Afternoon.
Lucian took a determined bite of rye bread.
His gaze appeared to be admiring the campus's Gothic spires, but the reflection in his lenses was quietly sweeping the surroundings.
No silver head.
Good. Safe territory.
The next step was simple: learn Professor Craig's daily routine and prepare for tonight's visit.
And then—
A dull thud sounded from nearby.
Lucian turned instinctively.
Beneath the stone-pillared arcade by the school gate, a slender figure was crouched on the ground, struggling to right a toppled vintage suitcase.
Golden hair spilled over her shoulders. Her small face was pale—almost translucent.
Mary.
The girl who had been crying on the carpet last night.
She was a student here too?
A returning enrollee in October… no wonder Lucian had never seen her before.
He swallowed the last of his bread, brushed crumbs from his hands, and adjusted his expression.
He didn't want extra trouble.
But watching a victim flail in front of him and doing nothing wasn't his style either.
"Um… do you need help, miss?"
The girl's shoulders visibly jolted.
Like a frightened fawn, she snapped her head up. Those damp emerald eyes were full of wariness and helplessness—until she saw that the one speaking was only a normal student in a washed-out shirt, wearing foolish-looking glasses, with bread crumbs still stuck to the corner of his mouth.
Only then did her taut body loosen.
"Ah… I'm terribly sorry. I startled you."
Mary's voice carried the breathy weakness of someone perpetually unwell.
"I'm a first-year medical student—returning this year—but I've… I've lost my way. The fog is so thick. I want to report to the Academic Office, but…"
She bit her pale lip, her gaze falling on the heavy suitcase. A sheen of tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.
Pitiful.
Combined with what Lucian had witnessed last night, he could almost reconstruct her situation: thrown back to school by a violent "father" like unwanted rubbish—without even a servant assigned to carry her luggage.
And judging by the state of things, last night's incident clearly hadn't been reported.
Today's papers contained not a single word about a home invasion on Regent Street.
That cowardly "father" really had chosen silence out of fear of exposure.
"If you don't mind," Lucian said gently, "I'll carry it for you."
He lifted the suitcase without hesitation.
It was heavy—likely stuffed with everything the girl owned.
"The Academic Office is on the third floor of the main building. I'm heading that way too to submit… um, homework."
Lucian offered a shy, harmless smile.
"My name is Lucian Grey. Second-year, literature faculty."
"Thank you so much, Mr. Grey."
Mary rose and gave him a smile—frail, but grateful.
They walked side by side beneath the fog-laced colonnade.
As they drew closer, a scent drifted into Lucian's nose: faint medicinal notes mixed with iris.
"My name is Mary. Mary Morstan."
Morstan.
Lucian repeated it silently.
He'd been here for years, and the details of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes had blurred—but he still vaguely remembered that Dr. Watson's wife seemed to have that name.
In the original story, she had been gentle and resilient.
In this world line, her fate looked harsher.
Long-term emotional abuse. A body so weak she could barely manage a few hundred meters without stopping to catch her breath.
Lucian hoped the blessing about Icarus last night had given her even a sliver of courage.
But from an angle Lucian couldn't see—
This "canary" was studying him with an utterly calm gaze.
Clear eyes. Foolish sincerity. No sense of danger. The kind who saw an obvious weakling and couldn't stop himself from offering excess sympathy.
Judging from the frayed cuffs and the cheap spectacles, he was likely one of those lower-class students who ran himself ragged for survival—self-conscious, and secretly craving recognition.
A good man.
The problem was—
Last night's phantom thief had used a voice changer, but the fundamental vibration frequency of the vocal cords… the deliberately suppressed rhythm of footsteps…
There was a physiological similarity that was difficult to fake.
Coincidence?
Or had this man researched "Mary Morstan" and approached her deliberately?
Let's test it.
"Mr. Grey is very strong," Mary said softly, as if idly.
But her eyes were locked on Lucian's profile, ruthless in their focus.
"Unlike me… Father always says I'm like… like Icarus with wax wings. If I fly even a little too high, I'll fall."
A naked keyword probe.
The last thing the phantom thief had said last night had been that very blessing—about Icarus.
If the man beside her was the intruder, there would be at least a flicker: a pupil contraction, a momentary pause in breath.
But Lucian stopped, looking genuinely confused.
He even wore that bookish stupidity, actually thinking for a second, then scratching his head in embarrassment.
