Charlotte set down her teacup and stood up, heading toward the stairs.
Seeing this, Russell was momentarily stunned but quickly stood up as well.
"I'm a bit tired."
Charlotte said. "So I'm going to bed now."
She didn't speak very directly.
Hearing this, Russell raised an eyebrow and glanced at the wall clock.
"It's not even nine o'clock yet."
"Is there a problem?"
Charlotte said.
"Who was it that said we should avoid staying up late? You have to go to sleep early, so it's impossible now, right?"
"...…"
"It's just… I feel like something's off."
Russell met Charlotte's gaze and spoke in a worried tone.
"Did something happen while I wasn't here?"
Charlotte paused for a moment but didn't turn around.
"It's nothing."
The girl's voice came from the landing. It was a little softer than usual.
"I'm just tired."
She didn't turn back and continued walking.
Russell stood there, watching Charlotte's retreating figure. He opened his mouth to say something.
But in the end, he simply nodded in agreement.
"Then get some rest early."
"Yeah."
Charlotte nodded with satisfaction.
"Good night, Watson."
The sound of footsteps on the stairs gradually faded and eventually disappeared down the second-floor hallway.
Second floor, Charlotte's room.
The door closed.
It wasn't locked — it simply shut.
It blocked the light from the hallway and also blocked the figure of the person downstairs.
She had said that, but in truth, it was a lie.
In this moment, Charlotte was clearer than ever before.
Charlotte walked straight through her messy bedroom and into the room beyond.
The bedroom window wasn't locked. Moonlight streamed in from outside, spreading across the bed.
She lay there motionless in the moonlight.
[Just a bit tired.]
[So I'm going to sleep.]
The distance between them was nothing more than a ceiling, yet it felt as though all of London stood between them.
Russell's voice still echoed in her ears. His tone was so relaxed and natural, as though it were nothing important.
But the scene from yesterday also replayed vividly before the girl's eyes.
That was Billson.
Billson, who had served in the military with blood-stained hands and struggled in the underworld for over ten years.
When they returned to the basement, she and Russell had struggled to deal with him together.
On the second floor, Russell had fought one-on-one — how could he have had the advantage?
How had he won?
No, that wasn't it.
Russell hadn't won. By the time she arrived, the fight was already over.
Billson had been killed by an assassin sent by the Professor.
And before that, Russell had only fought Billson.
After Billson's death, he was unharmed. He had been stained with red wine and blood, but there wasn't even a proper wound.
After discovering the culprit, he still had enough strength to sprint at full speed for fifty meters.
Why?
Charlotte's mind began racing uncontrollably.
He had no professional training, no combat experience — perhaps not even theoretical knowledge.
He was just an ordinary university student.
But the reaction speed, combat technique, and ability to anticipate danger he had displayed...
Perhaps because Billson had already reached his limit and was exhausted?
No, that wasn't it.
When people are cornered, the power they unleash is often the most terrifying.
In other words, perhaps Russell was naturally gifted in combat.
That also wasn't right.
Talent was not the same as combat experience. No matter how talented someone was, a novice who had never been on a battlefield couldn't go head-to-head with a veteran who had years of combat experience.
Moreover, Russell was a child born in an orphanage and hadn't even received a proper education.
Dean Martha was a gentle woman, just like Mrs. Hudson.
She taught the children to face the world with love and kindness, not with fists or violence.
That was why Russell had never been seen getting angry or acting violently toward anyone — Billson hadn't been that bad.
Thinking this way, there seemed to be only one answer.
It was a question she didn't want to face, but couldn't help thinking about.
The Phantom Thief Moriarty.
Unconsciously, Charlotte pictured a figure wearing a white mask and strange clothes.
A man who moved freely like a ghost under the moonlight of Buckingham Palace.
A criminal who calmly finished his performance under countless gazes and left behind a provocative card.
He was skilled enough that even she and Mycroft had found him difficult to deal with.
But he rarely used violence. Even against ruthless bank robbers, he only gave lessons.
If Russell really had a connection to him, then everything would make sense.
It wasn't just a relationship between a phantom thief and a messenger — it was something deeper.
—What if Russell Watson was Moriarty?
The moment this conclusion crossed her mind, Charlotte suddenly sat up from the bed.
She was short of breath, pressing her chest, feeling as though she was struggling to steady her breathing.
For some reason, the moment she reached this conclusion, she felt a slight panic — rather, she had become panicked.
She was afraid her thoughts might be correct.
She was afraid of what awaited her when she connected all the clues and reached the only conclusion.
She was afraid that when she directly confronted Russell with this answer, his face — which always wore a gentle smile — would gradually blur into that masked face.
And he would say to her——
[The game between the detective and her assistant is over, Charlotte.]
Charlotte lay by the window. Moonlight slanted in, making her face pale.
She breathed heavily, staring at her trembling hands and rapid heartbeat, momentarily dazed.
What exactly was she afraid of?
She was afraid that Russell was Moriarty.
No, it wasn't that superficial.
What she was afraid of was that if Russell was Moriarty, then everything he had been doing now would turn out to be fake.
The breakfasts he made for her, the coffee, the warm milk...
The way he looked at her, the way he smiled, the helplessness when they argued...
What Charlotte was afraid of was that all of this was fake.
It was just a prank by the Phantom Thief Moriarty, targeting the detective Charlotte Holmes.
Just like how he had dealt with Scotland Yard, Buckingham Palace, and all of London.
Countless beautiful memories from the past now felt as though they were changing in her heart at this very moment — as if an invisible hand was trying to drag Charlotte into that dark sea.
But in that instant, another thought crossed her mind.
Like a lighthouse in the darkness — dazzling.
—No evidence.
Charlotte's thoughts suddenly stopped. Her breathing and heartbeat began to calm.
Yes, there was no evidence.
Everything was just speculation. All the details could be explained by coincidence. All the doubts were nothing more than her wild imagination.
She had no direct evidence that Russell had any connection to Moriarty.
No evidence at all.
Thinking this way, Charlotte felt as though something in her eyes was rapidly changing.
From initial doubt to inner conflict, and finally to relaxation and relief.
Like a drowning person grasping onto driftwood.
She lay on the bed. Her pale face gradually regained color.
Without evidence, it couldn't be proven that he had any connection to Moriarty.
If it couldn't be proven that he had any connection to Moriarty, then he was still the same Russell Watson.
He was still her assistant.
Watson belonged only to her.
…
…
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