The next morning, London awoke slowly in its damp, chilly morning mist.
The sun had not yet fully risen above the horizon, its gray-white light seeping through the thin fog, giving the city a ghostly silhouette.
The streets remained quiet, save for the occasional clear ring of a milkman's bicycle bell.
This peace didn't last.
Soon, a chorus of sharp, excited cries shattered the silence.
"Extra, extra!"
"Latest headlines from The Tis! The Phantom Thief Moriarty Previews His Performance!"
"Guardian's headline: Grand Spectacle Begins in Five Days!"
"Morning Post! Daily News! Every paper carries the sa story! Co see for yourselves!"
Newsboys poured from every corner of Fleet Street like sparrows darting from the nest.
Waving their freshly inked newspapers, they shouted at the top of their lungs, spreading the na across every street and alley, driving the city wild—Moriarty!
A single stone sent out a thousand ripples.
Shopkeepers opening up, won with baskets heading for the market, workers rushing to factories—everyone paused the instant they heard the na.
People rushed from their houses, crowding around the newsboys, exchanging a penny or two for the article sure to be the day's talk of the town.
"My God, it's real! Look—it's right on The Tis' front page!"
"Guardian too! Even the layout is exactly the sa!"
"A grand performance in five days... what does he an? What's his plan?"
"No idea—but I bet it'll be a heck of a show!"
Crowds gathered—whispers, gasps, irrepressible chatter rged into a torrent that surged through the city like joining streams. Panic and excitent—seemingly contradictory—intertwined perfectly, creating an invisible net encasing the entire city.
221B Baker Street.
Russell woke to the noise from below.
Rising slowly from bed, he walked to the window and drew back the curtain, lazily observing the chaotic scene outside.
Splendid. The response was more enthusiastic than he'd hoped.
He nodded in satisfaction, turning to wash up.
When Russell yawned his way downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was waiting with a cup of tea, The Tis already on the table.
"You're up early today, Russell."
"It was too noisy to sleep."
Russell smiled, picking up the paper.
Naturally, Mrs. Hudson—being a Tis subscriber—had bought The Tis.
On its front page, in bold headline, was the announcent he himself had written.
"Gabriel's trumpet... Quite the exaggeration,"
he chuckled wryly to himself.
"Let's just hope nothing else goes wrong now."
Mrs. Hudson sighed.
Russell just shrugged, then finished the last bite of toast and turned to reach for his trench coat.
"I'm going out for a bit, Mrs. Hudson. I'll buy a few papers and take a look through them."
"Be careful, child."
Don't worry.
Russell slipped out the door and lted into the bustling crowd.
He did not rush to buy papers, but strolled the street with his hands in his pockets, just another ordinary citizen. Eventually he approached a newsboy, took out so coins, and bought every major newspaper available.
With a thick stack in hand, Russell turned to head back to Baker Street.
Just then, a system notification chid inside his head.
Many aristocrats—including Lord Hansen Bolay—were thrown into a panic by the coverage.
Russell paused for a mont, a faint smile curling his lips.
The real fun would soon begin.
When Russell returned to 221B with his stack of newspapers, he found Charlotte already seated in the lounge chair, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, one of Mrs. Hudson's papers in the other.
"Oh—you're up?"
Russell tossed the stack thunderously onto the coffee table.
Charlotte glanced over slowly, then at the pile of almost identical front-page headlines.
"Flashy, sensational, but utterly devoid of originality.
What an exercise in the theatrical."
She spoke with unmasked scorn, "A waste of money."
"It was just a few cents."
Russell pulled over a chair and sat, lazily picking up a paper.
"And clearly, the public supports it."
"The masses are always ignorant."
Charlotte sipped her coffee.
"They're fooled by appearances, obsessed with the dazzling, unrealistic drama, never bothering to consider the motives behind it."
"So, great detective, have you figured it out?
Why is the phantom thief raising such a commotion?"
"It's very simple."
Charlotte set down her cup.
"He wants to cause a panic."
"That much is obvious."
Russell nodded.
"And his motive?"
"No one knows. Maybe... he's just driven by an irresistible urge to perform."
Charlotte replied indifferently.
"Speculating about his motives is pointless—a waste of brainpower."
I quite agree.
Russell avoided making any definitive statent.
Once breakfast was done, he rose and walked to the door.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm heading to school now."
"Be careful."
After leaving Baker Street, Russell took the tram to Imperial College London.
Passing through the main gate, he imdiately spotted many students standing around chatting, papers in hand.
From ti to ti, the na "Moriarty" would drift to Russell's ears.
He observed the students with interest as he walked—excitent and curiosity were the dominant expressions, but also tinges of fear and unease at the unknown.
In the crowd he recognized faces like Anne Brown and Isabella White, clustered with friends, whispering.
Their distaste for Timmy Roy seed to have shifted to curiosity about Moriarty.
Inside the lecture hall, it was more like a bustling salon than a classroom. Nearly everyone had a paper, discussing loudly in groups of two or three.
So guessed Moriarty's next target would be a prominent MP, others a cold-blooded businessman. So were awed by his madness; others fiercely condemned his occupation of public resources.
Based on these conversations, Russell realized they fell roughly into two factions.
One group admired Moriarty—their backgrounds were relatively ordinary or even well-off.
The critics mainly ca from aristocratic or political families.
Like two rivers, they neither rged nor interfered.
Russell ignored the debates and headed to his usual spot—already ward by sunlight. He slumped into his seat, dropped his newspapers carelessly onto the table, and was eager for one more nap before class.
And sure enough, that familiar scent—white tea and ink—drifted to him as promised.
…
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