Gustave and his friends spent the night at Dr. Agasa's house—after all, only a residence as spacious as his could comfortably accommodate their entire group.
After dinner, Sonoko was picked up by the family driver. As she prepared to leave, she cast one last lingering look at Tezuka, as if this parting might separate them forever.
Tezuka felt goosebumps crawl across his skin under Sonoko's intense stare. Only when she finally departed did he release the breath he'd been holding.
To his dismay, his unscrupulous teammates not only refused to help deflect her attention, but had secretly recorded the entire awkward farewell scene on their phones. They wasted no time sharing this embarrassing footage with the other Yamabuki members, causing Tezuka's carefully maintained cool image to crumble completely. He was no longer the untouchable, aloof tennis prince he'd once been.
This incident earned Sonoko the unofficial title of "Tezuka's Nemesis"—but that's a story for another time.
Shortly after Sonoko's departure, Ran also prepared to leave, gently taking Conan's hand.
Normally, Conan wouldn't think twice about this gesture, but tonight, the moment Ran's fingers closed around his, he was absolutely certain that Eiji was somewhere behind him, snickering at the sight.
"What's wrong, Conan?"
Ran noticed the subtle tension in the young detective's posture and crouched down to meet his eyes, genuine concern coloring her voice.
"Nothing's wrong, Sister Ran. Let's head home!"
Conan forced a cheerful smile, though internally he was cursing his past self. Why did I have to follow that Black Organization transaction that night? If I hadn't been so reckless, I wouldn't be stuck in this humiliating situation.
Of course, his regret was likely temporary. Even given a chance to start over, if Conan encountered the Black Organization again, he'd undoubtedly make the same choice and walk the same dangerous path.
Logically speaking, it would be unsafe for a seventeen-year-old girl to walk the nighttime streets with a "seven-year-old" child in tow. But when that seventeen-year-old happens to be Mouri Ran, safety becomes a non-issue.
The evening air was crisp as they made their way through the quieter residential streets. Streetlights cast long shadows between the buildings, and the distant hum of traffic created a peaceful urban lullaby. Conan found himself relaxing despite his earlier embarrassment—there was something comforting about these familiar walks home with Ran.
That comfort was shattered when a drunk man stumbled out from between two parked cars.
The intoxicated stranger swayed unsteadily, his unfocused eyes taking in the scene before him. When he spotted Ran's slender silhouette from behind, his alcohol-addled brain began forming entirely inappropriate thoughts.
This fool who clearly had a death wish lurched toward Ran and Conan, preparing to strike up what he no doubt considered a charming conversation.
Conan immediately stepped forward, his voice taking on a warning tone despite his childish appearance:
"Mister, I'd strongly suggest you leave right now. If you walk away, we can all pretend this never happened."
The drunk man waved him off dismissively:
"Where'd this little brat come from? Get lost! This is adult business—what gives you the right to interfere?"
Seeing that the man was determined to cause trouble, Conan calmly released Ran's hand and stepped to the side, clearing the field.
"Smart kid!" the drunkard slurred, hiccupping. "Maybe I'll give you some pocket money after I'm done here."
Having confirmed Ran's position, the drunk man prepared to make his move. Suddenly, he felt a gust of wind, and a fist the size of a small boulder appeared directly in front of his face.
"Hiccup! Where'd this fist come from?"
Even in his intoxicated state, the man's survival instincts kicked in. He grabbed the threatening fist with one hand, trying to push it away.
"Huh? You're pretty strong!"
When one hand proved insufficient, he added the second, straining with both arms against the immovable force.
Ran had initially planned to simply scare the man away, but his stubborn persistence forced her hand. The muscles in her right leg coiled like compressed springs.
"Sister Ran, please don't kill him!" Conan called out urgently.
His warning came just as Ran's lightning-fast kick connected. The drunkard was launched into the air, spinning like a ragdoll before crashing back down to the pavement, completely unconscious.
