Late night, the student apartments.
Jekyll's snoring drifted from the next room—steady, even, peacefully oblivious.
Lucian, however, stared at the translucent panel before him, fingers tapping the desk without realizing.
[Points Balance: 1580]
[Draw Cost: 2000 points / pull]
[Limited Banner · Watson (SSR) Remaining: 6 days 23 hours]
Four hundred and twenty points short.
Six days.
Lucian rubbed his brow, Regent Street flashing back into his mind.
That night was supposed to be a perfect performance—points practically within reach.
Who would've guessed Charlotte would personally step in and command the cordon?
Every route sealed. Every possible escape point guarded. He'd been forced to grit his teeth and buy that S-rank skill.
Five hundred points—gone.
All because of that silver-haired, sharp-tongued demon.
But now wasn't the time for complaining.
Limited banners didn't wait.
Watson—the perfect partner on the Radiant side.
If he missed this window, when would the next limited pool even come?
A month.
A year.
Or never again.
"I have to break the rule."
Lucian stood and walked to the window.
Moonlight filtered through fog, frosting London's rooftops in silver.
His original plan was to act once a month.
That frequency wasn't arbitrary—it was calculated.
It preserved Moriarty's mystique, reduced exposure risk, and gave Scotland Yard time to digest failure.
But now the plan had to change.
The problem was—
Charlotte was still at the university.
Last time she'd only bothered because of a wager with Mycroft: catch the phantom thief in three days.
She failed, and her punishment was three months of "experiencing student life."
By temperament, she shouldn't care about jewel theft at all. Too dull. She only had appetite for complex murders.
But what if she got curious again—on a whim?
Lucian wasn't confident he could escape cleanly.
He needed a window of time when she absolutely couldn't leave.
Pacing back and forth, his eyes swept across the newspapers stacked on the desk.
A single line of small print snagged his attention.
[Royal Society Annual Lecture — Featured Speaker: Mycroft Holmes — The day after tomorrow, 8 p.m. to 11 p.m.]
Mycroft.
Charlotte's brother.
The man who'd forced her into this "life experience" in the first place.
In a public setting like that, as a member of the Holmes family, Charlotte had to attend.
No matter how unwilling—she'd have to sit there and be a background prop.
Otherwise, Mycroft would absolutely seize the excuse and extend her "sentence" at school.
"The day after tomorrow, eight to eleven…"
Lucian's lips slowly curved upward.
During the lecture, Charlotte would be trapped in the hall.
And Phantom Thief Moriarty could perform under all of London's gaze.
All he needed was to quietly avoid the most dangerous pair of eyes in the city.
Now he only needed a target.
Lucian opened the paper and skimmed the society pages quickly.
A small news item hooked him almost at once:
[Baring Bank will exhibit its prized treasure "Tear of the Siren," a blue sapphire reportedly worth £30,000. Numerous prominent figures will attend…]
Thirty thousand pounds.
A crowd of elites.
Press attention.
Lucian's finger landed on the line, and his mind began calculating.
Moriarty's point formula: style × audience × shock value.
Baring Bank sat on Lombard Street, surrounded by public thoroughfares.
Once the calling card went out, the onlookers would easily hit five hundred, minimum.
If the performance was spectacular—shock value maxed—
Projected yield: six hundred to eight hundred points.
Enough.
He picked up a pen and began writing a preparation list on a slip of paper:
Tonight: send the calling card.
Tomorrow: scout in daylight—observe security, confirm routes.
The day after tomorrow: act at 10 p.m.
Give Scotland Yard a day and a half to prepare.
Not too short—if they couldn't assemble men, the audience would be too small.
Not too long—or the defense would become airtight.
A day and a half was perfect.
And tomorrow gave him time to confirm details with his own eyes.
He'd already borrowed architectural plans from the library, but paper knowledge was shallow. Some things had to be verified in person.
Guard shift timing. Lock type on the back door. Distance from roof to neighboring buildings…
Those details would decide success or failure.
He still remembered Regent Street—how Holmes had nearly sealed him into a coffin.
The Napoleon of Crime couldn't afford another unprepared battle.
Lucian laid out an ivory-colored card, dipped his pen in ink, and—so his handwriting wouldn't be recognized—wrote with his left hand as he always did.
The script came out slightly crooked.
Completely different from the post-skill tremor. That had been real shaking.
This was art.
To the ladies and gentlemen of London:
At ten o'clock tomorrow night, the "Tear of the Siren" shall dance with me beneath the moon. Kindly visit Baring Bank to witness a waltz in blue and white.
—M
Now that was Moriarty's proper style.
No need to argue with anyone.
Let action speak.
Lucian slipped the card into an envelope, sealed it with black wax, and pressed in the signature smiling-face stamp.
Outside, dawn was already paling the sky.
He put on his coat and left the apartment without a sound.
A postbox near Scotland Yard was the ideal drop point.
…
Two hours later, The Times, The Daily Telegraph, and The Morning Post all received the same white envelope.
Another hour passed—and extra editions flooded every street corner in London.
[PHANTOM THIEF MORIARTY RETURNS! TOMORROW 10 P.M., BARING BANK!]
Newsboys shouted themselves hoarse. Pedestrians fought to buy copies. The city plunged into fevered discussion.
In cafés, men set down their cigars and argued passionately about the thief's true identity.
On street corners, maids huddled together whispering, cheeks flushed with fear and excitement.
Even the university campus buzzed again with the name.
"Did you hear? He's appearing tomorrow night!"
"Ten o'clock! Baring Bank!"
"Scotland Yard deployed three hundred men this time—he's finished!"
"You're dreaming. Last time five hundred couldn't catch him—"
"Wasn't it a thousand?"
Lucian moved through the crowd, wearing the goldfish expression of curiosity and excitement that matched his daylight persona perfectly.
"Really? The phantom thief is appearing tomorrow?"
"Of course! It's in the paper!"
"So thrilling…"
He echoed their gossip while quietly running tomorrow's scouting route through his mind.
The building plans were useful, but some details needed confirmation:
Guard rotations, back-door lock models, roofline distances…
All of it would determine tomorrow night's outcome.
…
Meanwhile.
University College London—Charlotte's temporary office.
The silver-haired girl was buried in exam papers, a strawberry lollipop between her lips.
The door flew open. A panting constable rushed in.
"Miss Holmes! The phantom thief sent another calling card—tomorrow night at ten, Baring Bank! Inspector Lestrade asks that you—"
"Not going."
Charlotte didn't even lift her head.
"But miss, last time you nearly—"
"Tomorrow night I have something else to do."
The constable tried to speak again, but Charlotte stood, took her coat, and glanced at the manuscript stack sitting off to one side.
"Tell Lestrade to handle it himself."
She reached the doorway, then paused and added, almost as an afterthought:
"Besides, that fox steals only to return it. A narcissistic showman with a performance disorder. Boring."
The door shut behind her.
The constable stood there, bewildered.
…
And at that very moment, Lucian sat on a campus bench in his washed-out old shirt.
The same newspaper was in his hands.
He stared at the bold headline dominating the front page and let a faint, almost invisible smile appear at the corner of his mouth.
"Step one," he murmured.
"Complete."