Russell pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose and spoke in a tone that was slightly timid and ingratiating.
His voice became somewhat flat, completely devoid of its usual magnetism.
[Item: A Plain Pair of Black-Rimmed Glasses]
[Description: This is a pair of glasses with nothing special about them, but after putting them on, no one will recognize who you originally were—even if you are Superman.]
[Current Remaining Uses: 2 (Removing the glasses counts as ending a use)]
Timmy Roy's frown deepened.
The guy in front of him had dull eyes and a wooden temperament, looking just like those low-level clerks in City Hall who dealt with documents their entire lives.
No matter how he looked at him, he didn't resemble those sneaky paparazzi.
Could it be that he was mistaken?
"What were you doing here just now?" Timmy did not relax his vigilance but instead switched to an interrogating tone.
"I... I just got off work, waiting here... waiting for my wife to go home together."
Russell answered with a stutter, his eyes dodging, not daring to meet Timmy's gaze—a standard look of a cowardly honest man being questioned by a powerful figure.
"Off work? You work here?" Timmy swept a glance around. This was the top wealthy district in all of London; where would there be a company for a person like him to work at?
"No... no," Russell waved his hands hurriedly.
"I... I work at the 'Daily Chronicle' newspaper office. I'm a typesetter. I came here today wanting to interview Viscount Armand, who lives nearby, about the antique clocks he collected..."
He spoke with such vivid detail that he even pulled out a worn press pass from his pocket.
[Item: Customized Business Card]
[Description: A business card that can customize an identity according to your needs. For just 50 Malice Points, you can become anyone you want to be.]
[When you are out and about, your identity is whatever you say it is.]
Timmy Roy took the worn press pass; the ink on it was even a bit blurry.
The Daily Chronicle, a third-rate tabloid he had never heard of, specialized in reporting market gossip and celebrity scandals. In their circle, using it as toilet paper would be considered devaluing the toilet paper.
He returned the ID to Russell, half-believing and half-doubting. The anger in his heart had been largely washed away by a sense of absurdity.
A small-time reporter like this probably couldn't even afford a camera.
Expecting a guy like this to secretly photograph something? He might as well expect his old man to lose his mind and go directly to the media to self-destruct.
But even so, as the son of a Cabinet Minister, Timmy did not let it go just yet.
"What is your name?" Timmy asked relentlessly, trying to find flaws in the other's words.
"Doesn't it say on the card, sir... Clark Kent."
Russell hemmed and hawed.
"Clark Kent..."
Timmy chewed over the name, the suspicion in his eyes gradually replaced by impatience.
Even the guards behind him looked at each other, unable to understand why their young master would lose his temper at an honest man by the roadside.
Timmy walked two circles around Russell, scrutinizing him like a suspicious piece of cargo.
That gaze, full of pickiness, swept from Russell's cheap peaked cap to the rough cloth coat with frayed cuffs, and finally landed on his old leather shoes stained with a few spots of mud.
Everything seemed so reasonable.
This was exactly what a small figure living at the bottom of London, running around for a livelihood, should look like.
Rustic, cowardly, and exuding a lingering sense of cheapness from head to toe.
[Timmy Roy feels doubt and irritability regarding his own judgment. Malice Points +10]
Russell laughed inwardly, but his face maintained that ingratiating expression.
"Sir, if there is nothing else... can I... can I go?"
Russell spoke in a pleading tone, hugging the newspaper in his arms tightly, his body slightly curled up.
"My wife is still waiting for me... she... she is in poor health..."
This spineless appearance thoroughly dispelled the last trace of suspicion in Timmy's heart.
Fine, maybe I was a bit overly nervous and made a mountain out of a molehill.
If this were seen by other people with ulterior motives, photographed, and published in the newspaper saying he was making things difficult for a commoner, it would be hard to explain away.
At that time, he inevitably wouldn't be able to avoid a scolding from his father.
"Get lost."
Timmy waved his hand impatiently, like shooing away a fly.
Staying one more second with this kind of person felt beneath his status.
"Thank you! Thank you, sir!"
Russell acted as if he had been granted a great pardon, bowing repeatedly, then turned and ran off like a wisp of smoke, almost jogging as he blended into the stream of people at the street corner. His retreating figure looked as panicked as a startled rat.
Timmy Roy stood where he was, watching the direction he disappeared, his face so gloomy it could drip water.
"Young Master?" A guard stepped forward again.
"It's nothing." Timmy waved his hand, but the irritability in his heart increased instead of decreasing.
"Let's go."
He coldly dropped two words and turned to walk back to his mansion. The heavy carved gates closed slowly behind him, making a dull thud.
[Timmy Roy feels annoyed by his own paranoia and transfers his anger onto you. Malice Points +20]
On the other side, Russell, who had successfully escaped, only slowed his pace after turning a street corner and confirming no one was following.
He took off the plain black-rimmed glasses and let out a long sigh of relief.
"That was close."
That moment just now could be said to be the closest he had come to being exposed on the spot since becoming a Phantom Thief.
If his identity as the Phantom Thief were discovered, his student life would be over.
Russell carefully put the expensive black-rimmed glasses back into his pocket.
Although the glasses were a bit expensive, he had to admit they were truly useful.
It was just a pity that two hundred Malice Points could only buy three uses. If he wanted to buy it out permanently, he would have to spend five thousand in one go.
Even the landlord has no surplus grain.
Fortunately, the intelligence gathering was about done. He just had to wait to take action in two nights.
Whistling, he walked toward the tram platform.
When Russell returned to 221B Baker Street, night had completely shrouded the city.
Mrs. Hudson had already prepared dinner. Seeing Russell return, she inevitably gave another round of nagging about "young people shouldn't always run wild outside."
Russell dealt with it with a grin while sitting down at the dining table.
The atmosphere of the dinner was warm. Charlotte was rarely not cooped up in her room; instead, she was sitting by the dining table.
Although she still had that look of indifference to everything around her, slowly cutting the food in her plate with a knife and fork.
Just as the dinner was halfway through, Charlotte suddenly spoke.
"I've changed my mind."
"Hmm?" Russell chewed on the sausage in his mouth and looked up at her.
Charlotte gazed at him, then took out that invitation card again.
"I plan to take a look at that so-called Icebreaker Party."
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