Russell dusted off his hands, slung the weapon over his shoulder, and looked at the last man still able to move.
"Do you want to keep your dignity… or should I give you dignity? Pick one."
"I…"
The final survivor stood there blankly.
He stared at Russell—at the heap of comrades on the ground whose fate he couldn't even confirm—then his weapon clattered from his hand onto the floor. Whatever fight he'd had left drained out of him completely.
"D-don't kill me…" he begged incoherently. "I didn't see anything… I don't know anything…"
"Relax. I'm not going to kill you. I'm not interested in that kind of thing."
Russell crouched down, wearing Frederick's face, and locked eyes with him.
"Of course, I'm not going to let you off easy either. You did something wrong. Like Richard said earlier—I don't like unnecessary casualties. So before my patience runs out, you'd better give me a few names."
He lifted the shotgun and pressed the muzzle under the man's chin. The stench of blood clinging to the metal nearly broke him on the spot.
"I don't mind if a couple extra names slip in—people you don't like.
But I do hope they're the same kind of trash as you.
So now, sir—answer me."
His voice went flat.
"—Who do you work for?"
Russell fell silent, handing the floor to him.
The last thief's lips trembled. Under that unblinking stare, he finally forced the words out.
"…Bilson. Mr. Bilson."
"Mm. Bilson. And? Anything else—address, contacts?"
"Please… I can only tell you that much… I don't know anything else…" He squeezed his eyes shut in agony. "And… and the Professor."
"The Professor? Who names themselves that?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "What school's he from?"
"N-no… not that. 'Professor' is… a mysterious person. None of us know who he is.
This whole operation… he was the one who gave us the plan…"
Russell frowned.
So London really did have a crime professor Moriarty? That was… not good news.
"He's been in contact with you the whole time?"
"N-no. The Professor disappeared a long time ago."
"How long?"
"I don't know… at least… at least a year. Until a few days ago, when he found us again and gave us the idea."
The thief's voice cracked.
"That's all I know, sir… please let me go…"
The system pinged:
[Malice from Beyer +50.]
"Let you go? Sure. Go tell Scotland Yard."
Russell's tone turned casual.
"If they want to let you go, I won't object."
He pulled the weapon back, spun it once in his hand—and brought it down hard on the man's head.
Just the right amount of force: dizzy, not brain-damaged.
Russell stood, stepped out of the vault room, and dragged up the one man who was still conscious—the first one he'd shot in the limbs. He couldn't resist anymore.
"Well then, sir."
Russell propped him against the wall and smiled.
"Anything to add to what your friend just told me?"
The thug shuddered, staring at Frederick's ordinary, sallow face, eyes filled with absolute terror and despair.
But just as he opened his mouth—ready to spend his last strength on begging or cursing—his pupils snapped tight.
Because he saw something wrong.
Something deeply wrong.
Frederick's waxy, mediocre face—
began to melt.
Like a wax statue dropped into boiling oil.
Skin textures rippled. A prominent nose collapsed. Puffy eye bags receded.
The entire face liquefied… and reassembled.
A faint sizzle.
The Mimic Gel had expired.
That translucent, jelly-like layer was breaking down, peeling away from Russell's face like a snake shedding its skin.
In the thug's fear-dilated eyes, it was pure horror.
He wasn't seeing someone removing a disguise.
He was seeing a monster—an evil thing wrapped in human skin—revealing its true form right in front of him.
The shock went beyond fear of death.
It detonated his mind.
His eyes rolled back. He went limp, foaming at the mouth as he blacked out completely.
[Fear and mental collapse from Charles. Malice +80.]
"Tch."
Russell touched his face.
No more cold, slick gel—just the warm skin that belonged to him.
Damn it. Time was up.
He glanced at the unconscious thug, then at his restored face, and instantly understood the reaction.
"With nerves like that, why are you even a robber?"
He clicked his tongue, openly disgusted.
Still… not bad. At least the guy hadn't seen Russell's real face clearly while he still had his wits.
Russell stood, tossed the heavy shotgun to the ground with a clean metallic clang, and bought a mask from the system store, slipping it on.
He scanned the wreckage around him and sighed.
"The Professor…" his voice echoed softly through the underground.
"Please don't come after me for copyright fees."
Then he heard movement from the entry—doors opening.
Russell's brow furrowed.
The soundproofing down here was good. Those gunshots shouldn't have carried to street level.
And with the security systems in maintenance, the automatic alarms were dead—Scotland Yard shouldn't have been notified. He'd been planning to go report it himself.
So why did someone come back?
Russell couldn't figure it out.
Don't tell me there's a second wave?
He didn't bolt immediately. He stayed in the vault room, listening.
And then he heard Tommy's wail—like the world was ending.
"God Almighty—what the hell happened down here?!"
Then another voice, sharp and commanding:
"Damn… the smell's strong. Everyone—masks on! Stay alert!"
Lestrade.
Russell exhaled. Not rivals, then.
No reason to stick around.
Failing to extract mid-operation meant a reset, and whoever designed that condition deserved to be cursed three generations deep.
As he thought that, his gaze landed on one of the safes.
No time to pick it properly now.
Save where you can—spend where you must.
Russell gritted his teeth and spent 200 Malice in the shop for a one-time Master Key.
Key into the lock. Turn. Open.
Smooth.
"Click."
The unlock sound rang through the quiet vault room.
For "security reasons," the safe's designer had apparently added a structure to amplify the opening noise.
A lovely little touch. Bastard.
"Who's there?!" Lestrade's voice snapped instantly.
Inside the safe there wasn't gold or jewels—just stacks of stamped paper documents.
Russell didn't have time to care what they were.
He grabbed a fistful at random, and before Lestrade could push in with his men, he tossed down his last smoke bomb.
When Lestrade's squad burst through the smoke into the vault room, weapons ready, they found only—
an open safe,
one unconscious man on the floor,
and the familiar message scrawled on the wall.
"This is a parting gift — Moriarty."
....
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