Timmy Roy was stunned by the slap.
His cheek burned, and with it, a good portion of the fury from being mocked and humiliated by Russell ebbed away.
What seized the high ground of his mind now was a single, terrifying reality:
His reputation was about to be completely, irrevocably ruined.
"Annie, you—"
He didn't even get the sentence out before another figure charged in.
"Scum!"
Isabella White's usually sultry face was flushed a furious red.
She raised her hand and delivered another merciless slap.
Slap!
Perfect—symmetrical left and right.
Laughter burst from the crowd, too tightly held back to remain contained.
The friends who had been about to step in and "break it up" all retreated in unspoken coordination, suddenly very afraid of being caught in the blast radius.
Yes, Timmy Roy was the son of a minister—but very few people in this room were harmless pushovers.
And while their families might not outrank a cabinet minister on paper, if they chose to stand on the same side in this moment, forcing a minister to compromise would be more than achievable.
Timmy went completely blank.
His gaze swept across one former "friend" after another—faces that had once greeted him with smiles now wearing every shade of distance, calculation, and disdain—and then across the girls who looked like they'd happily peel him alive.
There was only one question in his head:
Those letters. Those damned letters.
Why were they here?
"This isn't real!" Timmy Roy shouted.
"This is slander. A setup!"
His eyes snapped toward the instigator—the culprit beside him, wearing an innocent expression while still gripping his arm so Timmy couldn't resist, couldn't even shield himself, could only stand there and take slap after slap.
Russell Watson.
"It was you!" Timmy Roy roared, like a beast driven to the edge.
"You did this!"
"Mr. Roy," Russell said with a harmless shrug, "you can eat whatever you like, but you really shouldn't say whatever you like."
"I'm just protecting the legitimate rights of those poor ladies."
"Honestly, you should thank that reporter."
At those words, Timmy's pupils tightened.
"Reporter… what reporter?"
"A reporter named Clark Kent. I met him on the tram," Russell said. "We chatted for a bit, and when he found out I was an Imperial College student, he handed those letters to me."
"He said… he hoped I could give those poor, wayward ladies a helping hand."
"Clark Kent?"
Timmy Roy's face froze.
He knew that name.
That timid reporter he'd mistaken for the man in front of him at the time.
How could that man possibly have those letters…?
"Right." Russell nodded, even thoughtfully adding details. "Black-rimmed glasses, looks very honest. You know him too?"
Timmy Roy's pupils trembled.
That reporter.
That damned reporter.
The one who'd claimed he was just from some third-rate newspaper…
"He's Moriarty!" Timmy Roy screamed.
"He's no reporter—he's the phantom thief! That damned phantom thief!"
The moment the words fell, the entire room went still.
Only Timmy Roy kept struggling.
"Let me go! Russell Watson, let me go!"
If that damned reporter really was the phantom thief…
"Let me out of here!"
If that damned phantom thief had broken into his home…
"Did you hear me? Let me go!"
Would he really have done it just to steal a few worthless love letters?
"I said let go! Russell Watson!"
Timmy Roy bellowed at him.
Russell looked at him calmly.
Then he smiled.
"Easy." He placed a hand on Timmy Roy's shoulder.
"You just said that reporter is Phantom Thief Moriarty. Interesting hypothesis, Mr. Roy—so where's the evidence?"
He asked it gently.
"Two days ago, when I went home, I saw that man skulking on a bench by the street!" Timmy Roy shouted. "He was watching. He was studying my house's layout—everything was for tonight's operation!"
"He is Phantom Thief Moriarty!"
"Fine, fine, fine." Russell nodded, as if humoring a child. "Let's accept your assumption."
"If you're insisting that was Moriarty, then doesn't that prove one thing?"
He paused, then, under everyone's gaze, asked slowly and clearly:
"So you admit these letters were stolen from your house?"
So you admit this is your refrigerator?
"I…"
"Weren't you just saying I did it—that I framed you?"
"I…"
Timmy choked on his own words. The color drained from his face at a visible speed.
Russell maintained the same gentle, harmless smile, but every word he spoke shoved Timmy Roy one step further toward a cliff with no bottom.
"Of course, there's an even simpler way to settle this."
Russell continued.
"Let's assume everything is fake. The letters are forged by me. Even that so-called Mr. Clark Kent is made up."
"Then, Mr. Timmy Roy—among the ladies here, your one true love… which one is she?"
Russell's smile widened.
He released Timmy's arm, and even kindly straightened the collar Russell himself had yanked out of place—an intimate gesture, like he was correcting a misbehaving younger brother.
"Go on," he said softly. "Tell everyone, Mr. Roy."
"Among these beautiful ladies—who is the soulmate you want to spend your life with?"
"As long as you say it, I'm sure the misunderstanding will clear itself up."
He took a step back and surrendered the center of the "stage" entirely to Timmy Roy.
A spotlight—an invisible spotlight—seemed to snap onto Timmy at that exact moment.
Timmy Roy stood there soaked through, his hair dripping with a mixture of red wine and humiliation, the perfectly symmetrical handprints blazing on both cheeks.
He looked around.
What met him were cold stares, mocking eyes, and expressions of gleeful schadenfreude.
His so-called "friends" had already shrunk into the corners of the crowd, pretending to admire the murals on the wall.
And his former "true loves" stood like judges, arms crossed, watching him in silence.
Say it?
How was he supposed to say it?
It was a deadlock.
A trap—inescapable—woven by Russell Watson using nothing more than the simplest words.
Timmy's lips trembled. Cold sweat slid down from his temple.
[Timmy Roy's rationality is collapsing. Severe mental shock sustained. Malice +100]
"What's wrong, Mr. Roy?" Russell asked mildly. "Can't choose? Or have you been standing so long you're getting tired?"
Russell pulled over a chair and placed it neatly at Timmy Roy's feet.
"Sit down first. Speak properly. Everyone's watching."
He rested a hand on Timmy Roy's shoulder, his voice still gentle.
"Timmy Roy. Sit."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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