Although the Tarot card had felt like a royal decree, and the ability granted with it was undeniably strange, Karasawa's plan this time had been a resounding success.
He didn't linger outside. Instead, he packed up two slices of chiffon cake for Conan—as a peace offering, of sorts, for having so thoroughly played him—and escorted the young detective back to the Mouri Detective Agency.
School had let out at four, and thanks to the murder at the museum, it was already past five. Any later and someone might say he was corrupting a child.
"Karasawa—is it okay if I call you that?" Despite the past couple of hours being a chaotic whirlwind—his alias utterly shattered—Conan, walking beside Karasawa now, felt oddly comforted. There was something nice about having a peer who knew exactly who he really was.
The past few days had felt strangely long, though in reality, it hadn't been that long since the amusement park incident—when he'd been attacked by the men in black and turned into a child.
Back-to-back crises, the constant stress of pretending, the need to hide the truth from Ran and Uncle Mouri—it was exhausting. He wasn't a good liar, not at all. Just like Karasawa had said, his acting was terrible. And yet he had to keep lying, spinning stories, pretending, always pretending. It was crushing. And there was no outlet.
Moments like this, when he could speak honestly, were rare—and a relief.
"Of course, Conan-kun," Karasawa replied, being supportive of his newly acquired, ah, ally.
"Aren't you curious how I got turned into a kid? You haven't asked me even once."
"I can already tell it's the kind of trouble I can't afford to get involved in. I've got my own mess to deal with. Poking into things I can't help with will just bring more problems," Karasawa said aloud, though inwardly he thought, No need to ask—once our omniscient little detective starts investigating Karasawa Akira's background, he'll inevitably sniff out the Black Organization's trail. Nothing I say will stop that.
"Besides," he added, "I'm more curious how you ended up at Mouri-san's house. Suzuki-san said you and Ran Mouri were childhood friends, right? That means she and her father must know what you looked like back then. She knows you pretty well, too. Are you sure that's not going to cause problems?"
Conan adjusted his glasses, thinking of Professor Agasa's suggestion. His voice turned sheepish. "Well… someone advised me to make Uncle Mouri a famous detective. Then once he's well-known enough, I can use his connections to track down the people who did this to me…"
His voice trailed off under the weight of Karasawa's silent, deeply skeptical gaze.
"…Is the plan that bad?" Conan asked quietly.
Karasawa responded with grace: "It's imaginative. Definitely the kind of story people would pay to hear."
That subtle jab gave Conan a sudden sense that yes, this guy is definitely from Kyoto. He scratched his temple awkwardly. "I mean, it's not totally unworkable, right? Like today—well, okay, today was a mess—but I have helped Uncle Mouri solve a few cases already. He's started to gain some fame."
Karasawa rubbed his right arm, still a little traumatized. "If you really want to keep using this strategy, I can't stop you. But next time, if you need my help, ask. I don't want to get surprise-darted with tranquilizers again."
"Ahahaha…" Conan laughed nervously. He could just imagine the impolite thoughts swirling through Karasawa's mind and hurried to change the subject. "But hey, it's a good thing for you too if Uncle Mouri becomes a famous detective, right? You'll need someone with access if you're going to keep investigating your own case."
"Hard to say," Karasawa replied diplomatically. "If there's a silver lining, it's that I can stay behind the scenes. My identity's… complicated. If I get involved too directly, the people behind everything won't just sit back and watch. Being in the spotlight is dangerous for me. I'm still technically a juvenile offender—if that gets out, the media will rip me apart."
Conan recalled the scene at the museum—Karasawa pulling Inspector Megure aside and quietly asking him not to mention anything in public. He nodded in understanding.
The setting sun drenched the clouds in crimson, casting golden-red light over the two of them. Conan was suddenly reminded of the day Ran had taken his hand and walked him back to her home.
What had he been feeling back then?
"Don't be so pessimistic, Karasawa." Conan raised a hand—he could only reach Karasawa's elbow—and gave him a reassuring pat. "As long as we're alive, there's hope. No matter how bad things are, don't give up."
Karasawa looked down at the earnest little kid trying to offer solidarity and gave him a pat on the shoulder in return.
What he was actually thinking, however, was: Pick up the pace. The sooner I get this loose-lipped gremlin home, the better. With his complete lack of OPSEC, God knows when Akai or Amuro will get patched in next. For the love of all that's secret, protect your damn cover, Conan-kun.
Completely missing each other's wavelengths, the two walked home in the golden light of dusk, seemingly in perfect harmony.
Karasawa got home late. The moment he stepped into Café Poirot, he was intercepted by his guardian, who immediately spun him around to check for injuries.
"Amuro-san…" Karasawa raised both hands in surrender, half amused and half exasperated. "I was just invited to the museum by a classmate. It wasn't some planned ambush."
Once Amuro had confirmed that Karasawa hadn't acquired any new wounds, he finally let him go and stepped back behind the counter. "And let me guess—a murder happened?"
Karasawa spread his hands innocently. "What can I say? We were at the scene."
Amuro rubbed his temple, feeling another headache coming on. "You're not… trying to emulate detectives like Mouri-san because you think it looks cool, right?"
As an intelligence officer with more sources than most, Amuro naturally knew what role Karasawa had actually played in the case. The police had been completely misled by the killer's sleight of hand and were just about to arrest the wrong person. Had the real murderer escaped, they would have destroyed the pen containing the evidence. After that, convicting them would've been nearly impossible.
As Furuya Rei, Amuro had felt real pride watching Karasawa—wrongfully accused and deeply scarred—step up to clear someone else's name. He'd chosen to be the one who reached out a hand to save someone else.
The bitterness Karasawa felt toward the justice system hadn't turned into apathy or malice. He had every reason to become cynical, but even now, still standing in the downpour of his own misfortune, he chose to hold up an umbrella for someone else. That was rare. Precious.
But on the other hand… Amuro also knew how dangerous Karasawa's situation was.
If he started making public appearances like those famous detectives, the increased visibility could throw everything off. And the Organization—Amuro couldn't be sure how they'd react if the plan started to unravel.
"No way," Karasawa said, after a moment's thought. This sounded more like Furuya Rei speaking than Amuro. "I'm not cut out for the spotlight. If the public finds out the key evidence in a case came from someone with a criminal record, they'll start doubting the entire conclusion… I just want to help. I'm not trying to make trouble. Don't worry, Amuro-san—I already asked the officers not to mention me."
This wrongful conviction of his? It was like a dagger that only stabbed people with a conscience. A cursed blade, practically buffed. Just stick it on his forehead, and Karasawa could ascend the moral high ground and do whatever he pleased.
Like Conan before him, Amuro now found himself completely out of retorts. He could only reach out and give Karasawa a comforting pat on the shoulder.
Wow, this really works, Karasawa thought, sincerely impressed. And I don't even feel bad. I'll absolutely be doing this again.
All he needed now was a few more cases—each time with a justification like "I just don't want others to suffer like I did." That way, his character would become watertight.
A traumatized youth, disillusioned by systemic failure, yet still driven by empathy and a simple sense of justice, extending a hand to anyone who shared his misfortune. Who wouldn't look at that and think: What a saint!
Once again, he'd made it through a day without managing to slack off at work.