Charlotte raised an eyebrow, genuinely a little surprised.
"You've been excluded."
Her tone carried a faint edge of mockery, but mostly it was the flat delivery of a diagnosis.
"Geniuses are always misunderstood," Russell shrugged.
"The word genius doesn't apply to you," Charlotte said without mercy.
"Although, if we limit the comparison to you and that pack of idiots going to the icebreaker, then I suppose I can reluctantly allow it."
She continued, unimpressed.
"That moron doesn't even realize his father belongs to Mycroft's opposing party, and he still tried to use Mycroft's name to pressure me."
"You mean Timmy Roy?"
"Who else?" Charlotte picked up the teacup by her hand.
"Ethan Roy's son. A perfect case study in heredity: stupidity inherited intact.
Ethan Roy's greatest pleasure in Parliament is voting against every bill Mycroft proposes—regardless of whether the bill is right or wrong.
And his son tries to leverage my brother's name to corner me. I honestly don't know which wire in his head is crossed."
She yawned, bored.
"In summary: that icebreaker party on Saturday can go to hell. Whoever wants to go, go."
"Fine by me," Russell shrugged. He wasn't going to argue.
Charlotte showing up or not had nothing to do with him anyway.
After leaving Charlotte's room, Russell returned to his own. He stripped off his clothes and changed into something more ordinary—nothing flashy, nothing memorable.
Then he checked the time. When it felt about right, he headed downstairs, walked out, and caught the nearest tram.
The tram rolled through the amber wash of dusk. Russell leaned against the window, watching the city slide backward in a blur, while his mind replayed the customized map over and over.
Jewels in the master bedroom safe. Bribery records in a concealed study compartment. Scandal photos under the guest room bed.
This cabinet minister's private life was a great deal more adventurous than his idiotic son's.
He'd already decided: tonight was reconnaissance.
Learn the terrain. Plot the route. Ensure Saturday's visit would unfold like a perfectly rehearsed play.
The tram stopped near Hyde Park.
Russell stepped off and slipped into the crowd, a drop of water vanishing into the sea. He tugged the brim of his flat cap lower, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked toward the wealthy district marked on the map—an ordinary citizen out for a post-dinner stroll.
Roy House sat on a quiet corner: a classic Victorian structure, three stories tall, with a small but meticulously trimmed front garden.
Russell walked the street at an unhurried pace, as if simply wandering, while his eyes gathered data from every angle.
[Reconnaissance (C+)] activated.
Number of guards. Patrol routes. Shift timing. Visual blind spots.
From the outside, the security looked lighter than he'd expected.
Probably Ethan Roy trusted his status—no petty thief would dare target a cabinet minister.
Or maybe he was confident that even if someone did, the worst he'd lose would be something trivial: money, jewelry, a few replaceable possessions.
As for the things that would actually ruin him—cripple him, destroy him outright—he believed those were buried where no one could ever find them.
Having reviewed the layout and the high-value stash points, Russell had to admit the man's confidence wasn't entirely baseless.
Just… not quite enough.
It would make things easier.
Russell sat on a bench across the street, pulled out a newspaper he'd bought that afternoon, and held it up as if reading—while using his peripheral vision to keep studying the second-floor window placements.
"Alright… entering via the second-floor east terrace is best," he murmured under his breath, like a student double-checking homework.
"There's a three-minute gap during the guard rotation. More than enough time to pop the lock and get inside."
He ran the entire plan through his head one last time, clean and complete.
"Good. That's enough."
Satisfied, Russell folded the paper and rose to leave.
Then, at the corner ahead, a lavish carriage rolled into view and slowed to a stop—right in front of Roy House.
The door opened.
A familiar figure stepped down.
Blond curls, painfully bright in the dying sunlight. A perfectly tailored suit. The smug, self-important expression that looked like it had been stitched onto his face—
Timmy Roy.
Russell frowned.
Instinctively, he lifted the newspaper a little higher to shield his face, weighing whether to disappear immediately or wait until Timmy went inside.
But today, Timmy seemed unusually sharp.
Maybe it was because Russell had humiliated him twice at school. Maybe it was because he'd been simmering all day. Either way, the moment Timmy stepped down, his gaze swept the street—and landed, precisely, on the "newspaper reader" across from his home.
Timmy's brow furrowed.
He didn't recognize Russell. He didn't need to. Something about the posture, the position, the timing—something felt wrong.
A poorly dressed man with a newspaper, sitting right across from his house.
What kind of person did that?
A vagrant? A stalker? No—more likely one of those damned reporters, convincing themselves they could snap some "exclusive" scandal.
Some country bumpkin dared to lurk outside his home?
[Timmy Roy feels intensely offended and enraged by your suspicious behavior. Malice +30]
Huh? Did he identify me?
Russell cursed silently as the system prompt hit. He lowered the paper, stood, and moved to melt into the flow of pedestrians.
"Stop!"
Timmy's voice carried across the street—hard, commanding, the tone of someone who'd never been told "no" in his life.
He didn't even go inside.
Instead, he strode toward Russell with aggressive confidence.
Several guards followed at once, spreading out in a loose formation—subtle, but clearly closing in.
Tch. Overly sensitive much?
Russell's brow tightened for a heartbeat, then smoothed into calm.
[250 Malice deducted. Item purchase successful.]
With a sting of pain at the cost, Russell felt two objects appear in the palm of his hand inside his pocket.
He didn't hurry.
He casually drew one out, slipped it onto his face, and allowed the men behind him to catch up.
"I told you to stop—!"
Timmy's hand clamped down on Russell's shoulder, rude and forceful.
"Turn around. Now."
Slowly, Russell turned his head.
"Sir," he said politely, voice mild and puzzled, "were you calling me?"
-------
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