Chameleon.
There was no word more fitting to describe that fellow.
He could be that slacker who was forever half-asleep in class, who couldn't muster interest in anything, and who shamelessly bummed lecture notes off her every single time.
He could also be that dance partner who, at the Icebreaker Party, ignored everyone else's stares, walked toward her against the light, and danced with her in the very center of the floor.
And he could be that legendary Phantom Thief who, in the dead of night, wore a cold mask, spoke the most offensive words in the most flippant of tones, yet brought a sliver of hope in her most desperate hour.
He could be everything, and he could be nothing at all.
Just like a perfect chameleon, disguising himself—according to his environment, according to his needs—as the most inconspicuous, or the most eye-catching, of figures.
And she, from beginning to end, had been kept completely in the dark—had even, more than once, foolishly discussed the topic of his other identity right in front of him.
In doing so, she had even said any number of things that now, with the merest recollection, made her want to cover her face in mortification.
How, exactly, was she to describe the feeling of that single instant?
Was it fury, or was it elation—or, perhaps, both at once?
Moonlight spilled in through the window, illuminating the young woman's face, and that flush of crimson that mingled shame and delight.
"How thoroughly unpleasant... Russell Watson."
Mary murmured softly, and in those azure eyes there remained not the slightest trace of her usual gentleness and composure.
In their place was something almost morbid—a fervor.
She picked up the notebook and flipped it open at random; that scrawled yet familiar handwriting met her gaze, seeming to brim with mockery.
"Very well," the young woman said, closing the notebook, the smile at the corner of her lips growing only more dangerous.
"Since you so enjoy putting on a performance, then I shall play along to the very end—and we'll see who's the first to drop the act."
The following day.
London was still immersed in the tremendous shock that Moriarty had wrought.
For the likes of Phineas James, that newspaper was indeed no different from Gabriel's trumpet.
For them, Judgment Day had truly arrived.
The instant the scandal was exposed, the first to react was Buckingham Palace.
With swift and ruthless speed, it settled accounts with every single name mentioned in the papers, one after another. At the same time, it kept utterly silent about the matter of Moriarty having paid the place a visit.
Likewise, in their morning editions the next day, all the newspapers tacitly avoided spending any ink on that affair, focusing their attention instead on the sinners who had been brought to judgment.
All save one newspaper.
While everyone else was still busy carving up the spoils, one paper had already chosen to set up its own separate table—and, in passing, to viciously trample on its peers.
The protagonist of The Guardian's front-page headline that morning was Lloyds Bank.
No Moriarty, no Judgment Day—only a single enormous, eye-catching headline:
[The Collapse of Integrity: Lloyds Bank Suspected of Defrauding Customers and Concealing a Major Theft!]
In a style that was both highly inflammatory and yet exquisitely precise in every word, the report disclosed in detail the crimes of Lloyds Bank.
After the attack had occurred, in order to evade an enormous payout, the bank had chosen to conspire with The Times to conceal from the public and its customers the truth of the stolen property.
The author of the article had skillfully cast Lloyds Bank as an arrogant, greedy, unscrupulous capitalist that regarded its customers' interests as nothing, while portraying The Times as an accomplice that, for the sake of an exclusive scoop, had not hesitated to sell out the conscience of the press.
As evidence, the report's appendix reproduced, entirely unaltered, those several commercial contracts belonging to the Morstan family—the very ones that should have been lying inside a safe.
Black words on white paper; ironclad proof.
This article, like a heavy bomb, blasted an even deeper crater into a London that had only just been turned upside down by Moriarty.
Before long, the entrance of Lloyds Bank was crammed with a crowd of protesters, and along with them, many of the nobles who had dealings with the bank were phoning in to apply pressure and demand answers.
The bank's share price, the very instant the market opened, plummeted madly as though in free fall, and countless investors lost everything.
The Times, likewise, did not get off easy.
It was only that they quickly convened a press conference and swiftly cut ties, claiming that all of this was Lloyds Bank's act of deception.
It was Lloyds Bank that had told the reporters the entire underground vault had suffered no losses whatsoever, and it was this that had led The Times to make an erroneous judgment and report.
Yet even though they had reacted at the first possible moment, The Times's circulation was still severely affected.
Of course, none of this was any of Russell's concern.
His pressing priority at the moment was a single matter—returning the music box to Princess Louise.
This time was different from the last.
Last time it was a matter of stealing from you within seven days; now it was a demand that he return it to you after seven days.
Although the deadline was fixed in stone, and Buckingham Palace would, starting today, surely tighten its defenses—
it didn't matter, for he had already set his prop in place in advance.
Though they knew to step up their guard to keep him from getting in from the outside—
who could ever have imagined that he wasn't going through the front door at all?
Not only do I not use the front door, I don't even use the side door.
I laugh at the Queen's lack of strategy, and at Mycroft's lack of wit.
Bro just teleports straight in—what can you do about it? If you've got the nerve, camp my teleport point.
Pity you can't camp it.
Humming a tuneless little ditty, Russell strolled unhurriedly into the lecture hall.
To his surprise, Mary had come exceptionally early today.
The moment Russell stepped through the door, he saw that familiar figure already seated in that familiar spot.
The young woman sat in her usual place, bathed in the warm sunlight, a book of poetry cradled in her hands, reading quietly.
She seemed to be in quite a good mood today.
Those beautiful azure eyes rippled with a gentle smile like the waters of a spring lake, as though that monstrous, sky-engulfing storm outside had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
"You're here early today." Russell sat down beside her and casually set down the newspaper he'd bought.
"Good morning, Russell." Mary closed her poetry book and turned her head to look at him, a bright and lovely smile on her face.
"You seem to be in a pretty good mood today," Russell said curiously. "Did something good happen?"
"Mm, more or less." Mary didn't deny it, instead pointing out the window.
"The weather's lovely today, isn't it?"
Russell followed her gaze. Beyond the window the sky was clear and boundless—it truly was a rare fine day.
"Come to think of it," Mary's gaze fell upon that copy of The Guardian, "London is certainly in quite an uproar today."
"It is indeed," Russell said, pushing the newspaper over. "Have you read it?"
"Of course," Mary said, picking up the paper and letting her eyes sweep across the front page, her tone carrying just the right measure of surprise and gloating.
"I really never imagined Lloyds Bank would do such a thing. They're in for a great deal of trouble now."
"Was this your father's idea?" Russell asked offhandedly, as if in passing.
"He held it in for a full week before taking it to The Guardian to expose—that's quite some patience."
"To accomplish great things, one must always have a little patience." Mary did not deny it.
The young woman's gaze swept faintly across the newspaper, then came to rest, without any change of expression, upon Russell.
"Speaking of which, for this we really have Moriarty to thank."
As she spoke, she observed Russell's reaction.
"Tell me—why is it that, after he stole these documents from the bank's vault, he chose not to return them to the bank, but instead chose to place them into my hands?"
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