Russell tapped his fingers twice on the smooth wooden board.
It wasn't empty inside, but that didn't mean much. In fact, it only heightened Russell's vigilance and curiosity.
He stood up, placed the carpet back as it was, and looked around the room—from the neatly arranged wooden crates to the seemingly meaningless decorative woodcarvings on the wall.
Finally, Russell's gaze landed on the gas lamp affixed to the ceiling.
Logically, it was strange for such an inexpensive thing as a gas lamp to be installed here, in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in London. If the goal were to show off status or prestige, one would certainly use electric lighting.
Of course, maybe the gas lamp wasn't just for illumination—it might have another purpose entirely.
The lampshade's edge was coated in an almost invisible layer of fine black powder. Russell walked to the door, touched the top of the doorframe lightly with his fingertips, and picked up a thin layer of ash.
It was cigarette ash—not ordinary dust, but residue left behind after some substance had burned at high temperature.
He brought his fingers closer to his nose and gently sniffed. A faint hint of pine resin mixed with sulfur tickled his nostrils.
"I see."
Russell murmured meaningfully, lips curling with a mischievous smile.
He finally understood why security here was so surprisingly basic. Because the real lock wasn't a flimsy brass latch or a night watchman patrolling outside. The real lock was fire.
The entire fourth floor was a giant powder keg, intricately constructed from wood and flammable materials.
If a burglar broke in and triggered a mechanism—say, a pressure sensor or a fuse hidden inside a box—they might succeed in entering. But even the smallest spark could reduce everything here—all its secrets, and the unfortunate thief included—into a pile of unrecognizable ash.
"Another tale of a fire dragon burning the granary, huh."
Russell muttered, walking over toward the crates. Now that he knew the rules of the game, everything else seemed much simpler.
As long as he could get what he wanted without setting off any mechanisms, that would suffice.
This time, his target was Sir Phineas Black, founder of the club.
According to the information provided by the System, he was the one in charge of running this club, while also harboring several untold secrets.
The details weren't specified, but they seemed to be matters even more severe than economic corruption or murder.
"Surely it couldn't be espionage?"
Russell muttered, eyes focusing on a crate labeled "PB."
He set the box down, weighed it in his hands, and pulled a set of exquisite lockpicking tools from his pocket. Selecting the thinnest probe, he slowly inserted it into the keyhole.
His upgraded Dexterous Hands B+ and Enhanced Hearing C+ skills were finally coming into their own at this precise moment.
Closing his eyes, every sound of the outside world faded away.
All he could hear was the faint click as the tip of the probe knocked against the tiny bits of metal inside the lock cylinder.
…
With every turn and flick, a surprisingly clear and dynamic schematic of the lock's inner workings built itself in his mind. Then, with a pleasant, barely audible click, the small brass lock opened.
The faint scent of old paper drifted up from inside the box.
Russell sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow, and reached in to open the crate.
Inside, a stack of yellowed letters lay quietly. The handwriting and tone conveyed both oppression and somber gravity.
Casually, he drew one card out, glanced over it in the dim light, and raised an eyebrow.
These were letters exchanged between Phineas Black and foreign powers.
Written in meticulously neat German, the language was precise yet exuded the chilling air of secret dealings.
Russell's German barely went beyond "hello" and "thank you." He couldn't fully understand the contents, but that hardly mattered—so long as Mycroft could understand them, it was enough.
Anything left here couldn't be entirely clean; if it were nothing of consequence, it wouldn't be hidden in such a place.
"Espionage is a much graver crime than ordinary theft."
Russell whistled, sliding the letter into his pocket.
He'd never expected this seemingly ordinary gentlemen's club to be a covert hub for spies.
Sir Phineas Black, viscount and founder of the Romantic Club, had been secretly selling state secrets to Prussia.
If this ever came into the light, titles would be the least of his worries—he'd soon be dangling from London Bridge.
Russell pulled a pen and a blank card from his pocket.
The pen glided across the heavy cardstock, and graceful lettering flowed onto the paper.
"Sir Black, loyalty is a fine thing—but it seems you've shown yours to the wrong master— Moriarty."
With a flourish, Russell placed the note back in the box, closed the lid, and carefully re-locked the broken brass clasp, leaving everything to appear untouched.
When all was done, he languidly pulled a smoke bomb from his pocket and tossed it quietly to the floor.
Puff!
White smoke flooded the room, and the phantom thief vanished without a trace.
Russell leapt from the top floor of the Romantic Club, darting through the city with a grappling hook.
The night wind of Mayfair, heavy with decadent ambience, whistled past his ears.
Below, the gaslights traced golden rivers through the streets, with elegant carriages owned by the upper class traveling in stately procession.
The next stop: Belmere Street.
He hoped the British government was still awake.
The steel cable of his grappling hook traced a cold arc, latching securely onto a distant rooftop eave. Swaying like a pendulum, Russell soared through the shadows, appearing and vanishing in turn—an elegant, yet fearsome presence gliding over the concrete jungle like a raven at midnight.
Belmere Street sat just off Mayfair—one of England's most prestigious gentlemen's club districts, home to the Carlton, Reform, and Travelers Clubs—some of London's oldest and grandest.
Here, socializing, dining, and networking among the elite all took place behind closed doors. Women were not even permitted to enter the inner sanctums.
"No wonder Charlotte left the house," Russell remarked evenly.
Mycroft Holmes' apartment was tucked into the quietest corner of the street.
Russell traversed the rooftops without a sound, using the lamplight in the window to confirm Mycroft's location.
He was still up—right now, in his study.
The fire in the hearth glowed quietly, bathing the room in warm, orange light.
Mycroft sat behind a large desk, a cup of tea nearby, head buried in a book, utterly absorbed.
At that moment, a provocative voice sounded from behind him.
"Good evening, Mr. Mycroft Holmes."
…