The next day, the campus of Imperial College London was bathed in perfect sunlight.
At a window seat in the library, Russell sat idly flipping through a heavy tome titled An Introduction to Mechanical Dynamics.
He recognized every word.
But once they were put together, the sentences might as well have been incantations from another world.
He'd slept well last night—for the first time in a while.
No shrieking violin.
No geniuses forcing him to play mental chess.
221B Baker Street had finally returned to the peace it was meant to have.
And honestly?
That was entirely thanks to him.
Russell shamelessly enjoyed the quiet he'd personally engineered, letting drowsiness roll over him like a tide.
He yawned, just about to place the book over his face and take a bright, public nap—
When a familiar scent—white tea and ink—invaded his nose without permission.
"Good morning, Mr. Watson."
Mary Morstan's voice sounded at his side, carrying a smile that was precisely calibrated to be pleasant.
"Did you rest well last night?"
"Thanks to you, very well," Russell lifted his head and met those blue eyes that always felt a little too perceptive.
"How did you know I was here?"
"Someone filed a complaint," Mary said, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting with effortless poise. She set several books on the table. "They said some unambitious fellow had claimed the best seat in the library—only to use it for sleeping."
She paused.
"Just kidding. It was basic inference."
"…" Russell had the distinct impression this girl and Holmes would have an awful lot to talk about.
"So," Mary asked as she opened her book, "is the case resolved?"
The Times hadn't printed the result, so Mary didn't have a public conclusion to work with.
That, however, didn't prevent her from believing she'd already earned the answer.
"It's resolved," Russell nodded. "Edgar Light's suspicion has been cleared and he's been released. As for what happens next—Holmes doesn't consider it her problem."
"I see. Good," Mary nodded.
A moment later, something else occurred to her.
"And when Miss Holmes learned the truth," she asked, "how did she react?"
"Hm? Normally?" Russell blinked. "She called Inspector Lestrade and told him to release the man. What else?"
"Just that?" Mary's brow furrowed. Holmes's response clearly wasn't what she'd expected.
"You spoiled the answer for her and she didn't get angry?"
"Spoiled—no, I didn't do that," Russell raised both hands in immediate denial.
Mary's frown deepened.
"You didn't tell her about the martyrdom idea?"
"Of course not," Russell said flatly. "I only gave her the two most basic missing pieces. She deduced the rest herself. If she'd known earlier, she might've cracked it from the start."
He added, with an almost casual finality:
"She's Charlotte Holmes, after all."
At that, Mary fell into rare silence.
Those blue eyes flickered between light and shadow, turning inward—as if calculating something.
A moment later, the corner of her mouth lifted.
A glint surfaced in her gaze.
The glint of competition.
Russell Watson.
The gentleman thief Moriarty.
And Charlotte Holmes.
One by one, they kept redrawing the boundaries of her expectations.
London really was interesting.
Full of talent.
She found herself beginning to like this city.
Russell, meanwhile, had absolutely no idea what was going on in her head.
Because his own mind contained only one thought:
Where should he go in the next couple of days to farm more malice points?
When in doubt, he could always open a blind-box map.
But blind boxes were, by definition, unreliable.
When the system said "random," it meant truly random—not the "pseudo-random" nonsense of games.
Just last month, it had spat out the location of a poor household.
Russell had walked through it, looked around, and then quietly left five pounds on the table.
So if he had a choice, a targeted map was obviously better.
More expensive, too.
A blind box cost ten malice points.
A targeted map charged by the complexity of the site.
If the Morstan estate hadn't been random and had been purchased directly, it would've been dozens of points—possibly triple digits.
Russell's thoughts ran like a wild horse, galloping through the city's wealthy districts in search of soft targets with deep pockets.
He didn't even notice Mary had called his name several times.
Until she finally lost her patience and lightly prodded his waist with her pen.
"Mr. Watson—are you listening to me?"
[Mary Morstan is mildly displeased by your inattentiveness. Malice +10]
Russell snapped back to reality and stared at her, blank.
"Hm? What is it?"
"What were you thinking about?" Mary rested her chin on one hand, the other tapping her pen against the cover of her book. "I called you three times."
"Dinner," Russell replied without missing a beat. "I was thinking about what to eat tonight."
"Then at least choose a lie that's remotely believable," Mary sighed. She didn't press him further.
"More importantly," she continued, "you'll be attending the reception this weekend, won't you?"
"Reception? What reception?" Russell blinked. "Do you lose credits if you don't go?"
"The freshman icebreaker," Mary's tone turned complicated. "You didn't know?"
"No," Russell shook his head. "No one told me."
Mary looked at him with a kind of reluctant comprehension.
She opened her mouth, as if to say something—then seemed to reconsider, perhaps wary of bruising his pride.
In the end, she cleared her throat and delivered the message in the gentlest possible form:
"Then perhaps they simply… forgot. There are many people to notify, after all."
"I understand. You don't need to say more," Russell said evenly, as if being excluded meant nothing.
If anything, he should be thanking whoever "forgot" him.
Now he didn't need an excuse to refuse.
If he had time for an icebreaker party, he could be running a clean withdrawal in the rich districts.
Connections, cliques, noble networks—those were airy things.
Only malice points in the system's wallet were real.
"Perfect timing, then," Russell added. "I might have something to do this weekend anyway. I probably won't make it."
Mary's brows drew together, faint displeasure surfacing.
"You truly won't come?"
"There's no such thing as a perfect compromise," Russell said.
"What does that mean?"
"An Eastern verse," Russell explained. "It means: there's no way in this world to have everything."
Mary fell quiet again—whether she was thinking about the line, or something else entirely, Russell couldn't tell.
Finally, she lifted her head, speaking as though to herself as much as to him.
"The reception is Saturday. Six o'clock to eight."
She closed her book, stood, and walked past him.
And she left behind a single sentence—light as drifting air, but heavy in implication.
"I'll be waiting for you."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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