The figure stood backlit in the doorway, her outline traced in a hazy rim of gold. Tall and slender, she looked strikingly composed.
She seemed to be a freshman who had arrived late—yet there was not the slightest hint of guilt in her bearing. She simply strode into the auditorium as if the schedule existed for everyone else.
Sunlight followed in her wake, spilling across the floor, driving away the gloom in the back corner—and allowing Russell to see her clearly.
She was a young woman with a beauty more overtly aggressive than Mary Morstan's.
Her black hair fell in loose, slightly wavy strands, a few unruly locks clinging to her pale cheeks. She wasn't wearing the school uniform. Instead, she had on an oversized, coffee-colored trench coat that looked a size too large, as though it belonged to someone else. Her eyes were an unusual gray-blue.
She seemed not to notice that she had just interrupted someone's carefully timed escape. Her gaze swept the auditorium in a rapid pass—silent, calculating.
Ceiling height. Seat arrangement. The expressions on each face.
Finally, her eyes landed on Russell, who was mid-sneak and now frozen in place.
Their eyes met.
If looking at Mary Morstan felt like falling into an ice pit, then meeting this woman's gaze felt like being run through a precision scanner—inside and out.
"New here? Looking for a seat?" Russell asked stiffly, trying to break the awkward tension.
The woman didn't answer. She only tilted her head slightly, her gray-blue eyes lingering on him for a moment. Then she walked in with complete confidence and sat down beside him.
Damn it. Now he couldn't leave.
Russell sighed inwardly, pulled back the foot he had already half-stepped toward freedom, and sat up straight again—doing his best to look like a diligent student listening attentively.
Her arrival was like a boulder dropped into a calm lake, sending ripples through the back rows.
Students who had been half-asleep suddenly turned to look. Along with their curiosity, Russell—hidden corner and all—was dragged into the field of view.
The spotlight effect made his skin crawl.
The woman at his side didn't seem to notice anything. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back against the chair, relaxed, almost lazy.
Her eyes skimmed the auditorium once more. There was none of the curiosity or reverence typical of a new student.
Instead, her gaze resembled a seasoned investigator examining a crime scene.
No—not an investigator.
More like…
A detective.
Russell frowned, not entirely sure why the thought surfaced so naturally. But instinct insisted: detective fit her far better than police officer.
As he was thinking this, she turned her head and looked directly at him.
Her voice was not loud, but it cut cleanly through the noise and reached him with ease.
"You're nervous."
Not a question. A statement.
"Huh?" Russell blinked, then reflexively denied it. "I'm not. I'm just… a bit warm."
"Since I sat down, your left index finger has tapped your thigh unconsciously exactly eleven times. That's a typical physiological response associated with anxiety."
Her speech was fast, crisp, and precise—like she was reading from a report already written.
"And your shoe soles carry the distinctive coal dust mixed with trace clay from the back alley off Baker Street. There's half a damp footprint on your left trouser cuff, which means you stepped in a puddle on your way out.
Judging by the evaporation level of the water stain, you left home roughly one hour and fifteen minutes ago.
Baker Street to here is a forty-minute walk at normal pace.
You're late—and it appears deliberate—so you could sit in the last row. Your muscles have been tense the entire time, and your eyes keep shifting between the back door and the podium.
Conclusion: you're planning to run."
Russell opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He was still trying to process what kind of person could casually fire off that level of observation when she calmly spoke his name.
"Russell Watson."
Russell's mind went blank.
His blood felt like it had congealed in his veins. In nineteen years of living in this world, this was the closest thing he had ever experienced to the supernatural—second only to the system interface itself.
The woman ignored his stunned stare and continued as if she were reciting routine facts:
"You live at 221B Baker Street. Your hobbies include sleeping in and playing the sort of pranks that aren't particularly clever.
There are faint ink stains on your cuffs, but your knuckles are clean—suggesting you don't write often. Yet you managed to get into this university, so your intelligence is clearly not poor.
Also, you seem irritated. Your brow tightens intermittently. I'd guess that's because my arrival disrupted your plan to slip out.
Before I apologize, I want to confirm something: did I get anything wrong?"
The unpunctuated barrage of deductions hit like a storm. Russell felt pummeled, dizzy, unable to respond for several seconds.
Anything wrong?
It was practically all correct.
So what—was he supposed to award her a medal?
"Y-you… how do you know all that?" Russell forced a strained smile, desperately suppressing the urge to swear.
The black-haired woman's lips curved, ever so slightly.
"Basic observation and inference," she said, as if it were self-evident.
"Let's start with the simplest: your name."
She tipped her chin toward Russell's chest.
The freshman name badge.
"It's hanging right there, Mr. Russell Watson."
Russell looked down. The badge he had completely forgotten about gleamed unmistakably against his clothing.
"Th-then how about where I live?" he asked, still not convinced.
"When I moved in, Mrs. Hudson told me about you.
She said the tenant next door at 221B—Mr. Watson—was a lazy man with a taste for pranks, but reasonably good-looking."
Her gaze rested on his face for two seconds. "She wasn't wrong. In every sense."
"…"
"And finally," she concluded, her tone laced with unmistakable boredom, "anyone attempting to escape a tedious lecture and being interrupted will display highly consistent micro-expressions and body language."
"..."
Russell didn't know what to say.
Or rather—after being subjected to that wall of deduction, it was hard for him to think about Mary Morstan at all anymore.
His mind held only one thought:
Whose subordinate is this supposed to be?
"Charlotte," the woman said, as if she had read the question right off his face. "Charlotte Holmes. Your future neighbor—and your classmate."
Russell froze for a beat. Then understanding dawned, and he let out a relieved, incredulous smile.
Oh. Holmes.
That explained everything.
Then—
Wait.
Holmes?!
-------
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