"Icarus? The figure from Greek mythology, right? I don't know why your father would say that, but I think everyone has the right to fly. You don't have to listen to him. This is a university— even if your wings are made of wax, as long as you don't fly too close to the sun… you can still go very far."
A perfect answer.
It matched the cognition of a warm-hearted, slightly pedantic literature student. It neatly avoided last night's specific context—and even served a bowl of inspirational nonsense on top.
Because Lucian had already planned how to handle exactly this kind of test.
He didn't know why Mary suddenly mentioned Icarus, but the word was something he had left behind last night.
If he acted too calm, it would feel deliberate.
So showing a little "earnest thought, then encouragement" bookishness was the most natural reaction.
[Skill: Faceless Professor — Moriarty does not always show his true face. You can perfectly replicate any voice you have heard and imitate its speaking logic. With a card, you can imitate the person themselves. You are everyone—and you are no one.]
Mary stared at Lucian's profile for three seconds.
No pupil contraction.
No change in breathing rhythm.
In his eyes there was only overflowing sympathy—and the instinctive shyness and avoidance a young man might show toward the opposite sex.
Not him?
Or…
No. Impossible.
That bone-deep humility and mediocrity couldn't be faked by acting.
Unless the acting had surpassed the human limit—unless even micro-expressions were under total control.
But was that possible?
Obviously not.
His kindness was sincere—so sincerely stupid it was almost pathetic.
"You're a very gentle person, Mr. Grey."
Mary's smile grew sweeter.
"In this unfamiliar school, meeting you is truly wonderful—because… I'm like a lost lamb. I really need a kind guide."
No matter.
Even if he wasn't that interesting counterfeit.
This man—Lucian—was strong, slow, soft-hearted, with a clean background.
A perfect sample of a tool.
If she ever needed to do something inconvenient to appear in person for… he might be useful.
"It's nothing," Lucian replied, returning an honest, guileless smile. "Miss Morstan."
Poor girl.
Treated like that by her father, yet still able to show a trusting smile to a stranger.
He hoped she could find her own sky at university.
They smiled at each other—each holding thoughts utterly different from the other.
The atmosphere couldn't have been more harmonious.
…
After escorting Mary to the door of the Academic Office, Lucian declined her invitation for tea and hurried away.
Mainly because he was broke—he feared he'd be expected to return the invitation.
He crossed the main building's corridor, about to head toward the medical faculty to observe Craig's movements—
When a harsh roar stopped him cold.
"Trash! All of you are trash!"
A pot-bellied middle-aged man slammed a stack of laboratory reports onto the ground.
Balding. Thin mustache. Cheeks flushed red with rage.
Professor Craig.
And opposite him—head lowered, trembling like a child who'd done wrong—was Henry Jekyll.
"This is the data you handed me? What have you been doing all week? Is your skull full of paste?!"
Craig spat as he shouted.
"You still haven't paid for that expensive measuring cylinder, and now the experimental data is wrong! I don't think you're fit for medicine at all! Go back to your countryside and plant potatoes! Stop wasting the Academy's resources!"
"I-I'm sorry, Professor…" Jekyll crouched and scrambled to gather the papers. "That cylinder really wasn't broken by me… and the data was according to your instructions…"
"You dare talk back?!" Craig kicked Jekyll's reaching hand away.
"If I say it was you, it was you! In this laboratory, my words are truth!"
He looked down at the kneeling young man, lips curling into a vicious smirk.
"Unless you can pay double the 'sponsorship fee' by the end of this month, I'll write 'severe moral defects' on your final evaluation. Try it. With that comment, what hospital in London would dare take you?"
Students passing by turned their heads.
Some looked sympathetic. Some looked amused.
But no one stepped forward.
Everyone knew Professor Craig's academic ability was mediocre—but his brother-in-law sat high on the Board of Governors. Within this Academy, Craig was a petty king.
Jekyll knelt, face flushed, tears trembling at the rims of his eyes—yet he could say nothing.
From a distance.
From the shadows.
Lucian watched quietly.
His expression didn't change at all.
If he had borrowed the name "Moriarty," then crushing this sort of filth—who only bullied the weak—under a heavier fear was a necessary kind of moral education.
As for whether it would draw Holmes's attention?
Of course not.
Because this time, Lucian wouldn't send a calling card like he had for the first four jewel performances.
Tonight's show didn't need an audience.
It only needed a target.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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