Timmy Roy slumped into the chair.
By now, there was nothing left in his head to think.
The verbal onslaught was still playing out around him without pause, but Timmy Roy had given up resisting.
It didn't matter anymore.
Everything was already over.
From this day forward, he would never be able to lift his head at Imperial College again.
Assuming—once all of this was exposed—he'd even be allowed to stay and continue studying there.
[Timmy Roy feels despair about the future. Malice +200]
Russell listened quietly to the system notification echoing in his mind, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.
This was only the appetizer.
The real course was still to come.
He didn't bother with Timmy anymore—Timmy had already become a dead dog—and instead walked over to Mary and Charlotte.
"A reporter named Clark Kent," Charlotte said flatly. "That's a pretty lame excuse."
Mary also looked at Russell with curiosity.
"Where did you get those letters?"
"I'm telling the truth." Russell wore a perfectly serious expression. "I'm not lying. I really did run into him on the tram."
At that, Charlotte and Mary both frowned, staring at him.
"You're sure?" Charlotte asked.
"There are only two possibilities," Russell said calmly, without a trace of guilt. "Either I'm telling the truth, or I'm Phantom Thief Moriarty. Pick one."
"If that's the choice, I'd rather believe Clark Kent exists," Charlotte said.
"Same." Mary nodded in agreement.
The skills didn't match.
Mary had seen the scuffle clearly. Russell hadn't struck back, but the way he dodged made it obvious he'd trained at least a little.
As for the phantom thief—he was a complete amateur.
Based on that alone, Mary could all but eliminate the possibility that the two were the same person.
"So," Charlotte said, looking at Russell, "on your way here, you happened to meet the phantom thief who had just finished robbing the Roy residence, chatted with him for a moment, and when he learned you were an Imperial College student, he casually stuffed the love letters he stole from Timmy Roy into your hands."
"Is that it?"
"More or less." Russell shrugged.
"I won't even get into how low the odds are," Charlotte continued. "But you didn't realize he was Phantom Thief Moriarty at the time?"
"Was I supposed to…?" Russell paused. "Even if I'd realized, do you think anyone on a tram would believe me if I pointed at some honest-looking reporter and said 'That's Moriarty'? And he even showed me a business card."
"What business card?" Charlotte pressed.
"A press card. It said he worked for a paper called the Daily Chronicle."
"Are you sure London even has a newspaper by that name?" Charlotte asked.
"How would I know? Are newspapers some rare kind of company in London?" Russell shot back. "I only know The Guardian and The Times. Besides, didn't you say you weren't interested in the phantom thief?"
"Sorry. My mistake," Charlotte said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I shouldn't have expected too much from your general knowledge."
Mary watched their bickering with amusement. When both finally quieted down, she slipped a question into the gap.
"Then… do you remember what the thief—Clark Kent—looked like?"
"White shirt. Black-rimmed glasses. His tie looked a bit washed out," Russell said. "Didn't look like an 'elite' type."
"Can you be more specific?" Mary asked. "Facial features, for example?"
"That…" Russell frowned, visibly trying to recall. After a long moment, he finally said, "He… didn't have any distinctive features."
"No distinctive features?" Mary knit her brows.
"Either he's so ordinary-looking that he needs a flashy mask every time he acts," Charlotte said with a shrug, "or Russell Watson is face-blind—maybe everyone looks equally… featureless to him."
"I'm not face-blind, thanks." Russell rolled his eyes at Charlotte.
"If he actually had something memorable, I'd remember it," he insisted. "But the truth is—he had no distinguishing features. The only thing I can recall is the glasses. Put him out on the street and I don't think more than five people could pick him out."
Charlotte and Mary fell silent at the same time.
They exchanged a glance—one loaded with the kind of meaning only geniuses could read.
—Do you think he's lying?
—Honestly, not really… but it's suspicious.
In the end, Mary could only file the information away and plan to verify it personally later.
As for now…
Her gaze slid past Russell's shoulder to Timmy Roy, still collapsed in the chair like a man who'd lost his soul.
"What now?" she asked.
"What else?" Russell shrugged. "We celebrate the complete success of the party."
As he spoke, he swept his eyes around.
The once-boisterous hall had turned cold and sparse.
Most of the students who'd come to the freshmen mixer had chosen, without discussion, to leave early.
No one wanted to get dragged into a scandal among the children of powerful families.
The few who remained were only there to watch the spectacle, clustering in corners and whispering.
The band had stopped playing. After hesitating, Timmy Roy's so-called friends finally steeled themselves and—under everyone's stares—hauled him up from the chair to get him out of this place.
"Russell Watson…"
As Timmy was dragged past, he fixed Russell with a dead stare.
"This is all your fault…"
"You're welcome." Russell raised his wineglass to him as calmly as if seeing off an old friend.
"Careful on the way. Don't trip."
[Timmy Roy's humiliation and hatred have reached their peak. Malice +130]
Watching Timmy Roy's miserable figure vanish through the doorway, Russell finally withdrew his gaze, satisfied.
His current malice balance: 900.
What a night.
A harvest night.
Brimming with the joy of a full haul.
"Let's go," he said to the two beside him. "There's no point staying."
Charlotte gave a noncommittal nod. Mary agreed with a smile.
So the three of them—under the eyes of the last remaining guests—walked out of the auditorium together.
The night wind was cool, blowing away the murky mixture of perfume and alcohol from inside.
They crossed the empty cobblestone paths of campus, moonlight stretching their shadows long across the ground.
Only when they reached the school gates did Mary's gaze land on a black carriage waiting at the roadside.
It looked like it had been there for some time. When he saw her emerge, the coachman tipped his head to her.
Mary's smile gradually faded.
Like a beautiful dream reaching the moment you finally wake.
She drew in a breath, then forced the smile back onto her face.
"My family's coachman came to pick me up," she said, gesturing to the carriage.
"I'll go first. See you the day after tomorrow, Russell—and Charlotte… may I call you that?"
"Call me whatever you want," Charlotte shrugged. "But I don't think you'll see me the day after tomorrow."
"That's all right." Mary smiled, then turned to Russell.
"See you the day after tomorrow, Mary," Russell said.
Mary waved to them. Her moon-white skirt swayed softly in the wind, like a lily about to disappear into the night.
She turned and walked with elegant steps toward the carriage—black as lacquer, marked with the Mossatan family crest.
"Miss…"
"Let's go," Mary said lightly.
"It's time to go home."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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