living painting of streets below, crossed several roads, and finally descended above the Southwark district. With effortless precision he reached his destination: Hannigan's mansion.
The once-glamorous residence now stood silent and deserted. Hannigan had died without marrying or having children. Part of his enormous fortune had been donated in full to charitable organizations according to the will he had drafted to polish his public image. Most of the remainder had been divided among heirs, leaving only this house behind.
Whether because of the death or for some other reason, the mansion had been left to rot. Southwark's security was already poorer than other districts; this was the very heart of the central area, where patrolling constables were unlikely to allow vagrants inside. Needless to say, Hannigan's residence sat squarely in the middle of it all.
At that moment the mansion was completely empty—no sign of life anywhere.
After Hannigan's death the servants had all been dismissed and had found work elsewhere. Obviously, Emily Collins was not here either.
What a pointless trip.
Russell scratched his head, then finally decided to spend 50 malice points to customize a map of Emily Collins' residence. It was far simpler than searching building by building or visiting Scotland Yard to comb through archives.
As the malice points was stripped from his heart, a three-dimensional map slowly formed in Russell's mind. The lines were crisp and accurate, as though drawn by the most skilled cartographer. The map unfolded inside his head, beginning with the outline of the entire city before rapidly pinpointing the tangled streets of Southwark. Finally it narrowed down to a relatively old apartment building in the Woolworth district.
"Found it," Russell murmured.
Without hesitation he rose, swung his grappling hook, and soared into the night sky like a crow, heading straight for Woolworth.
The apartment complex was far more dilapidated than Russell had imagined. Years of wind and rain had eroded most of the bricks and stone, exposing the dark-gray underlayer. The narrow stairwell was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of wall-mounted gas lamps. A thick, complex odor hung in the air—long enough exposure might make one imagine contracting tuberculosis.
Russell changed into worn clothes and quietly climbed to the third floor. These apartments had no balconies, let alone any easy way to enter through windows. Changing clothes had been the simpler option.
Emily Collins' room was at the very end of the third-floor corridor. The paint on the door was peeling, revealing cheap, rough wood beneath. He stood before it and listened for a long moment. No sound came from inside. She was probably asleep.
He took a lockpick from his pocket and slowly inserted it into the rusty keyhole. For Russell, opening this old-fashioned cylinder lock was no more difficult than opening a tin of luncheon meat. If it didn't open within three seconds, the order would be considered void.
Click—
With a faint metallic click the lock opened. Russell gently pushed the door ajar, slipped inside, and closed it soundlessly behind him.
The room was small and sparsely furnished: a single bed, a tiny table, a chair, and a slightly worn wardrobe. That was essentially everything.
Russell glanced around. Emily was not on the bed. She wasn't home.
He frowned. At this late hour, where could a woman like her possibly have gone? Had they already found another buyer, or had she fled with the fifty pounds out of fear of retaliation?
Yet if she had moved, the system's customized map would no longer point here. The map-customization function was not nearly as user-friendly as it sounded and still carried significant restrictions. Most importantly, the target's identity had to be confirmed first. For example, unless Russell knew the professor's true identity, he could not directly customize a map to the professor's address. Second, the customized map only revealed the target's "residence," not a "hideout." Therefore this method was unsuitable for locating Bilson. Had the previous operation succeeded, Russell would already have extracted Bilson and delivered him to Lestrade's doorstep.
By contrast, the blind-box map offered greater variety but also far higher uncertainty. In theory he might obtain a map showing both Bilson's and the professor's locations through the blind box—but that was purely theoretical. In theory he could also become a billionaire by buying a lottery ticket.
With that thought, Russell began searching the apartment for any trace Emily Collins might have left behind. She had made no effort to erase signs of her presence when she left. The clothes in the wardrobe remained exactly as they were; the cosmetics on the table had been neatly returned to their places. The entire room gave the impression that its owner had only stepped out for a short while.
Russell was now certain Emily Collins had fled. The reason was simple, based on one very straightforward principle: every single coin that had been in the room was gone.
….
…
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