Moments after Russell's departure.
In the bedroom, Hansen Bolay—lying in bed—suddenly opened his eyes.
He hadn't slept well the past two days, but by now he was used to it.
At this hour, it had become his routine to check the study and make sure the ledgers were still there, then take two sleeping pills and doze until morning. So, he rose from bed, tightened his robe, and headed toward the study.
Thump.
The warm orange light bathed the dark study; everything looked exactly as he'd left it. The balcony door was firmly shut, the books on the shelf untouched, the pen on the desk still there. Hansen Bolay let out a faint breath of relief, but he couldn't shake the sense of dread squirming in his chest. The feeling was so intense, he found his breath and heartbeat quickening.
He frowned, walked behind the desk, and reached up to touch the spines of the books. The moment his fingers grazed the heavy Bible, his anxiety spiked to the limit.
He yanked it down and, relying on the lamp, quickly paged through it.
Cover, contents, Old Testament—everything looked perfectly normal.
Until—
The page where all his secrets should have been recorded—
Was empty.
Hansen Bolay's mind went utterly blank.
He clumsily flipped through each page, his movements shifting from cautious to frantic, then to violent and desperate.
No.
There was nothing.
The evidence that could destroy his reputation had vanished, as if swept away by the hand of God, leaving no trace.
"No... Impossible…" he muttered, turning the book over and shaking it hard, hoping the pages had simply stuck together.
Only some old tobacco dust fell out. That was all.
Just as he was about to be consumed by this immense panic, his gaze caught on a single line of writing on a blank page. It was in handwriting he'd never seen—and never wanted to see—followed by a signature that made his heart nearly stop.
His worst fear had come true.
Bang!
The heavy Bible slipped from his trembling hands and dropped with a thud onto the carpet below.
Moonlight shone through the window, illuminating precisely that one line:
The path to salvation lies within.
—Moriarty
…
[From Hansen Bolay: Fear and Despair, +80 Malice]
Hearing the notification in his mind, Russell nodded in satisfaction. This was just the beginning.
Let's keep firing for a little while longer.
Russell decided to wait a bit before submitting his work to the newspaper.
First, he'd notify every major paper in the fleet.
Let them know that a big gift was coming in a few days.
The news would certainly make headlines and become the talk of the town.
As the countdown approached, Londoners' anticipation would only grow. Meanwhile, the panic among his unlucky targets would worsen with each passing day.
For them, it was a countdown to doom—a countdown whose meaning they alone understood.
When and where and how death would arrive—they knew it all, and the waiting was unbearable torture.
To kill someone, you must first break their spirit.
A sharp knife kills when the head hits the ground. But a dull knife? Its process, like a death sentence, is true torment.
And Russell did not just target such marked individuals.
Others wracked by guilt would accumulate considerable malice during this countdown too.
"Time to deliver some letters to Fleet Street. Maybe earn a little pocket change on the way."
Russell yawned and melted into the Kensington night.
Late at night, while other districts were dark and silent, Fleet Street shone brightly.
Wearing a baseball jacket and cap, Russell strolled in, hands in his pockets, and pushed open the door to the Times.
The receptionist, mid-yawn, perked up the moment he saw someone appear.
Anyone who'd worked here long enough knew what it meant for a total stranger to show up at this hour.
"May I help you with something?" he asked politely.
"I'm here to deliver a message."
Russell said, "It's a letter from Mr. Moriarty."
He took an envelope from his pocket.
"One moment, please!"
The receptionist grabbed the phone, using both hands and feet.
"Hey! Editor Henry! Santa Claus is back—yep, with more presents!"
Less than three minutes later, a familiar figure rushed down from the second floor.
Henry's eyes were bloodshot, but excitement and enthusiasm lit his face like never before.
"Where is the letter?" he asked anxiously.
Russell pointed at the table, but as soon as Henry reached for it, Russell's hand covered it.
"With all due respect, that'll be 100 pounds."
Russell smiled, extending his hand.
Henry frowned—not at the fact Russell was charging, but at how little he was asking.
"A hundred pounds?" He thought it was too cheap.
When Ethan Roy got caught in a scandal last time, he lost a full 500 pounds.
If this only cost a fifth of that, it probably meant the contents were still top-notch.
Who cared about guarantees? This was Moriarty!
"Take it."
Without hesitation, Henry pulled out 100 pounds and passed it over—and grabbed the envelope.
Excited, Henry tore the envelope open—only to find it contained no photos, no evidence.
Instead, just a letter.
This time, Moriarty had actually written a letter.
An advance notice.
"What is this?" Henry frowned deeper.
"No idea, sir," Russell shrugged. "You've paid, and I delivered your message. Our transaction is complete, right?"
Henry didn't answer.
The Times' chief editor buried his eyes in the letter.
At first confused, then bewildered, and finally overcome by a fervor he could not suppress.
"Oh my God…" After a long while, Henry could only whisper through clenched teeth.
He scanned the letter over and over, as if he wanted to engrave every word in his memory.
[Dear Times and esteemed citizens of London:
In five days, a grand performance shall commence.
Stay tuned.
—Your good neighbor, Moriarty]
Short. Simple.
But the amount of information packed within exploded in veteran journalist Henry Scott's mind like dynamite.
"Gabriel's trumpet… is about to sound."