Russell adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose and spoke in a slightly timid, ingratiating tone.
His voice flattened—none of its usual resonance remained.
[A perfectly ordinary pair of black-framed glasses: Nothing special about them, except that once you put them on, no one can recognize who you originally are—not even Superman.
Remaining uses: 2 (removing the glasses counts as the end of one use).]
Timmy Roy's brow furrowed even deeper.
The man in front of him had vacant eyes and a dull, bureaucratic air—like some low-level municipal clerk who'd spent his entire life buried in paperwork.
Not at all like a stealthy paparazzo.
Had he misread the situation?
"What were you doing here just now?" Timmy didn't relax. He simply shifted into an interrogator's tone.
"I… I just got off work. I'm waiting… waiting for my wife so we can go home together."
Russell stammered, eyes darting, refusing to meet Timmy's gaze—exactly how a harmless commoner looked when questioned by someone with power.
"Off work? You work around here?" Timmy scanned the surroundings. This was one of London's top-tier wealthy districts. There was no firm here hiring a man like this.
"N-no, no," Russell hurriedly waved his hands.
"I… I work at The Daily Chronicle—I do layout. I came here today because I wanted to interview Viscount Armand, who lives nearby, about his antique clock collection…"
He spoke with remarkable detail, then even pulled a worn, shabby press card from his pocket.
[Customized business card: A card that can define your identity however you wish. For 50 Malice, you can become anyone you want to be.
When you're out and about, your identity is whatever you say it is.]
Timmy took the battered press card. The ink was already blurred in places.
The Daily Chronicle—a third-rate rag he'd never heard of. The kind of paper that trafficked in street gossip and celebrity scandal. In their circles, it wasn't even good enough for the toilet.
Half skeptical, half annoyed, he handed it back. His anger cooled into a kind of absurd disbelief.
A journalist like this probably couldn't even afford a camera.
If he expected someone like this to capture anything meaningful, he might as well expect his father to go mad and confess to the papers himself.
Even so, Timmy wasn't willing to let it go.
"What's your name?" he pressed, as if digging long enough would produce a crack.
"It's on the card, sir… Clark Kent."
Russell answered in a hesitant murmur.
"Clark Kent…"
Timmy chewed on the name. His suspicion drained into impatience.
Behind him, the guards exchanged looks, clearly unsure why their young master was wasting breath on a trembling nobody.
Timmy circled Russell twice like a man inspecting questionable merchandise.
His gaze traveled from the cheap flat cap to the rough, frayed sleeves—then down to the old leather shoes speckled with mud.
Everything fit.
This was exactly what a bottom-tier Londoner scrambling to survive looked like: shabby, nervous, cheap from head to toe.
[Timmy Roy grows doubtful and irritated at his own judgment. Malice +10]
Russell's amusement stayed internal. Externally, he maintained the same deferential expression.
"Sir… if there's nothing else… may I go?"
He spoke like he was begging, clutching the newspaper to his chest, shoulders slightly hunched.
"My wife is waiting… she… she's not well…"
That pitiful image erased the last of Timmy's suspicion.
Fine. He'd been too tense. This had become a farce.
And if someone saw him harassing a civilian here—if a real reporter caught it and ran it as Cabinet Minister's Son Bullies Commoner—he'd have no defense.
Worse, he'd get ripped apart by his father.
"Get lost," Timmy snapped, waving a hand as if swatting a fly.
He couldn't stand another second near someone like this.
"Th-thank you! Thank you, sir!"
Russell bowed repeatedly, then turned and hurried away, slipping into the street crowd at the corner like a frightened rat fleeing light.
Timmy stood watching him vanish, face dark enough to drip.
"Sir?" one of the guards stepped forward again.
"It's nothing." Timmy flicked his hand, but the irritation only grew.
"Let's go."
He turned and walked back toward his house. The heavy carved doors closed behind him with a dull, final thud.
[Timmy Roy becomes angry at his own paranoia and shifts the frustration onto you. Malice +20]
After successfully shaking them, Russell turned a corner, confirmed he wasn't being followed, and finally slowed down.
He removed the plain black-framed glasses and exhaled.
"That was close."
That moment had been the nearest he'd ever come—since becoming a thief—to being exposed on the spot.
If his identity as the Phantom Thief were discovered, his student life would be over.
He tucked the expensive-looking glasses carefully back into his pocket.
They were overpriced, but undeniably effective.
Just a shame that 200 Malice only bought three uses—and buying the item outright would cost a full five thousand.
Even a thief had budget constraints.
Fortunately, reconnaissance was essentially complete. Now he just needed to move on the night of the party.
Whistling casually, Russell headed toward the tram stop.
By the time he returned to 221B Baker Street, night had fully swallowed the city.
Mrs. Hudson already had dinner prepared, and as soon as Russell came in, she launched into the usual lecture about "young men wandering outside too much."
Russell smiled and humored her while sitting down.
Dinner was unusually warm and domestic. Charlotte, for once, wasn't shut away in her room—she sat at the table.
She still looked indifferent to the entire world, slicing her food with slow, precise motions.
Halfway through the meal, Charlotte spoke.
"I've changed my mind."
"Hm?" Russell looked up mid-chew.
Charlotte met his gaze, then produced the invitation again.
"I'm going to see that so-called icebreaker party."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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