The people of Yokohama were used to murder.A few short sentences from the clerk — assurances of compensation, calm instructions to remain inside — were all it took for the dessert shop's customers to settle into quiet, uneasy patience.
The "postman" boy strolled in as though he owned the place, slid into the empty seat beside Zhongli, and draped his elbows on the table with casual entitlement.
"When strangers are fighting over there," he announced, jerking a thumb toward the commotion, "the smart thing to do is sit somewhere safe. Like here."
Chuuya, seated opposite Zhongli, narrowed his eyes. The boy didn't just invite himself — he was already pointing at the untouched glass of sparkling water in front of Chuuya.
"I want that," the boy declared.
Chuuya's jaw tightened. "This was ordered for me. If you want one, order your own."
"You're not gonna drink it," the boy shot back, stretching the words like taffy. "If I don't say anything, you'll leave it there till you walk out."
Chuuya opened his mouth, then shut it again.…Okay, fine, maybe he had forgotten about the drink. But that didn't mean he'd admit it.
"I'm hungry," the boy added dramatically, taking off his cap and slumping over the table. "Finished my last rice ball last night. Haven't eaten since morning. No wages yet. Stomach's emptier than a riverbed in dry season…"
Despite himself, Chuuya hesitated. The kid looked pathetic — and annoying — in equal measure. Finally, he pushed the glass toward him. "Fine. But you don't touch anything else."
"Oh!" The boy brightened instantly, reaching for the glass—
—Only for Zhongli's long fingers to lift it away, setting it safely at the far corner of the table.
"Cold drinks on an empty stomach will give you cramps," Zhongli said mildly, his amber gaze steady. "If you're truly hungry… why not make a contract with me?"
That got the boy's attention. "What kind of contract?"
"Help the shopkeeper solve this case," Zhongli replied, "and I'll buy you anything you want to eat. Until you're full."
The boy blinked, suspicious. "Case? There's no case here."
Chuuya frowned. "What are you—?"
Zhongli didn't answer. "Then tell us everything you've seen."
Something in his tone stilled the boy's fidgeting. "…Alright."
In the back lounge, the victim lay crumpled on the floor. A young woman in a cook's uniform, face twisted in pain, lips blue. One hand clutched her throat; the other had scraped the wooden floor deep enough to leave blood-smeared grooves.
The shop staff gave their accounts quickly — who had found her, what she'd eaten, when she'd last spoken. A name came up: Ayako. Another: Haruka, the coworker who'd seen her that morning.
"She said she felt unwell," Haruka sniffled, "so I told her to lie down. She'd just recovered from inflammation… I thought she was sleeping…"
Murmurs rippled. Someone muttered about poison. The manager ordered all red wine cakes removed from customers' tables and an ambulance called.
Near the kitchen door, the "postman" boy had just picked up one of the confiscated cakes.
"Put that down!" Yumi, a clerk, lunged toward him.
Too slow. The boy had already taken a bite, grinning. "Relax. There's no poison. And wasting cake's a crime."
The manager turned, frowning. "How do you know it's safe?"
The boy gave her a look as if she'd asked whether water was wet. "You can tell just by looking. She didn't die from poison. She died from a disulfiram-like reaction."
The room went still.
Zhongli's voice cut in, smooth and certain. "A dangerous reaction when alcohol is mixed with certain medications. Cephalosporins… and in this case, metronidazole."
"And the red wine cake was the trigger," the boy finished, brushing crumbs off his hands. "Ayako was on metronidazole for her inflammation."
The manager's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
"Edogawa Ranpo," he said, as though that should explain everything. He pointed toward Haruka without hesitation. "And the one who set it up… is her."
Haruka froze, her tear-streaked face emptying into shock. "W—what?"
The manager started to scold, but Ranpo's tone sharpened. "You were the one who suggested moving the red wine cake from Monday to Sunday, right? I heard the clerks chatting when I came in."
"That proves nothing!" Haruka protested, voice rising. "I only thought it'd sell better—"
"And you knew Ayako's sweet tooth," Ranpo cut in. "Even with mouth inflammation, she'd taste the cake. As kitchen staff, she could sample it without anyone stopping her. Which means… if you slipped her the medication yourself, the rest was inevitable."
"That's ridiculous! I didn't even know—"
"You did," Ranpo said flatly. "Metronidazole's not something you just happen to have. Without a prescription box warning her not to mix it with alcohol… the only way she'd get it is from someone she knew."
