"What?"
Russell blinked.
"When we first met, your footwork—your combat skill—wasn't just crude. It was clumsy," Mary said evenly.
"That wasn't deliberate disguise. It was genuine amateurism.
Given that, I don't believe you could have done what you did at Lloyds—defeat five, or rather six, armed men by yourself.
Honestly, I'm curious. How did you do it?"
Russell was quiet for a moment—then smiled.
"People's bodies can't be judged by the same standard, Miss Morstan," he said lightly. "Some people can punch through eight inches of steel when they're furious, you know."
"That belongs in a fantasy novel."
"Exactly." Russell spread his hands. "Which is why—people can grow.
Thanks to our last encounter, I deeply realized how lacking I was in combat.
So I specifically trained to improve."
"That's been less than a month." Mary frowned, her gaze sharpening.
A month might take you from amateur to beginner, sure.
But a beginner taking on six armed men—inside a tight underground space—while dealing with gas?
That didn't add up.
"I tried a little harder," Russell said.
"This goes beyond 'trying.'" Mary looked like she was genuinely considering whether Britain had started a secret super-soldier program.
Code name: Captain Britain…?
"I told you. People can't be measured the same way. Maybe I've got superpowers," Russell said with a shrug.
Mary stared at him.
[Mary Morstan is dissatisfied with your concealment. Malice +10]
There it is again—impatient.
Mary lifted her tea cup, using the motion to hide the brief flash of calculation in her eyes.
"Fine. If you don't want to say it, don't."
Tea and sugar melted on her tongue, but her mind wasn't on taste at all.
For a split second, she'd almost drawn a line between the thief in front of her and Russell Watson.
But after cooling down, she dismissed the thought.
He couldn't possibly defeat six gunmen in that situation and walk away unscathed.
And if Moriarty really were him, she would have recognized it.
Still, her eyes lingered on the man opposite her, studying him.
He didn't fit.
Not in build. Not in presence. Not in temperament.
Even his voice was clearly processed—deliberately altered—useless as evidence.
Suspicion remained. Proof did not.
Russell noticed her scrutiny. Behind the mask, he showed no panic.
The thief's outfit had its own kind of visual distortion. Even if a very different man wore it, Mary would only register him as "somewhat sturdier."
"You've been staring a while, Miss Morstan," Russell said.
His voice cut through her internal storm, forcing it to settle.
"Are you trying to see through this mask… or through me?"
"Is there a difference?" Mary countered, firelight from the hearth flickering in her eyes, bright and dark in turns. "I have no interest in you. I'm interested in the puzzle you represent—and the threat."
She paused.
"And I just think it's unfair."
"Unfair how?"
"You already know things about me, but I don't even know what you look like." Her gaze didn't waver. "Do you really think that's fair?"
"A gentleman thief must remain mysterious, my lady," Russell said with a smile.
"Can I ask one more question?"
"Of course. The night is still long."
"Why did you become a thief?" Mary asked.
"Because it's fun," Russell answered without hesitation. "What else? Are you suggesting I have a superpower that makes me stronger when I do bad things?"
"I mean you could have chosen another profession," Mary pressed, ignoring his joking.
"Was it Mycroft's decision… or yours?"
Mycroft?
Russell froze for a beat, then understood.
She was asking why, as a shadow tool, he chose such a conspicuous identity—why a flamboyant thief.
Should I tell her the truth?
Or keep lying?
A mystery revealed too early isn't fun.
He was looking forward to the day she learned the truth—just to savor the expression on her face.
That, he thought, would be worth the price of admission even if it killed him.
Russell gathered his wandering thoughts, then leisurely crossed one leg over the other.
"Mycroft? What does he have to do with anything?"
Mary caught the brief silence—and the small movement that followed.
It was the first noticeably "loud" body language he'd shown tonight.
In her reading, it was guilt.
Which meant her earlier hypothesis—formed in that lecture hall—was correct.
Moriarty was, indeed, one of Mycroft's cultivated shadows.
Mary kept her face neutral and pushed harder.
"You don't need to keep pretending, Mister Moriarty. Let's speak plainly."
She leaned back into the softness of the sofa.
"There's no one else here. Just you and me. So we don't need to keep up performances, do we?"
Russell went silent again.
Then he gave a soft, almost helpless sigh.
"How did you know?" he asked, choosing to go along. "Even the great detective doesn't know this."
"Not necessarily." Mary let out a small laugh. "She simply isn't interested in you."
"All right, fine." Russell tilted his head. "Then answer me this—how did you find out about my connection to Mycroft?
I shouldn't have any direct or indirect contact with him, except the Ethan Roy incident.
And I don't see how that leads back to Mycroft."
"That's your failure, Mister Thief." Mary's smile sharpened into something teasing.
"If I were you, I wouldn't do anything outside my assigned tasks.
For example—slipping a stolen love letter to a lonely university student."
She looked straight at him.
"Right, Mister Clark Kent?"
Russell didn't speak.
He remained silent.
Even with the mask hiding everything, Mary still caught the instant of speechlessness—and the subtle adjustment of his posture.
So she smiled.
A smile laced with satisfaction and triumph.
"Seems," she set her cup down with a clear clink of porcelain, "I guessed correctly."
Russell said nothing—only slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly.
"I thought I was hiding it pretty well."
"You did hide it well," Mary replied noncommittally. "Blame the one person who refuses to behave according to the script."
Then she laughed softly.
"Russell Watson…"
Russell hummed, as if idly thinking aloud.
"Should I… get a little revenge on him?"
The moment the words fell, Mary's smile vanished.
Her sea-blue eyes turned into an ice-bound abyss. Just meeting them felt like falling into a freezing pit.
"What are you planning?"
[Mary Morstan becomes hostile toward your words. Malice +20]
"I'm warning you," she said coldly. "Stay away from him."
....
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