In theory, if you had a collapsible ladder and a maintenance vest, you could stroll into all sorts of places that claimed to be "secure."
Not because security was truly fooled by brilliance—
but because people were fooled by certainty.
Russell pulled on an equally battered flat cap, brim low enough to hide most of his face. He put on stained work gloves, hoisted the ladder, and walked out of the shadows at an unhurried pace—merging into a Mayfair street so bright under gas lamps it was almost daylight.
The sound of police boots approached, then drew near. Russell even caught the dogs' low, restrained panting.
He didn't flinch. He kept walking—eyes forward, stride steady, posture natural—like a man who'd finished one miserable shift and was headed to the next job.
The patrol passed him, the officer's gaze pausing briefly—
"Hey. You—stop."
The officer stepped in front of him. "What are you doing here?"
"Romanti Club called for repairs… sir," Russell said obediently.
The officer looked him over: cap, greasy gloves, and finally the cold metal ladder on his shoulder.
"Romanti Club?" the officer repeated, skeptical. "Repairs for what?"
"Gas line," Russell replied, voice rough with just the right touch of exhaustion. "They said the kitchen line's leaking—strong smell. Told me to come fast."
He delivered the excuse calmly, even sniffing as if the damp wind had gone straight through him.
The officer checked the tool bag, saw only ordinary repair equipment, and waved him on.
Everyone was just trying to earn a living—no need to make trouble.
Besides, angering the gentlemen inside the Romanti Club was never worth it. If they decided to take offense, a worker could be punished—and an officer might find himself dragged into it, too.
"Fine. Go, go—make it quick."
"Yes… yes, sir." Russell nodded and quickened his pace toward the club.
At the entrance, he glanced at the luxurious carriages parked outside, hunched his shoulders slightly, and slipped through the crowd to the front.
He cleared his throat and held out a business card.
"Sir… Wilson Repairs."
The doorman was tall, uniform impeccable, face wearing that polite-and-distant expression reserved for serving the upper class. He didn't take the card directly; he pinched it between fingertips like it might stain his gloves.
"Wilson Repairs…" he murmured, eyes flicking over Russell's cheap, slightly grimy outfit. His brow tightened almost imperceptibly.
Then he turned to a colleague. "Take him to the side entrance."
"Yes." The colleague started walking. "Follow me."
Russell hurried after him, entering through an unremarkable side door.
"What are you fixing?" the man asked.
"Ventilation… sir."
"Those exhaust fans do need work…" the man muttered, then warned sharply, "Stay close. Don't stare, don't wander. The people here aren't the kind you can afford to offend. Understood?"
"Yes, sir. Understood."
They moved through a narrow staff corridor with gray linen carpeting. Unlike the dazzling, gold-lit front hall, this place was dim and utilitarian.
"The kitchen's that way," the man said without looking back, pointing down the hall. "The ventilation control room is upstairs. Come on."
"Yes, sir."
Russell kept up the meek, compliant act—ladder on shoulder, following closely.
His eyes seemed fixed on the floor, but his peripheral vision drank in the layout with practiced speed.
They climbed a staff stairwell to the second floor. The man opened a door.
"Finish fast and go back the same way. You hear me?"
"Yes…"
He clearly had no intention of escorting Russell inside.
The staff door closed behind Russell. Footsteps faded—then vanished entirely.
Russell kept a hand on the knob, slipped back out, and looked up the stairs that continued higher.
The Romanti Club had four floors.
First: bar, dining, ballroom.
Second: kitchen and rest rooms.
Third: billiards, cigar lounge, private card rooms.
And his target—
Fourth.
According to the map, the fourth floor held an archive vault—like Lloyds' underground repository.
But this wasn't gold and jewels.
It was secrets.
The kind that could destroy any name in London's high society.
Russell muted his footsteps and went up—
Until he reached the third floor, where he stopped.
Because he couldn't go any farther.
The staff stairwell ended at the third floor. To reach the fourth, he'd have to use the guest staircase—open to patrons.
The only entrance and exit… at least for normal people.
Russell leaned against the wall and bought a tool from the system.
A small bead appeared between his long fingers.
He dropped it lightly.
A thick black haze blossomed through the stairwell.
When it cleared, the gentleman thief was gone.
His body lurched through a brief moment of weightlessness—
And when Russell opened his eyes again, his shoes sank into thick carpet.
He was inside a small compartment of the fourth-floor archive.
The space was tiny—about the size of a shower stall. Simple layout: uniform wooden boxes, each secured by a small lock. That was the "protection."
At first, Russell couldn't understand why something this dirty and dangerous was guarded so casually.
Then he noticed something.
He crouched and lifted a corner of the carpet.
Beneath it wasn't marble tile.
It was smooth wooden paneling.
The entire fourth floor was built of wood
....
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