Night.
Deep within a muddy back alley in the Southwark District, a place forgotten by the gas lamps.
In a room on the second floor of a pub, the smoke was as thick as London fog. The air was a mix of cheap gin, sodden wool, and inferior tobacco, pungent enough to make one's eyes water.
A burly man was wiping his brass knuckles with a greasy rag. Opposite him, a skinny, withered man, his fingers twitching slightly from nervousness, was repeatedly dismantling and reassembling a lock cylinder.
And the master of the room, the man who remained seated in the shadows revealing only a hand wearing a brass ring, smoked silently.
This was London's underground.
Creak—
The old door was pushed open silently, revealing a sliver of space. A boy wearing a beret slipped in. He looked no older than ten, yet his face carried a numbness that did not belong to his age.
The boy said nothing; he simply stepped forward, gently placed a clean letter on the table, and then silently withdrew.
The two men in the room stopped their hands, their gazes falling in unison upon that letter.
The man sitting in the shadows raised his hand, picked up the letter, and gently rubbed his fingers over it. The texture of the paper was excellent, exuding an exquisiteness belonging to high society.
He pulled out the letter paper, his gaze falling upon the graceful handwriting. The man read the letter in silence, his eyes finally resting on the signature at the bottom.
—Professor.
Professor.
In London's underground, this name represented only one thing—[Authority].
It was as if someone couldn't stand the clumsy criminal methods of the outlaws, so that Professor simply decided to write a textbook on crime personally. Every time it appeared, it represented a perfect criminal operation.
It was just a pity that for about a year now, this name hadn't appeared again. Just as it had appeared inexplicably, it had disappeared just as inexplicably at some unknown point.
No one knew who the Professor was, nor did anyone know if the Professor was still alive.
Until three days ago, when a letter was delivered to his desk, signed with that long-lost name.
Without any pleasantries or words, the letter directly clarified the lobby layout of Lloyds Bank, as well as the security strength. At first, the man didn't know what this letter meant, because it looked like an incomplete instruction manual.
It only introduced the bank but didn't say anything more. Until the second day, and the third day.
Every day, a letter would be mailed over. Every letter was a further analysis of Lloyds Bank. Counting this one, this was already the fourth he had received this week.
This time, it was no longer some lengthy explanation or list of precautions, but an operation manual so complete that no fault could be picked in it.
The man looked silently at the letter in his hand. That graceful handwriting didn't look faked, and that plan which seemed to have no loopholes didn't look like nonsense either.
And there was only one requirement.
Open the door to one of the storage rooms, and open a safe inside it. It was that simple. For this purpose, the Professor even thoughtfully attached the password for that safe.
He didn't specifically note which safe it was; in other words, this required them to try them one by one.
"Disappeared for a year, and the first thing done upon returning is to plan an attack on the largest private bank in all of London?"
The man muttered to himself, then let out a sneer. However, since the Professor was making a comeback, he was naturally willing to build momentum for him.
What's more, regarding the underground storage room of Lloyds Bank... if it could really succeed, the proceeds after the fact would be enough for him to live worry-free for the rest of his life.
"Go, organize the men," he said to his subordinates. "We're going to pull off a big one."
·
·
Frederick sat on an old wooden chair that had been worn shiny, stuffing the last bite of a greasy meat pie into his mouth.
Subsequently, he picked up the flask by the table and took a fierce swig from the spout. The spicy whiskey was like molten iron, burning its way down his esophagus and dispelling the damp chill entrenched in his bones.
After finishing this meal, it was time to change shifts. Honestly, he really didn't like being on duty in that sunless, godforsaken place.
Although he knew that stored inside were the gold, silver, and jewelry of the noble lords, or certain things even more precious than gold and silver jewels.
But so what? They didn't belong to him, and they could never belong to him. He was just a gatekeeper, a hound guarding the treasures for the noble lords.
The bank wouldn't give him a single extra penny of salary just because he guarded it effectively.
He was full and drunk. He burped with satisfaction, the air filling with a turbid smell of meat gravy mixed with cheap alcohol.
He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and prepared to enjoy these last few minutes of tranquility before the shift change.
For some reason, after finishing this dinner, his brain felt inexplicably drowsy. But that was probably due to the whiskey.
Frederick thought to himself. If I'd known earlier, I wouldn't have drunk that mouthful; I might get scolded later. But if I don't drink now, I won't have this chance for the next month.
Worst case, I'll just wash my face with cold water later.
Thinking this, he prepared to push off the armrests to stand up. However, the instant Frederick stood up, the world seemed to spin in his eyes.
That dusk-colored gas lamp dragged out countless blurry trails of light in his vision. Finally, his field of view went abruptly black.
Without even having time to let out a cry, his entire person lost all strength and he collapsed limply to the ground.
Thud.
A dull sound became the final movement in this apartment. Absolute silence.
Another five minutes passed. Only after confirming that the person on the ground was truly unconscious did a figure slowly walk out from a dark corner.
"Down you go, down you go."
Russell walked to the fallen Frederick, squatted halfway down, and extended two fingers to probe the pulse at the other's neck. Steady, but weak. The special sleeping agent mixed into the whiskey worked even better than he had anticipated.
He didn't linger any longer, moving cleanly and efficiently to strip off the guard uniform from Frederick's body, which still held his body warmth.
The fabric was somewhat rough, and the cuffs were worn, emitting a faint smell of sweat and tobacco. Russell put on the uniform without a care; the size was slightly too large, but that didn't matter.
Next, he took an item out of his pocket. It was a small piece of translucent soft gel, like jelly.
[Mimicry Soft Gel:
One-time use item. Apply to the face to perfectly simulate the facial features of any person you have seen within one hour.
Price: 100 Malice Points.]
Russell stuck the soft gel onto his own face, and a cold sensation was transmitted. Immediately after, that piece of soft gel seemed to possess life, beginning to slowly wriggle and extend, covering his entire face.
An indescribable, subtle tingling sensation followed, as if his bones were being reshaped.
Russell walked to the only dressing mirror in the room that was still relatively clean, though covered in cracks.
Reflected in the mirror was no longer the young, sharp-eyed Russell Watson. Instead, it was a middle-aged man with a sallow complexion, puffy eyebags, and eyes filled with exhaustion and mediocrity.
—Frederick.
Russell twitched the corners of his mouth at the mirror, and the man in the mirror followed suit, making a stiff and ugly smile.
Very good.
"Time to go to work."
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