He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Check her messages. You'll find yours. Offering her the tablets. Three loose packets, no labels. All with your fingerprints."
The silence that followed was heavier than the scent of sugar in the air.
The Yokohama police had already finished their on-site inspection by the time the last cup was cleared away. Ayako's cup had tested positive for sleeping pills.
Normally, that wouldn't have been strange — Ayako suffered from poor sleep and had a habit of taking them before bed. But taking them in the middle of work? That made no sense at all.
Following Ranpo's pointed hints, the officers dug through a mountain of kitchen waste and found a small plastic bag. Haruka's fingerprints were on it — and so were traces of the pills.
The store manager's expression twisted with conflicting emotions. Eventually, he approached young Edogawa Ranpo, exhaling slowly as though it cost him something.
"Ranpo-kun… thank you for finding the culprit. I believe you now. Throwing away those letters… it must've been out of kindness."
His voice softened into apology. "Thank you for your help… and I'm sorry."
"…Huh?" Ranpo blinked at him, clearly baffled.
Even after they'd relocated to a quiet traditional restaurant with Zhongli and the redheaded boy beside him, the young detective still wore the same perplexed expression.
Chuuya Nakahara — smaller than the man he'd one day become, but already carrying that compact, coiled energy — rested his chin in one hand, elbow on the table. "Oi. What's going on in that head of yours?"
This "older brother" figure who acted far younger than his age had been oddly silent all the way here. Chuuya had been irritated earlier when Ranpo took forever to drink his sparkling water, but now… he was genuinely worried.
Ranpo didn't answer immediately. His brows furrowed. He kept staring at the wood grain of the table as if trying to solve a puzzle only he could see. "Why…?" he muttered.
Zhongli set his teacup down with deliberate care. "You're wondering why the manager said those words."
"Yeah." Ranpo finally looked up, eyes still clouded with confusion. "It's always like this. I say something, and adults either get mad, scream, or throw me out. They never explain, never thank me… never apologize."
The hotpot on the table bubbled softly, steam curling between them.
Zhongli studied him for a moment. "Do you want to understand?"
"Ah—" Ranpo slumped over the table. "Completely—totally—can't understand."
Drooping his eyelids, his voice lowered. "You're a nice guy, right, mister? Since you're buying me dinner, just tell me. I'll answer."
Zhongli's expression didn't change. "Before I do, Ranpo… tell me. What do you think the world is like?"
Ranpo tilted his head, puzzled. "The world? Uh… I dunno. Everyone's doing weird stuff all the time? If you just say the facts, they get mad. People cheer for pointless delays. The killer's right there, but no one says anything… What's with that?"
He scratched at his head, visibly frustrated. "Adults make no sense."
Zhongli already understood the boy's situation. Ranpo's parents had seen his sharp mind but never told him directly, teaching humility by example so he wouldn't grow arrogant. Before they could finish that lesson… they were gone.
Without that guidance, Ranpo's faith in adults hardened into something fragile — the belief that "parents are always right," and therefore all adults must have their reasons. It was a shield, but also a blindfold.
"If you cover your eyes with leaves," Zhongli said evenly, "you can't see the whole forest, and you'll lose your way. It doesn't matter if the leaves were placed by others or by yourself — you'll still be walking blind."
Ranpo's breath hitched.
Did he know? Of course. Did he doubt? Always. But admitting it meant admitting adults could be wrong — and that was a thought he'd locked away.
"I don't get it," Ranpo said at last, forcing a lighter tone. "Even I can see some things. How can adults not? I guess I'll understand when I'm grown up. My dad said so!"
Zhongli smiled faintly. "Then I can't answer you."
Ranpo's head snapped up. "Huh? Hey! That's cheating! I answered your question!"
"My answer is based on your understanding of the world," Zhongli replied. "If that understanding is flawed, my words would only confuse you more. When your answer satisfies me, I'll give you mine. Fair trade."
Before Ranpo could argue, Chuuya slapped his hands together. "Oi, enough! The food's getting cold. Eat first, argue later!"
The mention of food made Ranpo's stomach growl audibly. With a reluctant grumble, he picked up his spoon and started eating.
"…Fine. But I'll get you that answer," he said between mouthfuls.
Zhongli's eyes softened. "I look forward to it."
That was the start of their strange "contest."