3:00 p.m., Lombard Street.
Lucian wore an old white shirt and held a cheap notebook—every inch the impoverished writer out collecting "material" for a novel.
He ordered the cheapest black coffee at the corner café.
The upside: free refills.
The downside: it tasted like dishwater.
He chose a window seat with a clear view of Baring Bank.
A three-story stone building. Two armed guards at the main entrance. A side door leading into the back lane.
Lucian took a sip of the bitter coffee and began writing.
On the surface, he was drafting a plot outline.
In reality, he was conducting a security analysis.
Two guards at the main entrance. Shift rotation every thirty minutes. During the handoff there was roughly a forty-second attention gap—two men exchanging complaints about the weather and passing responsibility like a hot coal.
The vault was one level underground. Dual-key simultaneous open design.
The architect probably thought that was "secure."
In truth, it simply meant the job would take one additional minute.
Tonight Scotland Yard would reinforce. Estimated: at least twenty men at the front, five to eight in the back alley.
Lestrade would personally command.
Lucian suspected it wouldn't matter whether he commanded or not. He wasn't a Holmes.
Next: the building structure.
There was a skylight on the third floor leading to the roof. A standard spring latch—one hairpin would solve it.
From the roof to the neighboring building: about three meters. Grapple reachable.
A fire escape in the alley could serve as emergency withdrawal.
If he had to use that, it meant the plan had already gone badly wrong.
Lucian set down the cup and looked past the bank to the building across the street.
St. Margaret's Clock Tower.
Five stories. An open platform at the top facing the bank's main entrance. A large bell hanging under the eaves, striking on the hour.
At exactly ten o'clock—when the bell rang—
If a figure in white appeared on the tower's crown, moonlight spilling over him, cloak catching the wind—
Every gaze would snap toward him.
Lucian drew a tiny stick figure on the tower in his notebook and wrote beside it:
handsome
Then he crossed it out and replaced it with:
very handsome
Just like that, Phantom Thief Moriarty's plan took full shape.
First phase: seize attention.
Climb early at 21:58. Reveal himself at the instant the bell struck 22:00.
White tailcoat under moonlight—impossible to ignore. The police would instinctively converge on the tower.
Second phase: feint and misdirection.
Grapple from the tower to the bank roof—on the surface, a showy stunt; in practice, bait to draw manpower away from internal coverage.
Third phase: pick and take.
The vault used a Brand-type lock core. Dual-key system. Theoretically requires two operators simultaneously.
But the designer had never met Magician's Hand.
Ninety seconds, maximum.
Fourth phase: curtain call and exit.
Return to the tower's summit. Display the sapphire. Perform a perfect court bow.
Then vanish—leaving one smiling card and a corridor full of stunned policemen.
Perfect.
Lucian closed the notebook and drained the last of his coffee.
The plan's core was simple: exploit Scotland Yard's behavioral inertia.
Their strategy would be "prevent the thief from entering the bank."
But what if the thief began outside—publicly, provocatively, and on purpose?
Rush the tower and catch him?
Or hold the bank and protect the jewel?
When people face a forced dilemma, they often choose the stupidest possible option:
Try to do both—
And fail at both.
That hesitation was the time window Lucian needed.
…
Evening, the student apartments.
Jekyll had gone to the medical faculty for an evening class. Before leaving, he'd told Lucian to sleep early.
"Don't worry, Henry," Lucian said warmly. "I'll go to bed very early tonight."
He locked the door, drew the curtains, and with a flicker of thought summoned the system interface.
[Inventory]
The phantom thief's equipment rested in neat, virtual slots, waiting to be called into reality.
Lucian selected them one by one. Each item appeared on the bed as if conjured.
Two flash bombs. A lockpicking kit. Two grappling hooks. One smoke bomb.
The Napoleon of Crime didn't fight unprepared.
But he also left room for accidents—because even Scotland Yard occasionally managed a moment of competence.
Once every three years, perhaps.
Last, Lucian pulled a portable camera from the drawer.
A second-hand purchase, paid for with his personal savings.
It was a prop—a way to stand in the crowd tomorrow night under the excuse of "taking photos for money," and a way to meet Mary without raising suspicion.
The camera would produce a few blurry pictures from a normal spectator's angle.
"Did you get it?"
"He was too fast—I only caught a vague white blur…"
A perfect alibi.
More importantly, Lucian had promised Mary a photograph.
Even if it ended up looking like he'd tried to photograph a ghost, a promise was a promise.
…
Night fell.
Lucian stood before the mirror and began to change.
System equipment had to be taken out piece by piece, worn piece by piece.
There were no shortcuts—like an actor who had to put on his costume with his own hands before stepping onto the stage.
First: the shirt.
Pure white silk—cool, smooth, almost icy against the skin.
He buttoned it from bottom to top, one button at a time.
This shirt could probably buy every rag he owned and still cover half a month of meals.
But at this moment, it belonged to Moriarty—
Not to the starving student.
Then: the waistcoat.
Silver-gray with a subtle pattern and white shoulder lines. Two custom soft pads slid into the waist—lengthening the silhouette in motion, enough to mislead any "expert" who tried to identify a man by posture.
Next: flesh-toned film.
He applied it along the sides of his nose and across his forehead, subtly altering nasal height and brow ridge.
A beginner's disguise technique bundled with the Moriarty card—paired with the monocle's refraction and the top hat's shadow, even strong light would carve his face differently from Lucian Grey's.
He cleared his throat, his larynx vibrating with careful control.
"Good evening, London."
The voice changer was only an accessory.
The true disguise came from precise command of the vocal muscles.
Gloves.
White silk fitting each finger. Magician's Hand made his fingertips even more sensitive—naturally, it was a matched set.
The top hat's shadow cut half his face away, leaving only that composed, unhurried smile.
Finally: the monocle.
If tomorrow night went smoothly, he would reach two thousand points.
Lucian took a slow breath and hid the tools in categorized places.
The camera stayed in his day-clothes pocket—for the first half of the night's camouflage.
The rest of the equipment would be pre-positioned near the clock tower at the hiding spots he'd chosen during scouting—ready for the second half's performance.
He replayed the plan once more in his mind.
No errors.
He extinguished the oil lamp. Moonlight leaked through the curtain gap, frosting the white tailcoat in silver.
"Tomorrow night," Phantom Thief Moriarty murmured.
"I'll show all of London…"
"…what a night without Holmes looks like."
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought:
"And while I'm at it—"
"I'll prove I'm not only good at stealing bread."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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