[Mary Morstan has developed a trace of admiration for you.]
Under London's midnight sky, Russell—still in the middle of making his getaway—heard the system notification and nearly pitched straight into the Thames.
"What the hell?"
His shocked, baffled mutter was immediately torn apart by the wind.
"Admiration? For me?"
Is she actually a psychopath?
Whatever. Compared to that, he cared far more about one thing: tonight's haul.
With that thought, Russell opened the system panel.
[Name: Russell Watson]
[Reputation: Somewhat Known (Malice gain +10%)]
[Occupation: Gentleman Thief]
[Skills: Stealth (C+), Climbing (C), Sleight of Hand (C+), Investigation (C), Listening (C)]
[Notice: Upgradable attributes available]
[Malice Balance: 1630]
[Recent Action Earnings: You repeatedly enraged Mary Morstan and danced on every one of her boundaries — Malice +780]
"Beautiful."
Russell let out a satisfied sigh.
Tonight's Malice was worth an entire month of his usual income.
This was how it should be—if everyone in London contributed just a little hatred, his future would be bright.
Since he finally had a comfortable surplus, it was probably time to improve his stats.
His gaze dropped to the skill list, where countless options remained locked—combat, among others.
Skills could be unlocked through training, or purchased directly with Malice. Every skill cost 200 Malice to unlock, and all newly unlocked skills started at Rank D. Upgrading beyond that required additional Malice.
Of course, that didn't mean he was completely incapable without a skill unlocked.
For example, even without [Combat], Russell wouldn't magically become a helpless punching bag. At worst, he'd fight like an idiot—wild swings and pure aggression.
But once [Combat] was unlocked, he would know when to strike, when to evade, how to control distance, how to keep his body from panicking.
Now he had over a thousand Malice. That meant he could unlock at least five skills.
But many of the listed skills were fluff—more impressive on paper than useful in practice.
Russell's eyes swept through the dazzling menu, then settled on the pragmatic route.
First priority: Combat, Stealth, and Investigation. Everything else could wait. His current levels were already sufficient for most situations.
At most, he could upgrade Sleight of Hand to speed up cracking safes—but in an average home, even a noble's, his current pace rarely exceeded a minute.
Unless he planned to crack open a bank vault, he didn't need it.
So Russell made a decisive gesture and started allocating Malice. A series of chimes rang out, and with each one, knowledge poured into his mind—techniques, timing, body mechanics, patterns.
It felt bizarre. Like sudden enlightenment. As if his brain and muscles simply remembered what they'd never learned.
Whoever designed this system was truly unhinged.
[Skill: Combat — Unlocked. Current Rank: D. Malice -200]
[Skill: Combat (D) — Upgraded. Current Rank: D+. Malice -100]
[Skill: Combat (D+) — Upgraded. Current Rank: C. Malice -200]
[Skill: Stealth (C+) — Upgraded. Current Rank: C++. Malice -600]
[Skill: Investigation (C) — Upgraded. Current Rank: C+. Malice -300]
[Current Balance: 230]
And just like that—back to poverty.
Staring at the pitiful number left in his balance, Russell felt real pain in his chest.
He couldn't spend the rest recklessly. He needed that for the shop—he still had to buy more of those ridiculous "mystical miracle tools."
Haze Array was absurdly good.
Without it, forget "farming Malice"—he wasn't even sure he'd have made it home in one piece tonight.
As he vaulted across rooftops, Russell silently gave Haze Array a five-star review.
Then he remembered how much it cost, and his heart started aching all over again.
Upgrading skills felt exactly like buying a gym membership.
When you sign up, you're full of ambition—convinced that tomorrow you'll turn into a superhero.
But the moment you've paid, you suddenly wonder why nothing feels immediately different—except your wallet is empty.
The combat techniques newly stuffed into his brain were thorough: jabs, hooks, side kicks, whip kicks, joint locks, grapples.
Perfect theory.
But whether it worked in real combat… he'd need a chance to test it.
He wasn't about to go back and "practice" with Mary Morstan, was he?
Just imagining that scene made him shiver.
No. He was a gentleman.
He wouldn't stoop to her level.
Besides—she really did fight dirty.
She was going for kidneys tonight. What would she go for next time? He didn't even want to consider it.
Lost in thought, Russell finally caught sight of the familiar outline of Baker Street.
In the night, 221B Baker Street looked quiet and peaceful—an entirely different world from the undercurrent-choked Morstan residence a few streets away.
He slipped back through his window with the smooth efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times.
He stripped off his thief's gear, changed into pajamas, and collapsed onto the bed like his bones were about to fall apart.
The mental and physical toll tonight was brutal—worse than eight consecutive lectures of advanced mathematics.
He was just about to drift off when, from next door, that cursed violin started again.
Same as ever—no melody, no structure, like fingernails scraping a chalkboard.
Russell buried his face in the pillow, trying to block out the noise.
It was useless.
"For the love of—what time is it…" he groaned weakly.
It seemed the great detective's case had made precisely zero progress.
Russell thrashed around for several minutes like a man flipping on a griddle, then finally sat up in resignation.
Sleep was impossible.
He shoved his feet into slippers, carried a mug of freshly warmed milk, and knocked on the door next door.
It opened almost immediately.
Charlotte Holmes stood there in a dark blue silk robe, her violin and bow still in hand—the instruments of war responsible for the noise.
Her slightly curled black hair was messy, and her gray-blue eyes were threaded with bloodshot veins, yet her gaze remained razor sharp.
Seeing Russell, she frowned. "Yes?"
"As your neighbor," Russell said with grave sincerity, lifting the mug slightly, "I feel obliged to remind you that it is two in the morning."
"A normal, minimally ethical London citizen should be in bed right now."
"Not torturing a valuable violin—and definitely not torturing a neighbor who has class tomorrow."
Charlotte gave him a brief look, stepped aside to let him in, then turned back toward the center of the room and tossed the violin onto the sofa.
"Obviously," she said, concise as ever, "I've run into a problem."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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