"I already gave you fair warning," Conan said, approaching the fallen man with the world-weary tone of someone far older than seven. "Who told you not to listen?"
He knelt down and checked the drunk's breathing, confirming he was still alive before standing up with a resigned sigh and shake of his head.
As the saying goes, good advice goes in one ear and out the other. This guy ignored sound counsel and now has to face the consequences.
After his philosophical moment, Conan pulled out his phone to call the police, but paused when he spotted a familiar figure in the distance.
Thanks to Gustave's influence, Conan's notorious "case magnet" aura had been largely suppressed today. Aside from the morning's armed robbery incident, no other serious crimes had occurred. This meant Officer Takagi could actually finish his shift at a reasonable hour—just after nine o'clock—instead of working overtime until dawn as usual.
He was heading home when he heard someone calling his name. Turning around, he saw Conan waving enthusiastically in his direction.
"Oh, it's Conan! What can I help you with?"
Takagi was genuinely kind-hearted, maintaining his patient demeanor even when dealing with the elementary school student that most of the Metropolitan Police Department tried to avoid. His smile was warm and genuine as he approached.
"Officer Takagi, Ran and I just ran into a drunk man," Conan explained in his practiced innocent voice, pointing toward where the unconscious figure lay. "He had bad intentions and was making trouble, so Sister Ran had to knock him out."
"What? Drunk harassment? Is Ran hurt?"
Takagi's expression immediately shifted to concern as he looked between the two of them.
Please, with Ran's fighting ability, even ten drunk guys wouldn't stand a chance, Conan thought, but naturally kept this observation to himself. Instead, he put on a slightly shaken expression:
"Sister Ran is fine—she's the school karate champion, after all. But that drunk guy really scared both of us just now."
"I see. Well, I'm glad you're both safe," Takagi said, visibly relieved. "Can you take me to see this troublemaker?"
"Of course, Officer Takagi!"
Conan led the way back to where the drunk man had fallen. Ran stood nearby, her expression dark with lingering irritation.
It wasn't really her fault—she'd been in such a good mood after the wonderful dinner, looking forward to a peaceful walk home, only to have some intoxicated stranger ruin the evening with his unwanted advances. Anyone would be upset.
"Ran, are you okay? Do you need medical attention or anything?"
"Thank you, Officer Takagi. I'm perfectly fine."
Despite her foul mood, Ran managed a polite smile when responding to the concerned officer.
After confirming that Ran was unharmed, Takagi moved to examine the unconscious drunk. The moment he crouched down, an overwhelming wave of alcohol fumes hit his nose like a physical blow.
The officer confirmed on the spot that this man had consumed a truly impressive amount of alcohol. After checking for serious injuries and finding only some bumps and bruises, he stood up and brushed off his hands.
"I'll handle things from here. You two should head home quickly—it's getting late and the streets aren't safe at this hour."
Technically, Ran and Conan should have stayed to give full statements, but since they were all acquainted, Takagi was willing to bend the rules this once.
"Thank you so much, Officer Takagi!"
After expressing their gratitude, Ran took Conan's hand again and they continued their journey home. They reached the Mouri Detective Agency within minutes, only to find exactly what they'd expected: Kogoro sprawled across his desk, dead to the world in an alcohol-induced stupor.
Ran sighed deeply. With practiced efficiency born of countless similar evenings, she hauled her father's unconscious form to his bedroom while Conan tackled the mess of empty beer cans and scattered papers left in the office.
Meanwhile, the troublesome drunk didn't wake up until noon the following day. Not only did he find himself in an unfamiliar place, but his entire body ached as if he'd been hit by a truck. When the police questioned him about the previous night's events, he claimed to have absolutely no memory of what had transpired.
The officers exchanged knowing glances—they'd seen this type of convenient "blackout" amnesia many times before, usually from troublemakers who'd received more than they'd bargained for when targeting the wrong victim.