The trio remained momentarily paralyzed, their gazes anchored to the barrier before them.
"We have arrived," Sonoko announced.
She then rapped upon the wood—three rhythmic, deliberate strikes. After a beat of silence yielded no acknowledgment, she applied a gentle pressure, easing the door open.
Ran and Conan watched with bated breath as the portal yielded. As the door swung on its hinges, an entirely alien landscape manifested before their eyes.
In an instant, they were transported into a world smothered in alabaster… a perpetual, living winter.
Sonoko crossed the threshold into the chamber, with Ran and Conan following in her wake. The moment they stepped inside, the essence of the frost season enveloped them with visceral intensity. Flurry after flurry of snowflakes descended from the heights, saturating the air as if they had been shrunk and placed inside a crystalline snow globe. The very walls seemed to pulsate with a frigid, atmospheric rhythm.
They craned their necks, tracking the trajectory of the falling ice toward the vaulted ceiling. There, they beheld a celestial host—angels draped in robes that mimicked the texture of fresh powder, their forms radiating a serene, ethereal grace. Their tresses were a shock of immaculate white, bleeding seamlessly into the monochromatic environment, while their expansive, feathered wings were unfurled in a state of permanent flight. Each celestial entity cradled a translucent vase, and from these vessels, a steady, delicate cascade of snowflakes tumbled toward the floor.
These snow-bound seraphs dispersed the wintry bounty into every crevice of the room, allowing the flakes to dance and settle in a soft, soundless mantle.
Sonoko's three knocks had been met with silence. As she anticipated, the lack of a response signaled one of two states—either Little Leon had succumbed to slumber, or he was currently submerged in the depths of his creative process.
With a fluid motion, Sonoko moved deeper into the room. As before, her intuition guided her toward the crystal desk where Little Leon was known to draft his sketches. Her hypothesis was confirmed; he was there.
Little Leon was positioned on the floor, resting back on his heels in a meditative state. An unoccupied chair stood to his right, a solitary mug resting nearby.
Ran and Conan were initially captivated by the panoramic beauty of the artificial winter, but their focus soon pivoted. Their eyes locked onto the diminutive figure ensconced in the center of the room. They noted his hair—a startling match for the angels above, a waterfall of snow-white silk that cascaded down his back, terminating at his waist.
It was, unmistakably, Leon-kun.
His tranquil presence within this frozen sanctuary gave the eerie impression that the room had evolved into his natural habitat, as if he were a creature birthed from this serene, glacial world.
"Oh… it is Leon-kun? Did he truly not perceive the knocking?" Ran inquired of Sonoko, her hand hovering nervously near her shoulder.
"He becomes utterly severed from the external world when he descends into the depths of his focus," Sonoko clarified.
"Hyper-fixation?" Conan whispered, bracing his chin with his thumb and forefinger.
The pair watched as Sonoko approached the seated boy, trailing behind her. Their concentration was so fixated on Leon's back that they remained oblivious to the gallery of canvases adorning the wall adjacent to the door.
Sonoko gently rested her palm atop Leon's ivory hair, offering a tender caress. "Little Leon, I have returned."
The contact served as a catalyst, shattering his concentration. He rotated slowly, tilting his head upward to meet his sister's gaze. A soft recognition filled his features as he replied, "Welcome home, Nee-san."
Leon rose from his seated position. As he completed his turn, his sapphire- and emerald-hued eyes—shimmering with a heterochromatic brilliance—settled upon the two newcomers: a young woman and a small boy.
He inclined his head in a courtly, deferential bow. "It is a pleasure to encounter you once more, Mori Ran-sama and Conan Edogawa-sama."
Ran and Conan recoiled slightly at the greeting, delivered in fluent English save for the prestigious honorific. "S-sama?!" they stammered in unison, their pupils dilating as they processed the profound level of respect the child had afforded them.
They stared at Leon, who maintained his formal posture, and both swallowed hard before reciprocating the salutation.
Ran spoke first, her voice gentle. "Please, dispense with the 'sama,' Leon-kun. You may simply address me as Ran," she urged, locking eyes with him. Leon nodded in silent compliance.
She continued to study him with a sense of wonder—those eyes with their unmatched, bifurcated colors, and the startling, porcelain pallor of his skin and hair.
"Indeed, Ran-neechan is correct. You can forgo the formalities. I am just Conan," Conan added, offering a firm nod. He scrutinized the boy with clinical intensity, and Leon acknowledged him with a matching tilt of the head.
Sonoko then clapped her hands, the sharp sound echoing through the room to reclaim their attention. Once the three were focused on her, she spoke. "Cast your eyes behind you—near the entrance. You will see precisely what I was referring to. Isn't that right, Little Leon?" she added, crouching to his level. She deftly scooped him up, wrapping her arms around his legs.
Leon instinctively twined his arms around Sonoko's neck as she hoisted him into a secure embrace and stood upright.
Ran and Conan swiveled toward the entryway. On the expanse of the wall flanking the door, they discovered a vast, dense congregation of paintings.
"BAGA… NÀ…!" Ran and Conan cried out in a state of absolute shock, their voices merging as they beheld a sight that defied the laws of reality—an assembly that had no business existing within a private residence. It was a compendium of the world's most illustrious masterpieces, treasures that were strictly the province of global museums.
Ran's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp of pure astonishment. Conan's intellect, meanwhile, went into overdrive, his mental faculties racing to categorize and verify the works before him. Yet, the more they scrutinized the wall, the more the situation spiraled beyond their comprehension. The reality confronted them with a paradox that left them reeling.
For there, casually hung along the wall, were The Frieze of Life, Anxiety, and The Scream. Beside them hung Las Meninas, the massive Night Watch, Girl with a Pearl Earring, and The Birth of Venus. Interspersed among them were The Creation of Adam, Starry Night, and a litany of other legendary canvases.
The collection was displayed with an almost reckless nonchalance. Even to their non-expert eyes, the aura of the paintings was undeniable—they were indistinguishable from the originals, every brushstroke, every shadow, and every minute texture replicated with a fidelity that felt dangerously authentic.
AM N. NOT.(っ－＿－)っ♤♤DRAFT♤♤