As the mechanism clicked into motion, Russell's gaze shifted to the desk.
He pulled open a drawer, found the hidden compartment inside, and popped it open.
A yellowed envelope lay there quietly.
Russell took it out, opened it with mild curiosity, and unfolded the transaction records inside.
Excellent. He didn't recognize a single name on the list.
That was fine. It didn't matter whether he knew them or not.
Mycroft—and the people at The Times—certainly would.
He pocketed the envelope, then restored everything exactly as it had been.
No need to leave a calling card yet.
There were two more places to strip clean.
Russell didn't linger. He slipped back into the study's shadows like a drop of ink dissolving into water—silent, seamless.
Next stop: the guest room. The scandal photos.
As for the jewels in the master bedroom safe… he'd decide on the fly.
If there was time after the photos, he'd take them as a bonus.
If not, he'd leave them.
Dancing came first.
The guest room sat at the far end of the corridor. Unlike the study's dense, heavy atmosphere, this place felt cold—unused.
It was clearly meant for overnight visitors, yet the Roy residence hadn't hosted anyone for a long time.
Russell stepped inside. The air carried a faint scent of air freshener.
He searched briefly and found the second envelope with almost no effort.
Inside was a stack of photographs about as thick as a pile of coins.
He drew one at random and glanced at it in the moonlight spilling through the window.
Ethan Roy, the Cabinet Minister, was pressed close to a young blonde woman—blue-eyed, stunning, and unapologetically sensual. The background looked like a hotel suite.
And she wasn't the only one.
In other photos were several different women—some Russell had seen on advertisements, others he'd merely heard about.
Every single one was striking, slim, and at least somewhat well-known.
"Living the good life," Russell muttered, unimpressed.
He stuffed the photos back into the envelope.
After a moment's thought, he pulled one particular picture out and slipped it into his pocket.
Then he checked the clock in the guest room.
Seven o'clock.
Should he quit while he was ahead, or chase perfection?
Russell weighed it for a few seconds.
Hyde Street wasn't far from Imperial College. Even on foot, it was barely ten minutes…
He exhaled.
Fine. Since he was already here—
If you were going to chase a thrill, you chased it all the way to the end.
The master bedroom was on the third floor, the most heavily guarded part of the house.
But Russell had memorized the patrol patterns down to the bone. To him, it was just a few more flights of stairs.
He landed on the third-floor corridor carpet like a graceful night bird, not a sound to announce him.
The master bedroom lock was more complicated than the study's and the guest room's—a newer Swiss mechanical design.
But to Sleight of Hand (C+), it only meant thirty seconds instead of ten.
Russell held his breath. A thin pick danced inside the keyhole, and in his mind he could almost see each gear and tooth shifting into place.
Click.
The lock surrendered.
Luxury rushed out at him the moment he stepped inside: a heavy Persian carpet, a massive four-poster bed, and a towering oil portrait of Ethan Roy himself.
In the painting, the minister looked stern and sharp-eyed—as though he were judging every intruder who dared cross his threshold.
Russell didn't spare it a glance.
His target sat in the corner: a waist-high, German-made safe that looked like it could survive an artillery barrage.
Russell crouched and pressed his ear to the cold metal.
This time he didn't use tools. He simply turned the combination dial with his fingertips—slowly, delicately.
Click… click… clack…
The tiny inner movements traveled through the metal and into his skull. With Listening (C+) sharpening everything, the differences between each number's response became unmistakable.
In under a minute, the safe gave a deep, heavy hum—and opened.
Inside, jewels practically overflowed.
Diamond necklaces. Ruby rings. Sapphire brooches. A glittering hoard that would make any ordinary thief lose his mind.
Russell's eyes held no greed at all.
He calmly lifted the most eye-catching piece—a large diamond necklace—tested its weight, and nodded in satisfaction.
Then he took out the single photo he'd separated earlier: Ethan Roy with a famous actress, faces close, bodies closer.
He flipped it over, pulled out a pen, and scrawled a line on the back in bold, unruly handwriting:
"A trifling gift, to Mrs. Roy — Moriarty."
He placed the signed photo dead center inside the safe, where it couldn't possibly be missed.
Then he shut the door and restored everything as if no one had ever touched it.
He wasn't worried that Ethan Roy would be the first to check the safe and destroy evidence.
Because once the minister realized a thief had entered his home, the first places he'd inspect would be the study and the guest room.
Not the valuables.
Russell had a reputation, after all—precedent.
And even if, by some chance, Ethan did find the photo and burn it—
He could burn one. Could he burn a whole stack?
The rest would be in The Times' hands soon enough.
Russell stood, diamond necklace in hand, and left the master bedroom.
Instead of heading straight out, he slipped into Timmy Roy's room.
Timmy's bedroom was exactly like Timmy himself: vulgar, loud, desperate to show off.
The décor was the inflated taste of a young aristocrat—polo ribbons on the wall, fashion magazines and cigar boxes scattered across the desk.
Expensive cologne hung in the air, trying and failing to cover the lingering, adolescent bite of hormones.
Russell had no interest in a teenage boy's bedroom, and no desire to know what questionable "literature" might be hidden under the bed.
He went straight to the bedside table, pulled out the drawer, and tossed the diamond necklace inside as casually as if it were a cheap trinket.
Diamonds knocked against cufflinks and tie clips with a crisp little clatter.
Russell dusted his hands, ready to call it a night.
But as he turned to leave, the corner of his eye caught a half-open desk drawer.
Something inside—paper, letters?
Curiosity, and a thief's instinct, nudged him closer.
He reached in and pulled out a letter.
It was a flirtatious exchange between Timmy Roy and a girl named Annie Brown.
In plain terms: a love letter.
Nothing special. Just painfully saccharine.
Russell rolled his eyes—then noticed there were more letters behind it.
And not just a few.
On impulse—since he was already here—he took them out one by one and opened them.
Every single one was the same kind of intimate nonsense.
Except the female lead wasn't always Annie Brown.
Now that was interesting.
Annie Brown. Isabella White. Joey Carter…
A quick skim suggested at least five or six different women, each addressed as Timmy Roy's "one true love."
Every letter was ornate and passionate, written as if he'd torn his heart out with his bare hands and offered it up in ink.
And the best part?
Russell recognized those names—from the list of people who had already generated malice for him.
Look at that.
What a mess.
He gathered the letters and envelopes, tucked them away, and checked the clock.
Seven forty-five.
"About time."
Russell secured the bundle, moved for the balcony, and jumped down into the night.
"Time to attend the party."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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