Go back to the Hahn family! Go find Hahn Cliff!!
The thought instantly flashed through Yusaku Kudo's brilliant mind.
In the face of this bizarre, physically impossible situation—a literal time loop or precognitive vision—Yusaku's uniquely keen senses detected a massive, approaching crisis. He didn't know exactly what that crisis was yet. Perhaps it was the bandaged man in the trench coat. Perhaps an entire syndicate was lying in wait for him. Or perhaps it was something else entirely... something supernatural.
But he absolutely couldn't take the risk of remaining in Los Angeles with the artifact.
Even though the bizarre events had caused him to briefly lose his composure, Yusaku was, after all, a master detective who had seen the darkest sides of humanity. He forcibly suppressed the shock and burning curiosity in his heart.
He immediately floored the accelerator of his rental car, ready to escape this place of danger and drive straight back to the coastal town.
However, what followed over the next twenty minutes made Yusaku's face grow increasingly grim.
First, a little girl chasing a stray ball unexpectedly ran into the street, blocking his way and forcing him to slam on the brakes.
Then, a massive "Road Construction" sign and a detour barrier abruptly appeared in front of his fastest route out of the city.
Finally, a patrol car pulled him over for a random, extended traffic check, forcing him to idle on the shoulder of the highway.
It was as if, just as he vaguely realized the danger, a pair of silent, giant hands were reaching down from the sky, physically dragging him backward to keep him in the city.
Was it a coincidence? It shouldn't be... There's no such thing as a statistical cluster of accidents like this...
At this moment, even the great, unflappable detective Yusaku Kudo couldn't help but feel tense. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead.
He could clearly recognize that those "accidents" blocking his way were genuine, mundane accidents. The little girl was real; the construction crew was actually pouring asphalt; the traffic cop was just bored. They weren't actors deliberately obstructing his path.
But it was precisely the authenticity of these "accidents" that made him even more deeply uneasy. It meant reality itself was bending to stop him.
He sat in the car with a grim expression, waiting for the traffic police to finish checking his license and registration.
However, his peripheral vision swept over the human-skin book sitting innocently on the passenger seat.
Is it related to the book...? Is this what the bandaged man was demanding?
At this moment, in Yusaku's eyes, this ordinary-looking book—with only the slightly strange, leathery cover—seemed to exude a suffocating, eerie aura.
No. It is best not to scare myself with superstition. Calm down! I have to think logically...
"Hahn..." The surname belonging to his client involuntarily slipped from his lips.
Then, Yusaku silently pulled out his secure satellite phone. "Old buddy, I need your help pulling some classified records..."
The Coastal Town
Hahn Cliff hated his surname.
His father, who had run away from home a decade ago, had always been immensely proud of it. Cliff couldn't even remember exactly what his father looked like anymore, but he clearly remembered his father's arrogant, chest-thumping voice.
"Little Hahn, my son, remember our surname! You'll be proud of it someday when the Lord returns!"
Bullshit! Cliff spat inwardly, walking down the dirt road toward town.
In this impoverished coastal town, because of a certain loudmouthed local bastard, nicknames like "Bastard Hahn," "Orphan Hahn," and "Cinderella Hahn" followed Cliff everywhere.
Some outsiders might say, "Cinderella Hahn sounds alright, doesn't it?" But that's just an incomplete translation. Cinderella comes from the French Cendrillon, which is a combination of cendre (ashes/dirt) and *souillon* (scullion/slob). In the crude slang of the docks, the literal translation the locals used was—"Dirty-Ass Hahn."
That was the most vicious insult that local bastard had hurled at him. But Cliff knew his own ass wasn't dirty. He worked hard and honestly. It was that bastard who was dirty.
Looking at the sky, his younger siblings probably weren't coming back for the weekend. Boarding at their out-of-town school was fine; they wouldn't have to suffer the stigma with him in this dying town.
He dusted off his stained work clothes. Perfect. With that famous city detective's help, his father should finally be found. Buying some cheap liquor to celebrate beforehand wouldn't be a bad idea.
Passing a small, rundown tavern, Cliff paused. The town's taverns weren't luxurious; they were cheap entertainment venues for roughnecks and fishermen. Cliff didn't intend to stop, but the vulgarities flowing from inside drifted out the open door.
