053

You weren’t even supposed to be out this far.

A break was a break.

No paperwork. No bodies. No Dazai. No playing with a hissing kitten. No getting stabbed in the ribs because some underling misunderstood an order.

You'd made it very clear you were going to spend this day alone.

So naturally, you wandered aimlessly into Yokohama’s heart, wearing a faded coat and sunglasses like some absurd parody of normalcy.

You even had a half melted matcha ice cream cone in hand, quietly licking at it like some lazy tourist instead of a Port Mafia executive.

That was the plan, at least.

But then you saw the crowd.

Yellow police tape, a parked patrol car, and several uniformed officers huddled around a quiet alley tucked between an abandoned bookstore and a smoking ramen cart.

You wouldn't have paid it any mind, but your eyes snagged on a figure standing slightly apart from the mess, tall and straight backed, dressed in muted colors that still managed to feel precise.

Your footsteps stopped. The tip of your ice cream tapped your lips.

“Samurai-san?” you murmured.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up.

You emerged silently beside him. He didn’t turn.

“Three stab wounds, sir,” one officer was saying to the man you now stood beside.

“Chest cavity punctured, but there are signs of postmortem bruising. Found him like this this morning. Locals say they heard a commotion around midnight, but no one saw anything. We suspect organized activity. Possibly a mafia hit?”

You tilted your head and spoke.

“Is that so.”

Several heads turned.

The officer nearest to you blinked rapidly. “Er, who—?”

Fukuzawa turned slowly.

His expression didn’t change. But his eyes narrowed.

Recognition. Wariness. But not alarm.

“L/—” he began.

“Shh.” You raised your free hand, waving vaguely toward the policemen. “Don’t go throwing names around. I’m on break. No trouble today.”

You leaned slightly toward him, your head tilted, the half finished ice cream still balanced delicately in your fingers.

“Besides, samurai-san. What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be guarding rich people or something?”

The corner of Fukuzawa’s mouth twitched.

Before he could reply, another voice cut in.

“He’s not a bodyguard. He’s my partner.”

You turned.

A short young man stood behind you. Pale, closed eyes, messy dark hair beneath an oddly formal cap, and a cloak that looked far too heavy for the weather.

He was eating a lollipop, watching you with the blank, intense gaze of someone already solving equations behind the surface.

“You know each other?” he asked Fukuzawa.

“We’ve crossed paths before,” Fukuzawa replied evenly.

You smiled. “A long time ago. I don’t remember his name.”

Fukuzawa gave you a dry glance. You licked your ice cream again and didn’t elaborate.

The boy turned back to the scene, hands buried in his pockets. “You’re interested in solving crimes?”

“Not usually.” You tilted your head. “But I do enjoy watching competent people at work. It’s rare.”

He snorted. “Of course it is.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll stay a bit,” you said lightly, flicking your gaze to Fukuzawa. “If that’s alright. Samurai-san doesn’t seem to mind.”

Fukuzawa didn’t confirm or deny. That was close enough to permission.

The alley was quiet, cordoned off. The body was still in place, a man in his forties maybe, dressed in a wrinkled white shirt, no shoes.

His fingers were bent at awkward angles. His face was slack, eyes staring upward toward the rusting fire escape.

A wallet lay beside him, open. No cash. ID intact.

You blinked at the scene and frowned.

“Mafia, really?” you murmured.

The officer glanced at you.

“Excuse me?”

You gestured vaguely with your ice cream cone. “This isn’t a mafia kill. Too messy. Too public. The timing’s wrong, the location is wrong, and this guy? Not important enough.”

The officer blinked. “How would you know that?”

“I read the news,” you said blandly.

Fukuzawa gave you a long, unreadable look. You ignored it.

“He’s right,” said the boy who looks too young to be here.

All eyes turned.

He stepped forward, peeling the lollipop from his mouth with a soft pop.

“I can see it clearly now,” he murmured, eyes narrowing.

He wore his glasses.

“You see, when I activate my ability—Ultra Deduction—the truth becomes clear.”

A dramatic silence.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

A low whisper. “What is he doing?”

“Ignore it,” Fukuzawa muttered, gaze still forward.

But you were watching the boy. He moved like someone possessed, striding back and forth with deliberate steps, eyes darting to each corner of the alley.

“The victim wasn’t killed here,” he declared. “No blood spatter on the wall. No signs of struggle. Look—the dirt on the shoes, uneven. The soles are worn differently. Someone carried him and dumped him here. See that scuff on the brick? From a shoulder bump. And that bent metal wire on the dumpster? Used to drag the body. You can still see the line on the concrete if you squint.”

He pointed next to the body.

“No defensive wounds. He knew his killer. The bruises came postmortem, but they’re too specific. Look at the pattern. Two knuckles, same shape, repeated force. Someone was venting. Not erasing evidence.”

You stared.

“This wasn’t an execution,” the boy continued. “It was personal. Jealousy. Resentment. Look in the wallet again. The ID says he works at an antique store. Check the address.”

An officer pulled the ID, examined it, then nodded slowly.

“It’s close by. Three blocks.”

“Good,” said the boy. “Now—check the police record. Two weeks ago, that store was fined for false insurance claims. Dig deeper. The manager’s wife—her brother used to work at the same shop. Fired last month. You’ll find a history of arguments. The brother came back last night, tried to get money. It turned into a fight.”

He snapped his fingers.

“That’s your killer.”

Silence.

Then the officer muttered, “We’ll check that out.”

You glanced slowly toward Fukuzawa. Leaned in.

“He doesn’t have an ability,” you said. “Right?”

Fukuzawa didn't answer.

You narrowed your eyes.

Then, slowly, you smiled. A quiet, foxlike curve.

Interesting.

You turned back toward the boy, who now stood with one hand on his hip, soaking in the stunned expressions around him.

“So dramatic,” you murmured.

He glanced at you. Furrowed his brows.

“So,” he started. “Who are you?”

“Just a bystander,” you said, licking your now nearly melted ice cream. “Curious one, though.”

He squinted. “You feel weird.”

You tilted your head. “That so?”

“Your vibe.” He waved his fingers vaguely. “It’s off. I can't read you. And you don’t feel like a civilian.”

You laughed. “I wasn’t aware civilians had a specific feel.”

“Yours is wrong.”

He stepped closer.

Fukuzawa cut in gently. “He’s harmless.”

The boy glanced back. Hesitated.

Then grumbled. “Fine. I guess. If you say so.”

You blinked. Surprised that Fukuzawa intervened.

You looked to the boy who looked like he'd just been scolded harshly by his parent.

“You going to introduce yourself?” you asked.

He looked at you suspiciously. Then finally muttered, “Edogawa Ranpo. The greatest detective in the world.”

You blinked. Then smiled again.

“Cute.”

Ranpo scowled. “Don’t patronize me. I just solved a murder in under five seconds.”

“I believe you,” you said, flicking the last of your cone into a nearby trash bin. “It was beautiful. Theatrics and all.”

Ranpo blinked at you.

"It wasn't theatrics," he said flatly.

You tilted your head, a smile curling lazily across your lips. "Mm? The dramatic pacing, the finger snap, the little strut—what would you call it, then?"

"Truth." He popped the lollipop back in his mouth with a soft click of his teeth. "I just told the truth."

Your smile didn't waver. If anything, it deepened.

So serious.

So sure of himself.

So young—clearly younger than you, with those flushed cheeks and candy breath. And yet he spoke like an authority, with all the arrogance of someone used to being right.

Interesting.