"Is that so?"
"Yeah, I feel like this Onisan suits you better."
"By the way," Eri suddenly cut in, "have you two exchanged phone numbers yet?"
"Not yet," Ran replied, then immediately took out her phone with a cheerful smile. "Onisan, let's exchange numbers."
"Sure. My number is—"
Under Eri's smiling gaze, the two exchanged contacts quickly and naturally.
Conan, sipping from his drink, could only sulk in silence, biting down on his straw in frustration.
"Oh, right. Let's go out for dinner tonight," Eri suggested.
"But I already prepped the ingredients for curry rice at home… I still have to cook for Dad."
"Forget about that sloppy man. It's settled. I'll go ahead and book a place—"
"Let's wait for next time, Mom!" Ran suddenly protested, voice playful.
Eri looked ready to insist, but Eitan interjected gently, "Sorry, Auntie Eri. I have an appointment later, so I might need to leave early."
"…Even you, Eitan… Alright then, next time."
"There's a restaurant I've been meaning to try," Ran said, taking her mom's hand. "Can we go there next time?"
"Which one?" Eri asked with interest.
Ran began describing it enthusiastically, her face bright.
Watching the scene unfold, Eitan couldn't help but smile.
Ran probably only acted this way around Eri. After all, she was the one managing everything at home—taking care of Kogoro and Conan, handling the cooking and chores, all while juggling school life.
Only in front of Eri could the sixteen-year-old let herself be a bit spoiled.
As for Conan?
At that moment, he was still glaring at Eitan from across the table, trying to figure out if he had feelings for Ran.
"What is it? Want my cake?" Eitan asked, noticing his stare. He pushed his untouched slice toward him—he wasn't really in the mood for sweets tonight.
9:17 PM that night.
Eitan arrived at the familiar training facility right on time. As he approached, a sleek black car parked out front blinked its high beams.
He walked up to it, spotting Gin through the half-lowered window, his expression cold and unreadable. Those sharp green eyes flicked toward him.
"Get in."
Eitan opened the back door and slid inside.
It wasn't Gin's usual Porsche 356A—this was a four-seater sedan.
"You changed cars?" Eitan asked casually.
"…Big Brother's car's in the shop," Vodka answered from the driver's seat, surprisingly straightforward.
Gin sat silently, cigarette in hand, not reacting.
"So, why did you call me out here?"
"Are you really planning to become a Detective?" Gin asked, locking eyes with Eitan through the rearview mirror.
"I am. I've given it serious thought."
"Heh…"
Gin let out a low chuckle, clearly amused—or perhaps intrigued. But he said nothing more, simply gesturing for Vodka to drive.
Without a word, Vodka started the engine and pulled into traffic.
The streetlights passed by in rhythmic flashes as they drove through the city. It was the first time Eitan had been driven by Vodka, and to his surprise, the man's driving was smooth and steady.
Still, something was bothering him.
From the driver's seat, Vodka kept glancing at the rearview mirror. When he noticed Eitan staring at him, his grip on the wheel tightened.
"…Why are you staring at me?"
His voice was tense—unsteady.
Eitan's reputation had grown to the point where even Vodka, someone not easily shaken, felt uneasy.
He remembered Gin once saying Eitan's observation skills were terrifying. The man could analyze things others couldn't even see.
So why's he analyzing my driving!?
Gin's eyes flicked up.
"Mr. Vodka… your sunglasses are completely opaque, right? I was just wondering if you could actually see the road."
"…I can see just fine. I won't crash."
"Good."
Vodka exhaled silently, relieved when Eitan looked away.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
Gin didn't mention why he had called Eitan, and Eitan didn't press. He kept an eye on his surroundings, then quietly pulled out a notebook and pen.
"…What are you doing?" Gin asked.
"Writing. Want to see?"
"Boring."
Gin scoffed, uninterested.
He had always looked down on mystery novels and detective dramas. To him, all those convoluted murder methods were a joke—why complicate things when a bullet solves everything?
