Russell glanced at the safe in front of him, then at the doorway outside. His expression turned… complicated.
He could absolutely use the chaos, crack the lock, grab something, and bolt.
But…
…Forget it.
He was already here.
And as everyone knows—
Stopping criminals is everyone's responsibility!
Sure, I broke into a secured vault and I'm stealing other people's property, but I'm a good boy!
After weighing it for a moment, he finally pulled his hand back from the dial, pushed the door open, and listened carefully to the movement outside.
No one nearby. Good.
He stepped out of the vault room, hauled the unconscious Henderson up, and dragged him back inside, leaving him safely out of sight.
Then Russell relieved Henderson of his only revolver and baton, and moved toward the direction where the smell was strongest.
His mask came with a built-in filter, so he wasn't worried about getting knocked out.
As he drew closer, the stench intensified—and he began noticing bodies on the floor.
More precisely: guards who had been dropped by ether.
Russell's brow furrowed hard.
This "colleague" didn't seem very friendly.
That noise earlier… was probably the sound of the B-sector gate being shut, cutting off part of the guards from reinforcing the area.
His mind raced.
Someone who could operate the switch and who carried sedatives…
First, rule out the possibility they were already hiding down here from the start. And the "snuck in like me" option also didn't feel realistic.
So that left only one possibility.
The emergency access route.
Russell recalled the underground layout. The emergency corridor was on the A-sector side—exactly where this lined up.
That had been his planned escape route.
…I got here first.
Damn it.
There's an insider among us.
No—worse.
There's a bad apple among the crowd!
Russell quickened his pace toward A-sector, the revolver already off safety, ready to fire at any moment.
As he got closer, voices drifted through the air—conversation. And that chemical odor hung thick in the corridor.
This was worse than he'd imagined.
In his year on the job, he'd never run into anything like this.
So this really was a promotion trial, huh.
At this moment, the corridor around A-3 had become a dead world.
Guards lay scattered everywhere—hands and feet bound, mouths stuffed with cloth.
Their weapons had been taken too. They had almost no ability to resist.
And the culprits… were strolling around the underground vault level like they owned the place, gleefully prying open every iron door they came across with professional tools.
Russell stayed in the shadows, watching coolly, his frown deepening.
These thieves were well-equipped: gas masks, professional lock tools—clearly they'd come prepared.
They'd even timed it for Saturday night, when the security system was in a maintenance window.
First, they used the switch noise to draw attention while simultaneously cutting off the B-sector's ability to support.
Then they used ether and other drugs to disable the A-sector manpower.
After that came the fun part—opening doors and "rolling the gacha."
Judging by the fact that the guards didn't even have time to put on masks, it wasn't just sedatives. These people had other tools too—ways to make targets lose the ability to fight quickly.
The corridor was shaped like a T. Russell stayed tucked at the corner.
Thinking fast, he hugged the right-side wall and edged forward to widen his field of view.
And then he saw the other side.
None of the guards had been spared. Some had blackened marks on their bodies—likely from electric shocks.
While Russell was observing, the corner of his eye caught movement: a figure in a guard uniform.
He snapped his gaze over.
The person wore a gas mask, carried a baton in one hand and an electric truncheon in the other, walking openly and confidently—occasionally tossing down small canisters that were steadily leaking gas.
Russell couldn't see the face behind the mask, but with his eye for detail, he recognized the posture and gait.
Richard.
You thick-browed, honest-looking bastard—you too?!
While Russell was still reeling, Richard—who had been laying traps—suddenly turned around and met Russell's eyes dead-on.
A short, freezing silence.
Then the system chimed inside Russell's head:
[Richard has developed killing intent due to witnessing you. Malice +50.]
In the next instant, Richard recovered from his shock, raised a revolver, and aimed straight at Russell's hiding spot.
Bang!
The bullet scraped past Russell and punched into the wall.
The noise startled the other thieves. They all turned toward Richard.
"What the hell is wrong with you?! What are you doing?!" one of them cursed.
