"This is so maddening..."
Russell slumped back in his chair, watching the countdown tick away in his field of vision, second by second.
What did it even mean that his next target was a princess living inside Buckingham Palace — and that he'd gone and sent an advance notice letter on top of it all?
Did he think he was some Phantom Thief in a white costume with a top hat and monocle? Or some perfectly ordinary dark-haired transfer student living in an attic with a talking cat?
He was already starting to regret the decision. What on earth had he been so worked up about just now? It was genuinely impossible to feel any solidarity with himself from five minutes ago.
On the bright side, at least he had seven days to prepare.
Take holiday homework, for instance. People generally fell into one of three camps when it came to how they handled it.
The first type would open fire on day one of the break — powering through everything in a single sitting and then spending the rest of the holiday in blissful freedom.
The second type would draw up a meticulous schedule the moment the assignments landed, chipping away at a little each day — steady, composed, methodical.
And then there was the third type. They were utterly indifferent to the passage of time. To them, a deadline wasn't a death knell — it was the single greatest source of productivity known to mankind. They would light a solitary lamp on the final night before school resumed, brew themselves a strong cup of tea, and in a surge of adrenaline and inspiration, produce a masterpiece that left even themselves in awe.
Russell Watson was, without question, the third type.
Only this time, he couldn't do what he usually did — spend a few days playing first and then pull an all-nighter at the last minute. There was too much groundwork to lay beforehand.
Buckingham Palace was nothing like those mansions in Kensington. It wasn't the sort of place you could simply waltz into and out of on a whim.
Which meant that when the time came, he would inevitably need the assistance of certain wonderfully magical tools.
And to buy wonderfully magical tools, he needed wonderfully magical currency.
Russell's gaze dropped to his current balance — 1,370.
For a casual zero-cost shopping trip through an ordinary wealthy neighbourhood, that would be more than sufficient. But for Buckingham Palace? That amount of Malice Points would barely get him in as a tourist.
Therefore, the immediate priority was simple: get money. Stack up a proper reserve of Malice Points first.
Russell stared at the ceiling, running rough estimates in his head of how many Malice Points this operation would require at minimum.
Two Teleport Anchors at a thousand each — one placed in advance at Baker Street, one deployed after infiltrating the Palace. That was two thousand right there.
Phantom Hand at five hundred. A few Twilight Shroud grenades for critical-moment insurance. Miscellaneous equipment costs on top of that...
All in, it was looking like somewhere close to three thousand. Just thinking about it made his wallet ache.
But if he pulled it off, all three thousand would come right back to him.
You can't catch the wolf if you won't risk the child.
Russell sat up in bed and began pacing the room, his mind turning over at full speed as he sifted through potential candidates — or, as he preferred to think of them, Automated Teller Machines.
As luck would have it, several of London's upper-crust nobles and wealthy figures had been spending their days in a state of anxious misery ever since the Lloyds Bank affair — unable to eat, unable to sleep, consumed with worry.
Every last one of them was terrified that Moriarty might expose their secrets.
As a conscientious young man of the modern era, Russell naturally couldn't stand to see people suffering like this.
Worry? What was there to worry about? There was absolutely nothing to worry about.
He'd put it like this.
From today until the night of the operation — every evening, he would transform into London's Most Helpful Neighbour, personally relieving each and every panic-stricken aristocrat of their burden.
"The Times really ought to build me a shrine," Russell remarked with a sigh.
The dozen-odd newspapers up and down Fleet Street — all carried on my shoulders!
No time to waste. Actions speak louder than words.
With a subtle shift of his focus, the Malice Points balance in his System wallet began draining at speed.
In their place, one customised map after another gradually sharpened into clarity inside his mind.
"Good thing the maps got upgraded," Russell said, surveying the three-dimensional models now arrayed in his head.
"Otherwise, having to physically scout all these locations on foot would've been the death of me."
Mayfair. Kensington. Belgravia. Knightsbridge.
The maps covered nearly every affluent district in London — each one representing a scandal capable of shaking the city to its foundations, and a correspondingly handsome influx of Malice Points.
"So then..." A dangerous curve crept across Russell's lips, like a shark that had just caught the scent of blood.
"Who's tonight's lucky audience?"
Night fell. The evening breeze over Kensington carried with it the unmistakable scent of opulence and old money.
Russell sat in perfect silence on the rooftop of a certain mansion, his silhouette all but dissolved into the darkness.
After his deliberations earlier in the day, he had ultimately decided to start with the neighbourhood he knew best — Kensington. Or rather, to begin his good-neighbour charitable work there.
Tonight's beneficiary was a jewellery merchant by the name of Hansen Boule.
Since the Lloyds Bank incident, he had been living in daily dread that his scheme — colluding with other appraisal firms to forge authentication certificates and pass off inferior goods as premium merchandise — would come to light.
The stress was eating him alive. He couldn't keep food down. Each night he lay awake, tossing and turning.
Poor fellow.
Not to worry, though. After tonight, he would no longer need to lie awake fretting over vague and intangible possibilities.
Because by tomorrow, it would all be in The Times.
Russell stretched languidly, then vaulted off the rooftop in a single clean motion.
His toes caught the lip of a protruding window ledge with the lightest of touches, and he descended without a sound onto the second-floor study balcony.
Infiltration complete.
The security at the Boule Estate was practically decorative as far as he was concerned.
For someone who now possessed Stealth B+, the defences of places like this were roughly equivalent to a toddler's idea of a hiding spot.
He drew his Precision Lockpicking Tool from his pocket. In under ten seconds, the balcony door behaved like a tamed animal and swung quietly open of its own accord.
"Click."
A sound barely audible, and the door was open.
The study smelled of cigars mingled with old paper and alcohol. The lights were off — not that it posed any particular inconvenience for Russell.
The enhancements granted by Investigation C++ weren't limited to raw observational acuity alone — his night vision had received a considerable boost as well.
He moved with practised ease to the far side of the desk, swept a casual glance around the room, and immediately identified where the incriminating evidence was concealed.
One section of the bookshelf was noticeably less dusty than the rest — a clear sign that the books in that particular spot had been pulled out and replaced repeatedly in quick succession.
Russell stepped forward, reached out, and drew out the thick, heavy Bible.
He flipped it open at random. The contents that met his eyes bore no resemblance to scripture or parable.
Instead, page after page documented the destinations of forged certificates, client details, and the corresponding transaction records for the genuinely high-quality jewellery that had been switched out in their place.
Russell let out a low whistle, tore out the relevant pages, and tucked them into his pocket.
Then he picked up the steel pen from the desk and left his own closing remarks on a blank page — along with his signature.
With that done, he returned the Bible to its place and slipped out of the study.
As though he had never been there at all.
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