Unbothered, Eitan kept writing, his pen moving steadily as city lights danced across the car windows.
—
"This direction… we're not heading to the same aquarium from last time, are we?"
"Yes," Vodka replied cooperatively.
Eitan narrowed his eyes slightly, a gentle smile curling on his lips. "So, it's another rat-hunting trip?"
"You catch on fast," Gin said noncommittally.
"Well, that place is remote, and there's hardly anyone around at night," Eitan continued, still smiling. "Not many places in Beika are as suitable for executions."
The word "executions" seemed to strike a chord with Gin. Eitan noticed the corners of his mouth twitch upward in a cold, sinister smile.
Bingo.
Eitan had already guessed the destination.
With Gin's personality, he wouldn't bother lying about things like this.
From now, it would take roughly thirty minutes to reach the aquarium. That meant the "target" would likely appear around 10:00 PM.
Eitan mentally reviewed the names and profiles of criminals active in that area, recalling information he had seen on the Organization's internal site.
It didn't take long to lock onto one.
He flipped open his notebook—the one with concealed pages from the death note—and began writing.
Tsukida Taku
Starting at 9:46 PM on April 13th, he will rob pedestrians on a motorcycle near the Beika City Aquarium.
In his first two attempts, he successfully steals 23,601 yen in cash.
At 10:09 PM, after forcing a new vehicle to stop, he will be shot in the forehead by the passenger with a handgun while attempting to extort money, and immediately afterward stabbed in the neck with a knife—resulting in death.
After writing it out, Eitan reviewed the entry.
The death note could function like a script, in a way.
This test served three purposes.
First, the oddly specific robbery amount: 23,601 yen. If the theft really resulted in this exact sum, then the death note could be seen not just as predictive—but causative.
Second, the "vehicle" and the "passenger with the gun." Eitan hadn't specified it had to be this car, but among all nearby vehicles capable of fulfilling those criteria, the one Vodka was driving seemed the most likely.
And third: Gin's behavior. He usually killed swiftly with a gun—cold, clean, and efficient. Eitan wanted to see if the death note could push him to do something uncharacteristic, like stabbing the corpse afterward.
As expected, under Vodka's steady hands, the car pulled up near the Beika Aquarium around 10:00 PM.
Same place as before—the alley next to the entrance.
The closer they got, the tenser Vodka became. His eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, darted between neon signs and dim streetlights. The road ahead felt unnaturally quiet.
"Hurry up," Gin said flatly.
Vodka pressed the accelerator lightly, bringing the car to a stop at the alleyway, where a man was waiting under the streetlamp.
The window slid down.
As the man stepped forward, preparing to speak, a black handgun appeared from the shadows inside the car.
Bang.
The bullet drilled through his forehead. Blood sprayed as he collapsed onto the pavement.
The sound of the body hitting the ground echoed faintly in the silence.
---
The killing was done—but the job wasn't over.
Almost immediately, Vodka unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out. He moved efficiently to the corpse, crouching beside it and rifling through the pockets.
When he pulled out a phone and saw the screen still active, a grin spread across his face.
"Got the phone, Big Bro."
"Let's move," Gin said coldly.
Vodka returned to the car, slipped behind the wheel, and drove off.
But only a few blocks later, he stopped again—this time at a narrow alley.
Turning slightly, he looked over his shoulder at Eitan. "Pass me that bag in the back, please."
His tone was unexpectedly polite.
Eitan recalled how Vodka had once scoffed at him during their first meeting. He handed the briefcase over casually, smiling faintly.
Inside was a portable laptop.
Vodka connected the recovered phone to it using a data cable and immediately got to work.
Lines of green code spilled across the screen like a digital waterfall, reflected in his opaque sunglasses.
After a few minutes:
"Big Bro, I've got it. This guy wiped a lot of chat history and messages."
"Recover them."
"Already on it."
Eitan, watching from the back seat, was quietly impressed.
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