On the carriage ride back to Baker Street, Russell and Charlotte didn't speak.
Both of them stared out the window, watching the streets slide rapidly past.
It wasn't until the carriage stopped in front of 221B Baker Street that Charlotte finally broke the silence.
"How do you think that ghost got in?" she asked.
"I don't know," Russell answered honestly.
"I checked every possibility. The doors and windows were intact. No secret passage. And the fireplace is impossible.
Unless that guy really is a ghost and can walk through walls, I can't think of any other explanation."
He paused, then continued,
"For the next few days, I guess we can only ask Ms. David to stay with a friend for a while.
Maybe that perverted ghost will give up once he realizes she hasn't come home for days?"
"Or he'll get bolder," Charlotte said coolly, stepping down from the carriage, "and just move in with his suitcase."
The two of them entered the flat one after the other. Charlotte shrugged off her coat and collapsed into the wide, comfortable armchair.
She lifted her feet high and planted them on the coffee table without the slightest shame, slipping back into her classic lazy pose.
"So," Russell dragged a chair over and sat opposite her, "what now, Great Detective?"
"We spent the whole morning and the conclusion is—no conclusion at all?"
"Who said that? We got plenty of conclusions." Charlotte slowly opened her eyes. The boredom-driven languor in her gray-blue gaze was gone.
"For example?" Russell prompted.
"For example, we know the ghost doesn't need a key and doesn't pick locks—he can enter Ms. David's home directly.
And we know he understands her routine: when she goes to work, when she comes home, when she rests—her daily life.
What kinds of books she likes. What scent of perfume she wears.
And we know he has no interest in valuables… and likewise no further desire for her body.
Everything he's done seems to be for one purpose:
to exist inside Holly David's life."
"Sounds like a full-blown pervert," Russell muttered.
"Mmh." Charlotte neither agreed nor disagreed.
"At the very least, we can be sure he has a strong, pathological affection for Holly David—call it infatuation, even love—and he knows her extraordinarily well.
Maybe better than she knows herself."
Charlotte paused, then lifted her head and looked at Russell.
"Now, Watson—based on all that—tell me your hypothesis."
"My hypothesis?" Russell grumbled, then thought for a moment.
"He can sneak into her flat without alerting anyone—without even needing to interact with anything—quietly, cleanly.
If he can do that, then either he really has some kind of supernatural ability… or his skills are about on par with a phantom thief like Moriarty.
Of course, there's one other possibility."
He hesitated under Charlotte's gaze, then continued:
"Ms. Holly David has a split personality—one she doesn't know about."
"Split personality?" Charlotte arched a brow. "A decent angle. Go on."
"Look," Russell began organizing his thoughts. "If we assume Holly David has a second personality that even she doesn't realize exists—let's call it the 'ghost.'
This 'ghost' emerges when she's asleep, or mentally foggy, and does those things.
It… actually sounds kind of plausible."
"Not plausible at all," Charlotte yawned.
"What part isn't plausible?" Russell demanded.
"How does her second personality warm up the bed before she gets into it?" Charlotte asked flatly.
"..." Russell fell silent.
After a long moment, he spread his hands.
"Then I've got nothing."
"Don't be discouraged. At least you eliminated one wrong option." Charlotte smiled faintly.
"That means we can be sure this ghost is real—not Holly David's hallucination.
He's a living person, using a method we haven't figured out yet, intruding into her life like a deviant.
That's all."
"Then what do we do?" Russell asked. "Start investigating Holly David's social circle?"
"The scope is too big." Charlotte frowned slightly. "I care more about the method.
Once we pin down the method, everything else can be derived."
"And if he runs?" Russell asked.
"He's the kind of creeper with darkness in his bones. I think he's still there.
And if he does run… wouldn't that be a good thing for Holly David?"
Charlotte's voice stayed calm, her brows knitting.
"How do you enter and leave an apartment without leaving a trace…?"
The next day, the clock tower at Imperial College London rang out the morning bell.
Sunlight spilled through the windows onto the last row of the lecture hall, warming that area into something comfortably pleasant.
Russell sat in his usual seat, slumped over the desktop, waiting for the class bell.
The room was quieter than last week.
Something unseen had changed, affecting everyone.
Timmy Roy hadn't come to school today.
And he would never come again.
All of it was thanks to someone.
Even though those people didn't know the Roy family's downfall had anything to do with Russell—
the fact remained:
it took extraordinary nerve—and a certain madness—to publicly humiliate the son of a cabinet minister and make him socially "die" on the spot.
Russell was simply lucky that after he did it, Moriarty happened to expose the Roy family's scandal.
If Moriarty hadn't targeted the Roys, no one dared imagine what kind of retaliation Russell would have faced after the love-letter incident.
That was what most people believed.
So when students entered the lecture hall, their first instinct was to glance at the last row—
at the figure who looked like he could sleep all the way until the end of the world.
Their eyes were filled with wary distance.
Even the girls involved in the love-letter incident—Annie included—didn't feel any warmer toward Russell because of what happened.
Only afterward did they realize, belatedly, that they'd been used by him.
And once that sank in, their looks toward Russell carried disgust and alienation.
Humanity did not thank Russell.
The isolation began again—only this time, the motive had changed.
At first, it had been contempt.
Now it was fear.
For a while, at least the front two rows were completely empty—no one dared sit near him.
As if merely being associated with him would invite misfortune.
Until that familiar, eye-catching figure appeared—soundless and inevitable.
Like a lonely planet in space receiving its own satellite at last.
Unlike the others who kept their distance, she sat beside him as always.
Her azure gaze swept across the lecture hall, taking in every complicated look.
Then the smile at the corner of her lips grew more pronounced.
She shifted a little closer, keeping a distance that was ambiguous—yet restrained.
And she called softly,
"Good morning, Russell~"
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