"Mr. Kazama... did you have a falling out with someone else?"
Conan's question hung in the air, plunging the room into a heavy, sudden silence.
The shift in Hidehiko Kazama's expression was subtle but telling. It was clear that his professional life hadn't been without friction, yet after a moment of visible hesitation, he shook his head. He offered a non-committal dismissal, making it clear he had no intention of elaborating on the subject.
"Our next stop is the painter, Mr. Kisaragi," Mitsuhiko announced as the group stepped out of Kazama's apartment. He looked toward the distant, verdant peaks.
The artist's studio was built into the mountainside—a considerable trek from where they stood.
"Gingin, we're almost there!"
Vodka spoke as he gripped the steering wheel, glancing toward the man in the passenger seat.
The Black Organization's most notorious duo was on the move again. Their objective: a certain outsourced contractor who had committed the ultimate sin—betraying the Organization.
"The moment he refused the Organization's demands, he should have made his peace with the afterlife," Gin said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He leaned back, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips as a cold, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
In their world, the first collaboration was a contract for life. To refuse a second was to volunteer for a grave.
"Exactly. I didn't think the guy would have the guts to actually hack into our internal system," Vodka added, his tone dripping with disdain.
"I'll send him on his way personally."
The black Porsche rolled to a stop. Gin drew his handgun from his coat, expertly threading a suppressor onto the barrel. After a clinical check of the magazine, he stepped out of the car.
A man in a floor-length black trench coat with silver hair cascading down his back was a jarring sight in this weather. It was warm enough that most people were in short sleeves, yet Gin looked like a specter of winter. Pedestrians who caught a glimpse of his icy aura instinctively gave him a wide berth.
With his hands shoved deep into his pockets, Gin surveyed the apartment building before him and began his ascent.
"Room 407. Yoshiaki Hara."
"Heh."
Gin didn't bother with the doorbell. Instead, he reached into his pocket and produced a key with practiced composure. The Organization's outer-echelon scouts had done their jobs well; the preliminary investigation had been thorough, even down to duplicating the target's keys.
The lock turned with a smooth, silent click.
Gin's smirk was already widening as he turned the handle, expecting to find a terrified computer engineer. Instead, the moment the door swung open, his expression froze in genuine shock.
Standing in the entryway to greet him wasn't Yoshiaki Hara. It was a figure shrouded entirely in black, looking like a silhouette cut out of the darkness itself.
"You drive too slowly."
The stranger's voice was unnervingly cold.
In the next heartbeat, the air hissed with the sound of a violent strike.
Gin's pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Acting on pure instinct, he wrenched his body to the side, tensing his arm to block the incoming kick.
CRACK!
The silver-haired assassin let out a sharp, stifled gasp of pain. The force of the blow sent him staggering back two steps, his shoulder slamming heavily against the metal railing of the apartment corridor.
"The Dark Knight..." Gin hissed the name through gritted teeth.
How was this possible? Why was this man—who usually operated in the shadows—standing here in broad daylight?
"What's the matter? Does your arm hurt?" Tsuneo asked, his voice mocking and razor-sharp.
"..."
Gin's resolve was like iron. He didn't utter a sound of complaint, even as his left arm hung limp and useless at his side. His right hand remained buried in his coat, his fingers locked around the grip of his suppressed pistol.
The situation was dire. He had lost the use of an arm in the opening exchange, and he only had Vodka waiting downstairs. He was staring death in the face.
"Mommy! Remember, you have to buy me that cake next time, okay?"
Just then, a mother and daughter stepped out from the stairwell.
They lived on the fourth floor as well. Seeing two men dressed in black facing off in the middle of the hallway, the young mother immediately pulled her daughter behind her, freezing in place, too terrified to move closer.
"What's going on out there?"
A door in a neighboring unit creaked open. A young man poked his head out, drawn by the commotion of the impact against the railing.
"Heh. Tell me... what do you plan to do next?" Gin's eyes turned murderous and provocative as he stared at the Dark Knight. Beneath the fabric of his coat, the muzzle of his hidden weapon shifted almost imperceptibly toward the mother and child by the stairs.
"You've misunderstood the situation," Tsuneo said, standing calmly with his arms crossed. He made no move to pursue the attack. "If I wanted to find you, I could walk through your front door whenever I pleased—just like I found all those little 'shrimp' scattered across Tokyo."
With the digital surveillance capabilities of Noah's Ark at his disposal, Tsuneo didn't need to set elaborate traps. He just needed to be there.
"Small fry...?"
Gin's face paled as the realization hit him. He thought back to the recent string of lower-level Organization members who had been systematically purged by the Public Security Bureau. Those "minnows" hadn't been given code names, but many possessed specialized talents that were difficult to replace.
"I'll see you around."
Without another word, Tsuneo stepped back and slammed the apartment door shut.
"Damn you..." Gin's fury burned white-hot, but with several residents now watching from their doorways, he had no choice. Clutching his injured arm, he turned and walked toward the stairs in stony silence.
He wasn't just angry; he was shaken. The Dark Knight, the man who had been a constant thorn in the Organization's side, hadn't even bothered to treat him as a threat worth finishing.
"Gingin! What happened?!" Vodka exclaimed as he saw his partner climb into the car, nursing his arm.
Had Yoshiaki Hara been prepared for them? No, that was impossible—even if he were, how could a mere engineer wound Gin?
"Drive. Now. He is here," Gin commanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of pain and cold rage.
"He?"
Vodka didn't dare ask for clarification. He slammed the car into gear and sped away from the apartment complex.
As evening fell.
Conan and the three children arrived at a private estate perched atop a steep hill. This was the residence and studio of the master painter, Hosui Kisaragi.
"Is this really okay?" Genta whispered, glancing at the elderly man who was currently hunched over a canvas, completely absorbed in his work.
They had knocked, been let in, and were promptly led to this studio, but Kisaragi seemed to be at a critical juncture in his painting and hadn't acknowledged them yet.
The studio was brilliantly lit, with thick curtains drawn tight to block out the outside world. Because of its isolated location on the hill, the room was eerily quiet.
After a few minutes of waiting, Mitsuhiko noticed the old man still hadn't turned around. He gathered his courage and spoke up. "Um, excuse us... We are the Junior Detective League, and we were hoping to ask you a few questions about Mr. Ooki..."
Because Kisaragi exuded such a stern, formidable aura, Mitsuhiko's voice trailed off into a timid squeak.
"Children shouldn't be playing at being policemen!" the old man barked, suddenly turning around and glaring at them.
"No, we...!"
The three kids recoiled, their faces contorting into masks of comedic terror.
"That said," Kisaragi continued, his sharp eyes scanning the four children sitting rigidly on his chairs, "it wouldn't be right to let you go home empty-handed. I shall give each of you a gift."
"..."
Before Conan could even get a word in edgewise, he found himself being ushered out the door, clutching a hand-drawn portrait.
Hosui Kisaragi worked with terrifying speed. In just over ten minutes, he had produced a simple sketch for each child. While they weren't polished masterpieces, the likenesses were uncanny, capturing their spirits perfectly. Each one was signed and stamped with his official seal.
"I mean, getting a drawing is pretty cool," Genta muttered as they stood outside the gate.
"But we didn't get to ask a single thing about the case," Mitsuhiko sighed, looking dejected.
"Maybe he just won't talk to anyone who isn't a real cop?" Ayumi wondered.
The trio stood by the entrance of the estate, feeling thoroughly deflated.
"That's only to be expected," Conan said, checking his watch. "Let's call it a day. It's getting dark, and I need to get you guys home."
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