Night.
Deep in a muddy back alley of Southwark—so far in that even the gas lamps seemed to have forgotten it—there was a room on the second floor of a tavern where the smoke hung thick as London fog.
The air was a choking stew of cheap gin, rain-soaked wool, and low-grade tobacco, sharp enough to sting the eyes.
A burly man sat there polishing his brass knuckles with a greasy rag.
Across from him, a thin, dried-up little fellow—his fingers twitching from nerves—kept taking apart and reassembling the core of a combination lock, over and over.
And the man who owned the room—the one who stayed in the shadows, showing only a hand with a brass ring—smoked in silence.
This was London's underworld.
"Creeeak—"
The old door was pushed open a crack, almost without a sound.
A boy in a beret slipped inside.
He looked no more than ten, but his face carried a numbness that didn't belong to childhood.
He didn't speak. He simply walked up, placed a pristine envelope gently on the table, and then retreated back out as quietly as he'd come.
The two men in the room stopped what they were doing at once, their eyes landing on the letter.
The man in the shadows lifted a hand and picked it up, his fingers idly stroking the paper.
The stationery was excellent—refined, the kind of quality that belonged to the upper classes.
He slid the page out and let his eyes fall on the neat, elegant handwriting.
He read in silence, then paused at the signature.
—Professor
Professor.
In London's underworld, that name meant one thing and one thing only—
Authority.
It was as though someone had grown disgusted with the crude, amateurish crimes of the lawless, and so the Professor had written a criminal textbook personally.
Every time that name appeared, it heralded a perfect operation.
Only… about a year ago, it had stopped appearing altogether.
Just like its inexplicable arrival, it had vanished without warning.
No one knew who the Professor was.
No one even knew whether the Professor was still alive.
Until three days ago, when a letter had arrived on his table bearing that long-missing name.
No pleasantries. No polite preamble.
The letter laid out Lloyds Bank's lobby floor plan and its security posture—plain and direct.
At first, the man hadn't understood what it meant. It looked like an incomplete manual.
It described the bank—and then stopped, offering nothing more.
Until the second day.
And the third.
A letter came every day, each one dissecting Lloyds Bank in greater detail.
Including this one, it was the fourth he'd received this week.
This time there were no lengthy notes or scattered cautions—
It was a complete operational plan, flawless down to the last detail.
The man stared at the page in silence.
The handwriting didn't look forged.
And the plan didn't read like a fantasy.
And the request was only this:
Open one of the vault-room doors.
Then open a safe inside.
That was all.
To make it even easier, the Professor had thoughtfully included the combination.
But he hadn't specified which safe—
Meaning they would have to try them one by one.
"Gone for a year… and the first thing you do when you come back is plan an attack on the biggest private bank in all of London?"
The man muttered to himself, then gave a low, amused snort.
Still—if the Professor was returning, he was more than happy to help build the legend back up.
And besides…
If they truly pulled off Lloyds Bank's underground vault, the profit would be enough to buy peace for the rest of his life.
"Go," he said to his men. "Get people together."
"We're doing something big."
·
·
Frederick sat on a worn old wooden chair polished shiny by countless backsides and shoved the last greasy bite of meat pie into his mouth.
Then he grabbed the jug at the side of the table and took a hard swig straight from the mouth.
The harsh whisky poured down like molten iron, burning through his throat and gut, driving away the damp cold that seemed to live between his bones.
After this meal, it would be time to change shifts.
To be honest, he hated guarding that sunless hellhole.
Sure, he knew what was stored down there—aristocrats' gold and jewels, and some things even more valuable than that.
So what?
None of it belonged to him.
None of it ever would.
He was just a watchdog—a hound hired to guard rich men's treasure.
The bank wasn't going to pay him an extra penny for doing his job well.
Full and warmed by drink, he belched with satisfaction, letting a murky stench of gravy and cheap alcohol bloom into the air.
He leaned back, eyes closed, intending to enjoy the last few minutes of quiet before heading back.
For some reason, after dinner, his head felt inexplicably heavy.
Probably the whisky, he told himself.
Shouldn't have taken that swig. If he got caught drowsy, he'd catch hell for it.
But if he didn't drink now, he wouldn't get another chance for a month.
Worst case, he'd splash cold water on his face before work.
Thinking that, he braced his hands on the armrests and started to stand.
The instant he rose—
His world began to spin.
The dusk-lit gas lamp smeared into countless blurred streaks in his vision.
Then everything went black.
He didn't even have time to cry out.
All strength drained from him, and he folded bonelessly onto the floor.
"Thump."
A dull sound.
The last sound in the apartment.
Silence swallowed everything.
Five minutes passed.
Only after confirming the man on the ground truly wasn't waking did a figure slowly step out from a dark corner.
"Down you go," the figure murmured.
Russell walked up beside the collapsed Frederick, crouched, and pressed two fingers to the man's neck to check his pulse.
Steady.
But weak.
The special sleeping agent mixed into the whisky had worked even better than he'd expected.
Russell didn't waste time.
With clean, efficient movements, he began stripping Frederick of his guard's uniform—still warm with body heat.
The fabric was rough, the cuffs worn thin, carrying a faint odor of sweat and tobacco.
Russell didn't care. He pulled it on.
It was a little loose in places, but it didn't matter.
Then he took something from his pocket.
A small piece of semi-transparent gel—like a bit of jelly.
[Mimic Gel:]
A single-use item. Apply it to your face and, for one hour, it will perfectly replicate the facial features of anyone you've seen.
Price: 100 Malice Points.
Russell pressed the gel to his face. Coldness seeped into his skin.
Then, as if alive, it began to squirm and spread, slowly covering his entire face.
A strange, fine ache followed—like bone being subtly reshaped.
Russell walked to the only mirror in the room that could still be called clean: a cracked dressing mirror.
The reflection was no longer the young man with sharp eyes—Russell Watson.
It was a middle-aged man with a waxy complexion, puffy eye bags, and an expression filled with fatigue and mediocrity.
Frederick.
Russell tugged the corner of his mouth into a smile.
The man in the mirror copied it—stiff, ugly, wrong.
Good.
"It's time to go to work," he said.
....
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