Richard glanced once at the Russell who'd already ducked back, then shouted to the others:
"Someone's still conscious!"
Every thief who'd been busy picking locks stopped at once and looked toward Russell's position.
"You sure?" the same man challenged.
"This stuff can drop an elephant. You're telling me someone shows up here without a mask and stays standing?"
"I'm sure. I saw him," Richard said firmly, staring at the corner.
"Come out, Frederick."
His voice echoed through the empty underground corridor, brimming with the confidence of a cat cornering a mouse.
"The only exit is blocked. You're not getting out.
Since we worked together, I'll give you a chance—join us. I can let you live.
You said it yourself, didn't you? You don't want to keep working in this hellhole. This is your opportunity."
Russell pressed tightly against the wall. No sound. No reply.
He was calculating.
On the way here, he'd seen at least five or six guards already dropped.
And that probably wasn't all.
If Richard had brought people in through the emergency route, then the guards near that passage were already gone too.
Worst-case scenario…
He was the only one left on his side.
One versus six.
Advantage… me?
"…Frederick. Don't play the hero," Richard called again.
"We don't want unnecessary casualties. But let me remind you—our patience is limited."
A naked threat.
Russell let out a soft, amused snort.
He weighed the revolver in his hand. Six shots.
Even counting the one Richard had, that was only twelve rounds total.
And the thieves' firepower was obviously higher. On top of that, Russell would have to avoid accidentally hitting the helpless guards sprawled across the floor.
A frontal fight was a losing deal.
But luckily…
He wasn't built for front-line brawls in the first place.
Russell drew a slow breath and opened the shop.
[Haze Array x5 — Purchased.]
[Remaining Malice: 1050]
"Frederick. I'm counting to ten," Richard said, his patience thinning.
There was a faint, meaningless sound in the corridor—like someone shifting, like a click of tongue.
"Nine."
Russell slipped a smoke grenade from his pocket, turning it once in his palm.
"Eight."
He judged the lead time, then hurled it hard toward the center of the corridor.
"Seven—"
PFFFT—!
Black smoke exploded outward instantly.
And Russell's figure vanished from where he'd been.
Go argue with my teleport!
"Cough—cough! Damn it, smoke grenade!"
"He's there! Fire!"
Gunshots erupted inside the smoke, a dense storm of lead poured into the center of the corridor.
But the moment the grenade left his hand—
Russell was already gone.
With the additional effect of Haze Array, he reappeared directly on the right side of the corridor.
The straight-line distance between him and the pistol-wielding thieves was under ten meters.
For a split second, none of them could process the fact that Russell had appeared right in the middle of them.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The revolver roared in rapid succession.
Russell's shots were clean—each one planted into a limb.
Screams of pain erupted, layered with the system's cheerful prompts as fresh Malice poured into his account.
The moment the cylinder ran dry, Russell didn't hesitate.
He snapped another smoke grenade down at his feet.
Black fog spread again.
And the "phantom thief" vanished.
Richard stood at the far end, his view swallowed by smoke.
But before the first cloud fully cleared—before he could act—
A hand tapped his shoulder from behind.
Richard reflexively turned—
And found a pitch-black muzzle aimed directly at his face.
Russell stood behind him, expressionless, holding a shotgun with the barrel pressed toward Richard's head.
"Frederick…!"
Richard's pupils shrank, then widened as realization slammed into him.
Frederick, that sickly lung-case, could never move like this.
"No—no, you're not Frederick. You're Moriarty!"
"Correct," Russell said flatly. "But there's no prize."
He pulled the trigger—
And yet, no blast came.
Instead, the system chimed again:
[Skill: Combat C — Upgraded. Current: C+, Malice -300.]
[Remaining Malice: 950]
Richard, confused, started to open his eyes—
And heard a sharp whoosh of air.
The shotgun's metal body came down like a sledgehammer.
Thud!
It smashed into Richard's skull.
"Gun-fu is still fighting."
....
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