The cold tip of the cane tore through the air, straight to the point—precise target, vicious angle, absolutely no courtesy.
Russell didn't even think. He threw himself into a miserably undignified roll, tumbling twice across the floor before he barely avoided that lethal strike.
"Hey! Miss Morstan!"
He scrambled back up, slapped dust off his clothes, and for the first time his voice carried real irritation.
"That's not exactly ladylike, is it?"
"Now you say that?" Mary's tone was calm, almost amused. "Don't you think it's a little late?"
As the last word fell, her wrist snapped.
The cane shot out like a striking viper—again.
Warning sirens went off in Russell's skull. He stopped holding back.
He drove off his feet, leaned his body backward, and the icy tip skimmed past his nose by the thinnest margin.
He could even catch the faint smell lingering on the metal: a mix of polished steel and maintenance oil.
"You're serious?" Russell stabilized with a backflip and pulled the distance to five or six meters, incredulity in his voice.
[Mary Morstan thinks your question is pointless — Malice +80]
"It's you who forced my hand, Mr. Moriarty." Mary advanced at a measured pace, cane in hand.
Her breathing remained steady, but her Aegean-blue eyes were burning with unmistakable anger.
"I originally intended to teach you a polite lesson."
"But I've changed my mind."
"I'm going to break your legs first, and then hand you to Scotland Yard—so they can suffer your incessant mouth."
…Right. That might be too far.
Russell cursed internally. His feet, however, did not dare slow.
He began circling the room's open space. Mary shadowed him like a predator, her cane turning into a death sentence. Each swing was clean, ruthless, and aimed to end things.
Russell had to admit he'd underestimated the duke's daughter—badly.
This wasn't "learned self-defense."
This was outright killing technique.
No. Enough.
Time to run. Running away was shameful—but effective.
He'd earned plenty tonight.
A man shouldn't sacrifice his life for Malice Points.
He twisted aside and barely dodged. His back slammed into the wall, the cold edge of a picture frame digging painfully into him.
And in that instant, a blaze of color slipped into the corner of his vision.
A painting—intense, crazed, familiar in an unsettling way.
Was that Nicholas Winter's work?
Wait—is this the time to think about that?
Before Russell fully snapped back, Mary's attack shifted sharply.
She abandoned the tricky thrusts.
The cane swept downward into a brutally simple, vicious horizontal strike—straight for his ankle.
Fast. Sudden. With almost no space to evade.
I'm done.
Russell's pupils tightened. Instinct screamed, and he prepared to trigger Haze Array—
But at the last possible moment, just before the cane could connect with his ankle, Mary's motion halted.
Half a second.
Her wrist tightened and forcibly checked the force.
That half-second—
For Russell, it was everything.
He didn't hesitate. He used the opening, pushed off the floor, and sprang back—landing three steps away.
Still awkward. Still ugly.
But unharmed.
"Hm?" Russell steadied himself, genuinely surprised.
That wasn't a mistake.
It looked like… she stopped on purpose.
Why?
[Mary Morstan is mildly displeased by your survival — Malice +50]
Mary didn't immediately pursue. She simply stood still, brows faintly drawn, her gaze sliding past Russell's shoulder—fixing on the oil painting behind him.
"What is it, Miss Morstan?" Russell caught the shift and reflexively activated his taunt mode.
"Feeling sentimental?"
[Mary Morstan feels disgusted by your self-importance — Malice +50]
"Excessive vanity is greasy," Mary said, her voice like ice.
Her eyes finally left the painting and returned to him.
"I simply don't want to damage it. It's his last work."
"This painting?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "Winter's?"
"Oh?" Mary looked at him with mild surprise. "You actually recognize it?"
"I assumed your head was filled with nothing but methods of offending people."
"I know a bit," Russell spread his hands, as if he hadn't just been fleeing for his life.
"Consider how many private collections I've 'visited' across London."
He deliberately steered the conversation—buying himself breathing room, while probing this temperamental aristocrat.
"And what do you think caused his death?" Mary asked softly, as though asking about the weather.
"What else?" Russell gave a dismissive snort.
"Evidence is clear. Motive is obvious. A greedy apprentice murders his master to inherit the estate."
"That sort of story is so overused it can't even qualify as third-rate fiction."
He spoke while keeping careful watch on the system prompt—waiting for the familiar chime of malice.
But this time, none came.
Mary only stared at him.
No anger. No rebuttal.
Her gaze, if anything, resembled the look one gives an idiot.
"You truly believe that?" she asked quietly.
"What else is there?" Russell shot back. "You're not going to tell me the apprentice is innocent?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Miss Morstan. Surely you're not the kind of naive young lady who gets fooled by tears and lies?"
[Mary Morstan scoffs at your stupidity — Malice +30]
There it is. Not much, but better than nothing.
Russell's mind steadied.
So attacking her intelligence worked better than attacking her looks.
Still…
Her reaction suggested there really was something else behind Winter's death.
"Naive?" Mary repeated, the corner of her mouth lifting into a cold curve.
She didn't continue the topic.
Instead, she re-gripped the cane.
The tip tapped lightly against the polished floor.
Tap.
"Chatting time is over," she declared.
"Before you disturb anyone else, I think we should finish this."
"What, the lady needs her beauty sleep?" Russell edged backward as he spoke.
"If you don't die," Mary said evenly, "I can't sleep."
She lunged again—another sharp thrust.
At the same moment, something appeared in Russell's hand.
A smoke canister.
Haze Array.
Pff—!
Thick smoke swallowed everything.
Mary's cane drove into the cloud with unstoppable intent—
And met nothing. No flesh. No resistance.
The smoke thinned.
The room was empty.
The damned thief was gone, as if he'd never been there at all.
Mary remained in her extended thrust position, chest rising and falling hard. In her blue eyes churned a storm of shock and fury.
Her cane had pierced the wall where Russell had been—
No. Not the wall.
A white card pinned to the surface by the cane's tip.
Mary drew the cane back slowly and pinched the card between her fingers.
There were no extra words.
Only two lines, written in her own lipstick with a graceful, almost elegant hand:
Good night,
— Moriarty
The handwriting was neat and refined—nearly identical to the calling card from the night before.
Mary's gaze drifted downward to the windowsill beside the lightly fluttering curtain.
There, the stolen lipstick lay quietly.
Next to it—almost thoughtfully placed—was the brooch worth five thousand pounds.
"…"
Mary held the card that said "Good night" and remained silent for a long time.
Then she smiled.
It was a complicated smile—woven from anger, absurdity, and the thrill of meeting an opponent worthy of her.
And beneath it—
A trace of pleasure she hadn't even noticed in herself.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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