The next day, the sun was shining brightly over Imperial College London's campus.
By the window in the library, Russell idly flipped through a thick tome titled "Introduction to Machine Dynamics." He recognized every word, yet together they felt like an incantation from an alien world.
Last night, for the first time in ages, he'd slept soundly.
No violin shrieks or mental gymnastics about geniuses—221B Baker Street had finally returned to its natural peace.
And it was all thanks to him.
Russell basked in the tranquility he'd created… when a familiar blend of white tea and ink wafted once again into his nostrils.
"Good morning, Mr. Watson."
Mary Morstan's voice, cheerful and perfectly timed, sounded beside him.
"Did you sleep well last night?"
"Thanks to you, very well." Russell lifted his head, locking eyes with her piercing blue gaze that seemed to see through everything. "How did you know I'd be here?"
"Someone was complaining about a man without ambition occupying the best seat in the library, just to nap there," Mary quipped, gracefully pulling out the chair opposite him and setting her book on the table.
"Just kidding. Pure guesswork."
"..."
In that instant, Russell realized—there must be a lot Mary and Charlotte Holmes had to talk about.
"So, is the case solved?" Mary asked, opening her book.
The outcome hadn't been reported in The Times, so Mary was still in the dark. But she really wanted to know.
"It's solved." Russell nodded. "Mr. Edgar Wright was cleared and released."
What happened next—was already beyond Holmes's responsibilities.
"Really? I'm glad to hear it." Mary smiled, then after a pause, looked curiously at Russell. "By the way, how did Holmes react when she learned the truth?"
"Eh? She just called Inspector Lestrade and told him to release the guy."
"That's all?" Mary's brow furrowed—Charlotte's reaction seemed unexpectedly flat. "You gave her the answer—didn't she get upset?"
"No spoilers or anything…" Russell raised a hand; Mary frowned even deeper at his response.
"Didn't you tell her about the martyrdom theory?"
"Of course not. I just gave her two basic clues; she figured out the rest herself. If she'd known sooner, the case would have been solved ages ago." Russell shrugged. "After all, she is Charlotte Holmes."
At that, Mary lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence, her blue eyes clouded with thought.
Then, a spark of light glimmered in her eyes—a desire to win.
Russell Watson.
The phantom thief Moriarty.
Charlotte Holmes herself.
One after another, these people constantly redefined both expectations and understanding.
London is such an interesting place, Mary thought—full of talented people. She was beginning to love it here.
At that moment, Russell, sitting beside her, hadn't the faintest idea what the girl was thinking.
For now, all he cared about was where he could go in a few days to farm more Malice Points.
It's true—when in doubt, you can always open a blind box to decide. But sometimes the prizes aren't all that great.
If the system says it's random, rest assured—it's truly random, not fake-random like in online games.
Last month, it gave Russell a map to a poor family's home. He strolled over, quietly put five pounds on the table, and left.
So, whenever there's a choice, direction maps are always better. They cost more—blind boxes are only ten Malice Points, but a direction map's price depends on the complexity of the target building.
If you'd asked for a custom map of the Morstan Estate—not made by drawing cards, but by paying—the cost would've been at least several dozen points, maybe even over a hundred.
For now, Russell's mind raced like a wild stallion, hunting for some easy target hidden in the city's corners.
He was so lost in thought, he didn't even hear Mary calling his name several times.
At last, Mary lost patience, picked up her pen, and gently poked Russell's waist.
"Mr. Watson, are you listening?"
[Mary, a little annoyed by your ignoring her, gains +10 Malice.]
Russell snapped back to reality and stared blankly at the girl across the table.
"Huh? What is it?"
"What were you thinking about?" Mary propped up her chin with one hand, tapping the book cover with her pen in the other.
"I was… just thinking about what to eat tonight," Russell kept his face impassive.
"If you're going to lie, at least come up with a better excuse." Mary sighed, but didn't press.
"Anyway, you're coming to the party this weekend, right?"
"Party? What party?" Russell blinked. "Do I lose credits if I don't go?"
"Of course not, it's just an ice-breaker for new students. Didn't you know?" Mary's tone became subtle.
"I had no idea. Nobody told me about it."
At that, Mary gave him a look of sympathy. She opened her mouth, but seemed hesitant to wound his pride.
In the end, she just cleared her throat and spoke quietly, "Maybe… they just forgot. There are a lot of people to notify, after all."
"It's fine; don't say any more." Russell acted calm, as if the isolation didn't bother him.
In truth, he should be grateful to whoever ostracized him—it saved him from having to come up with excuses for refusing.
Why waste time at a pointless mixer party? He could make a fortune and quietly slip away from high society.
Noble connections are just empty words. Only your Malice Points wallet is reliable.
"Perfect. I probably have something to do this weekend. I might not make it," he said.
Mary frowned, a bit disappointed.
"Are you really not coming?"
"How could you have it all in this world?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's a line from a poem—it means there's never a perfect solution," Russell explained.
Mary grew quiet, thoughtful about either poetry or something else entirely.
At last, she slowly stood up, as if talking to herself or to Russell.
"The party starts at 6 p.m. on Saturday and ends at 8."
She packed up her book and walked past him.
Only one word, fleeting as wind, was left behind.
"I'll be waiting for you."
…