By the time Karasawa returned to Café Poirot, it was already past two in the afternoon.
Out the door at 7 a.m., back by 2 p.m.—two cases in just seven or eight hours. Now that's a productive day. Classic you, Conan.
Karasawa watched the little detective wobble upstairs after politely refusing his offer to help carry his stuff. He turned to look at the café and took a deep breath.
Every time that kid leaves the house, he comes back with some sort of injury. If no one gives a proper explanation soon, Furuya Rei is going to start cursing out the surveillance team as a bunch of useless degenerates and march off with a gun to challenge Akai Shuichi to a duel.
Honestly, Karasawa felt like he was being wronged. What he'd gotten weren't even proper wounds—barely surface scratches. And if Furuya had a problem with that one punch? Well, it barely broke the skin. The glass that shattered around him wouldn't have had a leg to stand on in court.
Under pressure that made him feel like a student about to get chewed out by the discipline officer, Karasawa walked sheepishly into the café.
"Well, well, our little hero returns." There was only one customer seated by the window. Furuya, wearing an expression that said he was not in the mood, looked up and immediately switched to a tone drenched in sarcasm.
"Amuro-san..." Karasawa played dumb and gave a sheepish laugh.
Furuya tossed the rag he'd been using onto the counter, planted his hands on his hips, and came out from behind the bar. He jabbed a finger toward the upstairs loft, his tone commanding: "Upstairs. Now."
"Come on, don't be so harsh," Azusa said, half amused, half exasperated, when she saw Karasawa shrink back like a scolded puppy. "Someone posted a video of you jumping onto that truck when it slammed to a stop—it's all over social media. The clip's from pretty far away, so you can't really see the face, but we recognized you immediately. Kid, you've got guts, I'll give you that..."
Furuya snorted, still visibly annoyed. "You don't even have a driver's license and you're out here scaling a cargo truck? Who was it again who swore up and down they'd behave?"
"I—it was to save someone. It was an emergency..." Karasawa mumbled, looking down.
"Upstairs." Furuya pointed again, crisp and cold.
Karasawa wilted under the pressure and trailed upstairs behind Furuya, who was now lugging a small first aid kit, each step loud and heavy.
Furuya's thoughts were a tangled mess.
Fortunately, he'd already tipped off Kazami yesterday. As a result, the sudden spike in online attention had been caught and managed quickly—no close-up images had leaked, and the news was once again suppressed.
Still, he never would've guessed this high schooler would turn out to be this proactive. The level of chaos he stirred up reminded Furuya a little too much of his own school days.
God, the headaches the Public Security Bureau had when cleaning up his records back then, just to maintain his undercover identity...
And now it was his turn to do the same thing for someone else. Ah, karma. What a sense of humor you have.
"Sit down. Hand." Furuya dragged the loft's only chair next to the bed and motioned with a curt nod.
Karasawa obeyed, settling down in front of him. Something about that tone felt off. Like talking to a dog.
The haphazardly wrapped bandage on Karasawa's wrist made Furuya's brow twitch. As he began unwrapping it, he scolded, "Why didn't you go to a hospital? You didn't even clean the wound before wrapping it. What if it got infected?"
With the bandage fully off, the scratches on Karasawa's wrist and the back of his hand came into view. One of them ran from the middle of his hand up to his forearm—more of a shallow gouge than a cut, courtesy of the jagged edge of a broken window.
Furuya inhaled sharply through his nose, clearly trying not to lose his temper. He opened the kit, grabbed the antiseptic, and poured it over the wound. "Where'd you learn to drive?"
"I was planning to get my license this year anyway..." Karasawa replied quietly.
Furuya took out fresh gauze and bandages. "And the bandage? Why were you carrying that around?"
"Um... well, you know, with everything that's happened lately... thought it might come in handy?" Karasawa hedged, watching Furuya wrap the wound with neat, practiced efficiency. Then he countered with a cheeky smile, "Have you studied nursing, Amuro-san? That was fast."
"Don't change the subject. You just can't help playing the hero, can you?" Furuya shot him a glare but ultimately didn't voice the more cutting remark lingering on his tongue—Last time you 'played hero,' you almost got yourself labeled a juvenile delinquent.
Because truthfully, Karasawa was a brave and kindhearted kid. Reckless, yes—but a good kid.
Two overly cautious, onion-layered people stared silently at each other.
Karasawa was hiding something. Furuya was sure of it.
Driving a standard automatic or manual car was one thing, but a cargo truck? That required a whole different class of license. And the way Karasawa had responded in a crisis—quick, decisive, and efficient—there was no way he hadn't been trained.
But no matter which identity he was operating under, this wasn't something Furuya could ask directly.
He'd watched that SNS video at least five times now. And the more he thought about it, the more his suspicions aligned with Akai Shuichi's.
It had to be the Karasawa couple.
They had ties to the Organization. The research institute they worked for was funded by a foundation controlled by one of the Organization's offshore shell companies.
After days of investigation, this was the most plausible point of contact between Karasawa and the Organization. If the couple's research was Organization-funded, then the Organization must've been aware of its contents.
Initially, Furuya had suspected that Karasawa Akira's father might be holding onto core research materials. But now he had a new theory: what if the Karasawas had already applied some of their research—to their own son?
Psychotherapy, cognitive modification... taken further, it could veer into brainwashing or behavioral control. Maybe Karasawa had undergone formal training under their guidance.
It was only a hypothesis—for now. He hadn't reported it to Public Safety or the Organization. If this line of speculation ever made it to the wrong ears, it could spell doom for Karasawa Akira.
Because according to intel from his Bourbon identity, both Karasawa Ichikawa and Karasawa Leona were confirmed dead. No matter what their research entailed, no one would let Karasawa off the hook.
God, what a mess. One giant, flaming hot potato.
Furuya exhaled sharply and released Karasawa's bandaged wrist, then reached up and gave his head a hard scrub.
"Stop it!" Karasawa yelped, ducking away. "You promised no head pats!"
"You didn't keep your promise, so mine's null and void too," Furuya declared, ruffling his hair even more vigorously. "You forget I'm your probation supervisor? This report's going to be real interesting. Better watch yourself during this observation period."
"I'm sorry! I was wrong!" Karasawa surrendered immediately, face scrunched as his hair went flying in all directions.
Finally vented, Furuya packed up the medical kit and stood. Before heading back downstairs, he paused, then turned slightly and asked, almost cautiously, "Karasawa... if you're in trouble, you can talk to me. Any kind of trouble. I'll help you."
Those purple-gray eyes met Karasawa's with unwavering sincerity.
Karasawa understood what he was really asking—but he couldn't say anything.
And more importantly... who was asking? Was it Bourbon? Furuya Rei? Or Zero?
Talking to an onion-person was exhausting.
Karasawa figured Furuya probably knew quite a bit, but he couldn't ask, and Furuya wouldn't say. Until they could strip at least two layers—Bourbon and Zero—off this onion, Karasawa didn't have the grounds to truly speak with him.
"I know," he said at last, noncommittally.