8:00 p.m.
Lombard Street.
Night fell, and the street was already filling with people.
Lucian wore an old coat and a flat cap, a second-hand camera hanging from his neck.
He squeezed into the crowd and claimed a spot with a decent view.
Nearby citizens whispered excitedly.
"Will he really come?"
"The notice said ten o'clock sharp!"
"Is that thief an idiot? Telling the police in advance?"
"He told them the last few times too—so what? Scotland Yard still couldn't catch him!"
Lucian raised his camera with feigned excitement and took a few photos of the bank's main entrance.
Click.
Click.
Meticulous.
Careful composition.
No one would ever guess this was a man who, two hours later, would personally step onto the stage—quietly manufacturing an alibi for himself.
…
9:00 p.m.
The crowd grew thicker.
At least five hundred now.
Reporters had set up their equipment; flashbulbs popped nonstop.
The police looked ready for war—post every few steps, whistle every few yards, as if they planned to interrogate even ants for identification.
Lestrade stood at the bank's main doors, his face so tight he looked like he'd been constipated for three days.
Lucian badly wanted to tell him: relax. Scotland Yard couldn't catch me even if you did yoga.
But after considering certain complications, he simply took a few more photos in silence.
Click.
Click.
He swept the crowd with his gaze.
He didn't see Mary.
She said she'd come—maybe she was standing elsewhere?
There were too many people; it was normal not to find her.
Forget it.
Now wasn't the time to think about that.
…
9:15 p.m.
While everyone craned their necks toward the bank's roof, Lucian slipped out along the edge of the crowd and hid the camera behind an abandoned wooden crate nearby.
No one noticed a random student leaving.
After all, who pays attention to a goldfish?
Poorly dressed. A second-hand camera. The least visible organism in the entire sea of bodies.
He circled behind the clock tower and slipped in through a back door.
Unlocked.
London's public security really did need improvement.
…
9:30 p.m.
Inside the tower it was dark and damp. The spiral stairs were coated in dust.
Lucian climbed as he changed.
Off came the old coat, stuffed into a bag.
On went the waistcoat, tailcoat, gloves—one piece at a time.
By the time he reached the top floor, the transformation was complete.
Through a cracked attic window, the bank's front entrance lay in full view.
The crowd had passed eight hundred.
A solid black mass—like a pot of dumplings at a rolling boil.
The moon rose slowly from behind the clouds.
Big and round.
Silvering the entire street.
"Perfect stage," Lucian murmured.
He checked his pocket watch.
9:55 p.m.
Five minutes.
He rolled his wrists and drew a deep breath.
The show was about to begin.
…
9:58 p.m.
Lucian pushed open the door to the tower's rooftop platform and stepped to the edge.
Moonlight spilled down.
The white tailcoat looked plated in silver.
The wind lifted the tails.
At first, no one noticed.
Every eye was locked on the bank's main doors, terrified of missing the instant the thief might spring from some shadow.
Then a sharp-eyed reporter screamed.
"On the clock tower! Look—on the clock tower!"
More than eight hundred heads snapped up at once.
The street erupted.
"It's Phantom Thief Moriarty!"
"He's here!"
"God—he actually came!"
Lucian looked down at the crowd, restless as ants, and let the corner of his mouth rise.
The moon hung behind him—
Huge and bright—
Casting him into a black silhouette while the moonlight traced his outline in silver.
This entrance angle had been calculated.
Backlit.
Counterlit.
Side-backlit.
Whatever made him look the best.
He removed his hat.
And bowed, elegant and unhurried.
"Good evening, London. Thank you for attending tonight's performance."
The crowd gasped.
Flashbulbs went mad.
Lucian counted silently.
Good.
Enough audience.
Hot enough reaction.
These points were in the bag.
…
10:00 p.m.
The bell rang.
Lestrade finally reacted, bellowing at the top of his lungs, "Move! Surround the tower!"
More than twenty policemen surged toward the clock tower's entrance.
Exactly what Lucian wanted.
When everyone's attention was on the tower, no one was watching the bank roof.
He launched himself from the platform—forward, not down.
The grappling hook fired. A silver wire carved a bright arc through the moonlight and caught the bank's chimney.
A white figure flew through the night like a bird in full glide.
Eight meters.
Two seconds.
He landed on the bank roof without a wobble.
The whole street screamed.
"He flew across!"
"To the bank—go!"
"Stop him!"
The police flailed, switching directions like headless flies.
But Lucian had already slipped through the skylight and into the bank.
…
10:02 p.m., inside the bank.
The third floor was empty—everyone had been pulled outside.
Lucian went down the stairs in a fast, silent flow.
Basement level.
The vault.
A massive steel door. Two keyholes glinting coldly under the emergency lamps.
He took out the lock tools.
And started working.
First lock cylinder.
He felt the pins, adjusted them one by one.
Magician's Hand made his fingertips feel like they had eyes.
Thirty seconds.
Click.
Second cylinder.
More complicated, same principle.
Fifty seconds.
Click.
The door opened.
"The Siren's Tear" rested quietly on a velvet tray.
A blue sapphire the size of a pigeon's egg, giving off a deep, ocean-dark glow in the thin light—like a drop of seawater frozen solid.
Lucian tucked it into his coat.
Then he drew a card from his pocket and placed it gently on the now-empty tray.
[Thank you for your generous loan. It will be returned intact tomorrow. —M]
…
10:04 p.m.
He retraced his route back toward the roof.
But the instant he pushed open the skylight—
Three dark shapes blocked him.
Three policemen.
Gun barrels aimed at his chest.
"Freeze!"
"Don't move!"
"Hands up!"
Lucian didn't panic. He merely tilted his head.
"Gentlemen. You've worked hard."
A flashbang slid from his sleeve into his palm.
"However—"
White light detonated, brutal and blinding.
"The performance isn't over yet."
In the next heartbeat—
Lucian was already out the side window, landing on the neighboring roof. The hook fired again, the silver figure threading through moonlight.
…
10:06 p.m.
Clock tower rooftop.
The moon had climbed higher.
Silver light washed the entire street.
Below, the crowd was larger than before.
Word had spread; more and more people came running.
At least a thousand now.
The police were in complete chaos, having no idea where the thief had gone.
Lestrade's roaring drifted on the wind in broken fragments.
"…Where is he… Find him…"
Lucian stepped to the platform edge.
Let moonlight catch him again.
This time he deliberately stood with the full moon behind him, making that enormous white disk his backdrop.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
Everyone looked up again.
The phantom thief lifted the sapphire high.
Under moonlight, it exploded into brilliant blue fire, echoing the cold silver of the moon behind it.
White thief. Blue jewel. Silver moon.
A picture beautiful enough to hang in an oil gallery.
"The performance concludes—perfectly."
The crowd went berserk.
"So beautiful!"
"He did it!"
"Long live Phantom Thief Moriarty!"
Lucian performed a flawless court bow, the tails of his coat opening like a white fan in the light.
"Good night, London. Until we meet again."
He turned to leave—
And a sudden disturbance broke out below.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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