The next day.
Russell turned off the alarm clock beside his pillow, yawned as he got up, and finished all his preparations in a half-awake state through muscle memory.
Cold water hit his face, washing away the last traces of fatigue. Russell put on his coat and headed downstairs.
A familiar figure appeared at the dining table on the first floor.
Charlotte had woken up at some point and was now sitting at the dining table, holding the morning newspaper.
It seemed like the first time she had woken up this early.
Russell was momentarily stunned, then went downstairs.
"Why did you wake up so early today?"
He poured himself some water and replied.
Hearing this, Charlotte looked up from the newspaper, stared at Russell for a while, then looked away.
"Early to bed, early to rise."
She said flatly.
Hearing this, Russell stared at her for a moment, as though trying to read something from her calm face.
But achieving that was as difficult as summarizing an entire high school math report.
It was simply too difficult.
"Well, that's fine then."
He didn't say anything more, drank the warm water in his hand, and then headed to the kitchen.
"Then sit tight for a bit. I'll make breakfast."
"Mm."
Charlotte gave a light nod, her gaze still fixed on the newspaper in her hand.
Soon, the sound of the stove igniting and the sizzling of fat reached her ears.
Charlotte looked up from the newspaper and rested her gaze on Russell's profile.
In this moment, the young man was focused on his work and didn't notice the careful gaze from nearby.
Charlotte looked at him. His tall, slender figure gradually overlapped in her mind with the existence of that ghost.
Build, height, weight...
Charlotte's mind instinctively began working, comparing Russell's current appearance with the data left behind by that phantom thief that night at Buckingham Palace.
There didn't seem to be much difference in the two sizes.
But that alone proved nothing.
There were not one hundred thousand, but ten thousand people in London with similar builds. Even narrowing it down to Imperial College London, there were at least a hundred.
This variable was too large and held no reference value.
Charlotte looked away and slowly lowered her gaze to Russell's hands, which were placed beside the stove.
His fingers were long and agile. At that moment, they were skillfully flipping eggs in the pan. The movements were smooth and seamless.
She had seen those hands brew tea, grind coffee, and flip through archives many times.
But she had never seen those white-gloved hands fluttering like butterflies under the moonlight.
Therefore, this couldn't be used as evidence either.
The girl's gaze continued moving and finally stopped on his profile.
Charlotte was certain she had never seen Moriarty remove his mask.
From beginning to end, that man had worn that damn white mask as though it were welded to his face.
That mask was like an impenetrable thick fog that tightly concealed his emotions and secrets.
Charlotte stared at Russell's profile for a while. The two similar figures in her mind, after a brief separation, quickly drifted apart again like oil and water, incompatible with each other.
One was under the sunlight, the other under the moonlight.
One was making breakfast in the kitchen, the other was dancing freely on the rooftops of London.
How could they be the same person?
This thought was absurd — like saying Mrs. Hudson and Jack the Ripper were the same person.
Completely illogical.
"What are you thinking about? You're so deep in thought?"
Suddenly, Russell's voice rang out, interrupting Charlotte's thoughts.
Charlotte was pulled back to reality and noticed that Russell had somehow turned around, holding a steaming plate of breakfast, and was looking at her with interest.
"It's nothing."
Charlotte looked away and folded the newspaper in her hand, setting it aside.
"I was just thinking about Billson."
"You can think about that after you finish eating. It's not too late."
Russell placed the plate in front of Charlotte.
"Mm."
Charlotte answered, picked up her knife and fork, and didn't look at him again.
Russell sat across from her, picked up his own sandwich, took a bite, and stared at Charlotte for a while.
In the end, he looked away, and the two ate their meals in silence.
Everything was peaceful and comfortable as usual.
But Charlotte felt as though something was blocking her heart, making it difficult to eat.
She could only endlessly slow down the pace of her eating.
However, Russell, who was sitting across from her, finished his meal, greeted her, and left Baker Street 221B.
The moment the door closed, Charlotte felt as though she had regained the right to breathe once more.
The girl let out a sigh of relief, set down her knife and fork, and realized she hadn't even eaten half the food on her plate.
She glanced at the closed door, then looked up at the ceiling.
A bold thought sprouted in Charlotte's heart.
Despite being ruled out countless times in her mind, those two subtle possibilities had been denied over and over again.
But for some reason, she still wasn't calm enough.
Therefore, she had to confirm once more — a final confirmation.
Charlotte took a deep breath and slowly stood up from her chair, walking toward the stairs.
She climbed the stairs and stopped in front of Russell's door.
If he really was Moriarty, then he should have something like that in his room.
Whether it was a mask, a hook gun, or that flashy phantom thief costume —
It was impossible for him to hide something like that somewhere else, right?
This was merely a necessary confirmation.
Charlotte told herself this, trying to justify her next action.
Then she placed her hand on the cold doorknob.
Charlotte hesitated for a moment, but in the end, she made up her mind and gently turned the doorknob.
The door wasn't locked.
With a soft "click," the door opened slightly.
Charlotte turned her body sideways and quietly slipped inside, gently closing the door behind her.
The room was very neat — almost unchanged from the last time she had been here.
Sunlight streaming through the window cast bright patches of light on the floor.
Russell's presence still faintly lingered in the air.
Charlotte looked around the room, her eyes quickly sweeping every corner.
The desk, wardrobe, and bed were arranged simply and practically, without any unnecessary or flashy decorations.
Just like him.
Charlotte's gaze stopped on the wardrobe. She reached out and opened the door.
Inside hung ordinary jackets and casual clothes — almost all of which she had seen before.
She opened the drawer below. Several pairs of underwear and socks were stacked inside.
There was nothing suspicious.
Charlotte furrowed her brows and returned her gaze to the bed.
She took a step forward, bent down, and peered under the bed.
The space under the bed was empty, with only an old suitcase lying quietly in the shadows.
Charlotte tried to reach for it but couldn't quite get it.
So she had no choice but to crawl forward a little and reluctantly hook her fingers around the suitcase's handle before pulling it out.
The case wasn't locked.
Charlotte's heart couldn't help but beat like a drum.
She stared at the somewhat old case, but in the end, she reached out.
With a soft "creak," the lid opened.
Its contents were instantly exposed to her view.
….
…
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