The room's warmth seemed to drop several degrees.
Russell watched Mary's renewed vigilance and hostility, and arched an eyebrow.
"Don't be tense." He raised both hands in surrender. "Just kidding."
"That joke isn't funny," Mary said, voice like ice.
"If you intend to continue with that kind of empty nonsense, then we can end this conversation."
"Fine, fine." Russell sighed. "I've helped him plenty, you know. Sometimes I even make him deliver things to Fleet Street papers so he can earn extra money."
"Have you." Mary's tone carried no emotion.
She lifted her tea, but her eyes stayed sharp over the rim, locking on him as if she meant to record every twitch.
"Of course I have." Russell nodded, then pivoted with shameless ease.
"But you seem pretty interested in him."
Mary's hand paused—so slightly most people would miss it—but she didn't choke or fluster the way a typical girl might.
She simply set her cup down again, calm and cool.
"That has nothing to do with you, Mister Moriarty."
"He's merely the only person at Imperial College I've found mildly interesting."
She added, almost as an afterthought:
"At least compared to everyone else—especially compared to people like you."
Then she sharpened it:
"So put away your clumsy probing. It only makes you look cheap."
"Is that really all?" Russell pressed, the way someone prods a bruise just to see if it hurts.
In response, Mary rolled her eyes—and he felt the sting of a familiar little penalty.
[Malice +10]
"You're really interested in other people's gossip, aren't you?" Mary asked, clearly annoyed, reclaiming control of the conversation.
"Until now, you still haven't answered my question."
"What question?"
"Why are you a thief?" Mary repeated, refusing to let it go. "Mycroft's decision—or yours?"
"Hm…" Russell looked out the window.
The rain had stopped at some point. The clouds had thinned, and a waning moon hung in the sky, washing the world in cold light.
"Let's say it's my choice," he said at last. "Because I feel like it."
"Because you feel like it…" Mary tasted the phrase with obvious disbelief.
Russell pulled his attention back from the moon and stood.
"All right. It's late. A proper lady should rest."
He turned toward the open window.
"Wait." Mary rose instinctively. "One last question."
"Curiosity is the key to truth," Russell said, pausing and looking back. "But sometimes it opens Pandora's box."
"Why did you return them?" Mary asked, eyes fixed on the mask as if she were truly meeting his gaze.
"That can't have been Mycroft's order. So why did you do it?"
Russell fell silent.
Moonlight and firelight crossed over him—half bright, half shadow.
He stood there without a word, like a statue caught in thought.
Mary didn't hurry him. She waited, patient.
She knew it.
This answer might be the key to tearing down every one of his masks.
Finally, he spoke—still light, still infuriatingly casual.
"Because I felt like it," he said. "What else?"
And with that, he turned as if he meant to leave.
No lingering. No attachment.
As if the tension, the probing, the verbal fencing—were nothing but an improvisation for his amusement.
"Stop." Mary's voice snapped again.
Russell paused halfway out the window, half his body submerged in cold night, only the mask still catching the room's warm glow.
"Clinging like this isn't very ladylike," he said.
"That wasn't an answer."
"I don't want stage lines," Mary said. "I want the truth."
"That is the truth, Miss Morstan."
Russell shifted, both feet on the windowsill now, facing her with the night at his back.
"Do you think this world is interesting?"
"Boring beyond belief," Mary said instantly.
"Like a third-rate play—bad script, fake actors, everyone in masks reciting lines they don't mean."
"Exactly," Russell agreed without argument. "Boring beyond belief."
He paused, then smiled beneath the mask—somehow you could feel it.
"So we need a little improvisation to add surprise and flavor to life, don't we?
Why so serious?"
Under Mary's stare, he bent at the waist and performed an elegant bow—like an actor about to exit the stage.
"Then—good night, beautiful lady."
He raised both hands and let himself fall backward into the darkness.
Mary froze—then lunged forward to look down.
The thief was gone.
As if he'd never existed at all.
Like a drop of water returning to the sea.
Mary stood at the window for a long moment without moving.
Night wind carried the last damp remnants of rain, brushing through her silver hair, the cold sharpening her thoughts.
That bastard… tch.
She finally pulled back, gaze dropping to the coffee table—two cups of tea barely touched.
One cup hadn't been touched at all. It hadn't even shifted from its original position.
The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a low glow, only red coals stubbornly blinking in the dark.
Mary closed the window, sealing out the cold.
She walked to the table, picked up the guest's tea—now completely cold—and poured it into a potted plant, letting the greenery sample expensive tea for once.
Then her eyes fell on the plate of cookies.
Her brow tightened. She bent closer and counted.
Four.
Considering sugar and calories, Mary always had the servants prepare six cookies.
Six with a pot of tea—perfect.
Tonight, she had eaten only one.
Which meant five should remain.
But there were only four.
Mary's fingers hovered over the white porcelain plate without touching it.
Her mind began replaying everything that had just happened.
The moment he picked up a cookie.
His fingers pinching the edge, steady—no tremor.
The mask made eating impossible—an obvious physical barrier.
He put it back, casually, barely looking at it.
Flawless.
So when did it happen…?
When he brushed her off with that "felt like it" theory?
When he stood and moved toward the window, that tall back blocking her view?
Or when she lost her composure for a split second at his mention of "revenge"?
No.
None of those.
Mary slowly closed her eyes.
The doors of her mind swung open. A flood of fragmented images flashed, reassembled, aligned.
The scene froze on the instant she exposed his connection to Mycroft.
That was it.
In that tiny, fleeting moment—when she'd been pleased with herself, focusing on his mask and those "guilty" little movements—
A cookie vanished from the plate without her noticing.
"Fast hands," Mary said with a quiet, bitter laugh.
She looked back out at the bright moon, speaking softly—half to herself, half to the thief already gone—irritation and competitiveness braided into each word.
"Next time… I'll be the one who takes that annoying mask off. With my own hands."
....
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