"Hey! Has that bastard Hahn found his crazy daddy yet?"
"Shut up! And get off the table, you slut!"
The word slut echoed loudly. He was clearly a man, the very same bastard who had coined Cliff's nickname. But everyone in the tavern knew he was a slut. Because he was the true "dirty ass" of the town. The poor, lonely men working the docks would have slept with him once or twice when the liquor flowed too freely. It wasn't something they laughed about openly. Because there were even worse "whores" serving time in the local prison.
"Listen to me! I'll bet!" the skinny man yelled, standing on a sticky wooden table and raising his glass high, completely ignoring a burly, bearded man pinching his rear. "I bet that bastard Hahn can only find himself a new father in the city!"
The harlot slapped the burly man's hand away and lined up empty shot glasses.
"You don't have money to gamble, you slut," someone jeered.
"Then we'll bet on who I'll be sleeping with tomorrow night!" the skinny man shrieked with laughter.
Cliff finally couldn't resist the disrespect. He rushed into the smoky tavern, fists flying, intending to beat the harlot to a pulp.
He lost.
Because the pub was full of the harlot's roughneck lovers.
So when Cliff was finally thrown out into the dirt street with a bruised and swollen face, it was already five or six in the afternoon.
"Hey!" After walking a safe distance away, Cliff spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm toward the pub doors, then continued on his way to buy a drink, cursing under his breath. He never bought his own liquor at that pub anyway; he had to go to the more distant commercial street.
Yes. This impoverished town also had a main commercial street, a favorite hangout place for the local young people. There were all sorts of cheap shops, dive bars, and a faded amusement arcade. There was even a newly opened, quite popular fortune-telling booth on the corner.
A fake fortune-telling shop, Cliff commented internally.
Given his family's history of religious fanaticism destroying their lives, Cliff never believed in so-called religions or these kinds of mystical swindlers.
The commercial street was crowded with evening foot traffic. All sorts of noises filled the air.
He lightly tapped the side of his head. Perhaps he'd been beaten a little too badly in the tavern; his mind was foggy, and he was experiencing a slight ringing tinnitus. The ambient noise of the street was perfectly clear, yet strangely, he couldn't make out what the people around him were actually saying. The voices sounded muffled and distant.
He forced himself to walk past the fortune-telling booth, not even glancing at the old woman in a heavy robe sitting behind the small folding table.
"...You threw it away?"
What? Cliff was very sensitive to sound at this moment due to the ringing in his ears. He stopped, frowned, and turned to look at the old woman.
"You threw it away," she repeated softly, her voice raspy.
Throw what away? Cliff was even more confused, but he felt that this old woman's cold-reading trickery was quite bold, daring to try it on a bruised, angry man like him.
"You made a big mistake, Son of Hahn. You shouldn't have thrown it away."
Son of Hahn. Those specific words infuriated Cliff, reminding him of his father's fanaticism. But as the old woman looked up, he saw she was a kind-looking, wrinkled old lady. Cliff wasn't about to get angry with a frail woman who seemed to be offering a bizarre, well-intentioned warning.
"Don't waste your parlor tricks on me," Cliff grumbled. "The whole town knows my name is Hahn Cliff. I don't have money for a reading."
"Yes, Son of Hahn. I didn't mean to offend you," the old woman said, her cloudy eyes fixing on his. "But you shouldn't have thrown it away."
"Threw what away!?" Cliff snapped, his patience wearing thin.
"That book."
The book? The one his father left behind in the floorboards? The one he had just given to the detective?
"...How do you know about that?" Cliff demanded, stepping closer to the table. "And what else do you know about my father?"
"What?"
Cliff's vision blurred violently for a fraction of a second. The ringing in his ears spiked painfully.
When his vision cleared, the frail, kind old woman sitting at the table had suddenly transformed into an angry, middle-aged woman wearing heavy makeup.
"What the hell are you talking to yourself about!?" the middle-aged woman snapped, glaring at his bruised face. "If you don't want to patronize my little shop, then get lost, you creep!"
In an instant, Cliff's eyes widened in absolute shock…
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