By the time Karasawa left the Kudo residence, he was practically bursting at the seams: a pocketful of Doctor Agasa's black-market gadgetry, a signed copy of Yusaku Kudo's latest novel, and—most importantly—a phone stuffed with videos of Conan being dragged into an "acting boot camp" by Yukiko, forced to squeal "big sister~" in a sugary falsetto, eyes brimming with tears. In short, a bountiful haul.
At Karasawa's curious prodding, Yukiko had even demonstrated her near-magical disguise and voice-changing techniques, leaving him wide-eyed and muttering, "One more time!" like a kid at a magic show.
Kaito Kid, Zaia—come on, hurry up and send out your heist notice. That disguise of yours? I'm officially borrowing it!
They'd agreed to send Conan back to the Mouri Detective Agency tomorrow under the pretense of "boarding," and Karasawa politely declined an invitation to stay for dinner, leaving the rare family reunion to the Kudo household while he strolled back to the café.
It was twilight again. Karasawa pulled his coat tighter, watching the crimson horizon, and thought of the dusks from his previous life. He rolled his wheelchair down the quiet neighborhood street, heading into the blood-red light, and for a brief moment, it struck him—if he were to die right now, it might not be such a bad way to go.
The world was utterly still. Like the ending scene of an old film. Just walk into the burning afterglow, and cue The End.
Moved by this sudden sentimentality, Karasawa took out his phone and opened the camera. Framing the sunset, he pressed the shutter.
And just as he did, something in the lower corner of the screen caught his eye—a thumbnail of a photo he didn't recognize.
Startled, he tapped into his photo gallery.
When he'd first gotten this phone, Karasawa had checked it thoroughly. It had been a clean slate—completely new, no lingering data. All files on it should have been generated after he started using it. This unfamiliar image shouldn't exist.
He opened it.
It turned out to be an attachment—automatically downloaded from an email. But his inbox hadn't shown any new messages today. Karasawa's heart skipped a beat. He forced his expression to remain calm, not wanting to betray anything to the world around him.
The photo was a diagram, drawn in basic shapes to represent a bag. A red circle marked one specific spot on the handle.
The body he'd transmigrated into had come from Kyoto. Everything personal had been taken from him—the uniform was a school-issue one, and the only possession he'd kept through it all was the commuter bag currently slung over his shoulder.
At the time of the incident, he had been on his way home from school, carrying this very bag when he was apprehended. After the arrest, the bag and his clothes were confiscated and locked away. When he was released, they were returned.
Of course, its contents would've been thoroughly searched. But whoever had done it clearly assumed he wouldn't be carrying anything of significance—classic case of hiding something in plain sight. The items inside were swapped out, but the bag itself had remained unchanged and followed him to Tokyo.
Karasawa gripped the bag more tightly, fingers tensing without a flicker of expression. With a quick swipe, he deleted the photo from his gallery—completely.
He guessed the original owner hadn't known either—otherwise, the image wouldn't have shown up so randomly just now.
"So this is the kind of foresight a psychologist has?" Karasawa muttered, thinking of the professions of the original's parents. He exhaled softly.
If this was indeed a hidden clue left by them for Karasawa Shou… what kind of trigger had set the email off? It likely meant… they were never coming back.
His hand quietly traced along the handle of the commuter bag, fingers slipping to the marked spot. Nestled between the folded layers of thick fabric, he finally felt it—a hard, flat square, about the size of his fingertip.
No wider than a centimeter. If you didn't press on it, you'd never know it was there. He'd been carrying this thing around the whole time without realizing it.
So this was what the Organization had been searching for.
Karasawa narrowed his eyes. Up until now, the plan to infiltrate the Organization had just been a passing thought, a way to seize initiative. But now, the other half of that possibility had been delivered into his hands.
"I'll make good use of it," he murmured, palms pressed together as if in prayer. A quiet, heartfelt wish: may they reunite in another world.
———
Yukiko had offered far too much… which naturally meant the little gremlin officially moved into the Mouri household.
As for the results of her crash course training?
"Karasawa-nii!" Conan chirped as he burst into the café, smiling with the brightness of a thousand suns. His voice was pitched high and sugary sweet—so syrupy it set Karasawa's nerves on edge.
"I came to read with you~!"
A picture of wide-eyed innocence, the little boy scampered right past Amuro Tooru—who was mid-delivery of drinks—without raising any suspicion.
"Don't run in the store, you might bump into someone," Amuro said mildly, letting the child pass.
Perfect. Too effective, even. Karasawa strongly suspected Yukiko's "secret technique" was just giggling loudly and acting as obnoxiously cutesy as humanly possible. His scalp prickled from the sheer cringe of it.
Still, he had to put on a kind and welcoming smile, catching Conan as the kid launched himself into his arms. "Don't disturb the customers, okay? Let's head upstairs to read."
Ow.
That headbutt landed squarely in Karasawa's softest spot—his stomach. The impact rattled through him like a small earthquake.
That brat was definitely out for revenge. Damn it, was filming two embarrassing clips really worth all this payback? Karasawa gritted his teeth, smile frozen in place, and dragged Conan toward the attic.
"That hurt like hell," he hissed under his breath.
Conan leaned in close. "Are you gonna delete the videos?"
Karasawa, still rubbing his stomach, replied, "Nope. I'm backing them up twice. Might even send a copy to Ran."
Conan didn't buy the bluff. Even though the footage didn't directly reveal his connection to Yukiko, the fact that it was filmed inside the Kudo residence was already suspicious. Still, Karasawa might tease him, but he'd never actually endanger him.
That was why Conan grinned, showing all eight of his teeth.
Karasawa saw right through the smug act. With a sinister smile, he pulled out his phone and played a carefully trimmed audio clip.
"Beep—Big~ Sis~ Hello~"
Conan's face immediately contorted.
Karasawa played it again.
"Beep—Big~ Sis~ Hello~"
Think a video is the only way I can blackmail you? How naïve.
He raised the phone high, using the pure power of height difference to fend off Conan's desperate attempts to snatch it away. Inside, he was quite pleased. Who knows, maybe once that hot sauce-brand-named agent shows up, this little gem could be put to even better use.
"Stop! I give up! I'm sorry!" Conan finally folded, plopping down on Karasawa's bed with a defeated grumble. "I swear, Ran totally misjudged you. You're a menace."
Karasawa beamed. "Still want to read, Conan-kun?"
"Hmph." Conan turned his head away, sulking. After a pause, he muttered, "Thanks."
"Hmm?" Karasawa blinked.
"I said, about yesterday—thanks." Conan's voice was awkward, grudging. "Even though it turned out to be a misunderstanding… I still appreciate it."
Yesterday, he'd overheard bits and pieces from his father—fragments of information about the Organization. Enough to make him understand just how recklessly Karasawa had acted when he'd stepped forward without hesitation.
If they'd been facing an actual member of the Organization, Karasawa's move would've been suicide.
He'd already paid such a heavy price once for his sense of justice—nearly lost everything. And yet…
"Not sure what emotional movie you've got playing in your head," Karasawa said with a laugh, tousling Conan's hair until it was a fluffy mess, "but… you're welcome."
That grin—it was the kind a farmer wears when patting his prize corn cob. Full of affection.
Keep leveling up, little detective. Give me some skills, some buffs—anything, really. The more the merrier.