Their focus remained tethered to the new kid, watching as he meticulously marshaled his belongings. His gestures were deliberate, bordering on torpid—particularly as he handled his ebony flask, sequestering it with profound care.
Then Genta broke the silence.
"Hey, Suzuki-san… do you want to head home with us?"
"Hold on, Genta-kun," Mitsuhiko interjected, "we are entirely ignorant of where Suzuki-san resides."
"You're right…" Genta conceded, massaging his scalp.
He pivoted back toward the figure in black.
"So, where is your home, Suzuki-san?"
The others waited, their eyes anchored upon him.
Then they heard that same gravelly, brittle phonation once more.
"Hm… Beika Ward…."
"What—you're also a resident of Beika Ward?" the quartet exclaimed in a sudden outburst.
The new kid offered a minuscule nod.
He ascended from his seat, slinging his satchel over his right shoulder. In his right hand, he maintained a firm grip upon the black flask.
"Excellent… then let's trek home together!" Genta bellowed with infectious zeal.
"The more companions, the greater the mirth," Mitsuhiko added, nodding in consensus.
"Very well, let's depart," Ayumi said, her lips curving into a smile.
The boy with the glasses, however, descended into profound contemplation once again.
Beika Ward.
He began to dissect the information. Judging solely by the youth's patronymic, he had already formulated a deduction. It seemed his previous conjecture—that this newcomer might be affiliated with those two phantoms in black—had been a fallacy.
He had been scrutinizing him with surgical precision since his arrival.
The way he locomoted… sluggish, intentional.
The way he was attired… entirely insulated in black.
And when he had briefly lowered his shroud—revealing that ghastly, anemic skin.
Piece by piece, the four-eyed boy had already synthesized the truth. With the intellect of a mature man incarcerated within a child's frame, the logic manifested as effortlessly as basic arithmetic.
Because he was no ordinary juvenile.
He was Shinichi Kudo—the celebrated high school detective who had been force-fed a toxin by two men in black, his anatomy violently regressed into that of a primary student.
Now, existing under the pseudonym Conan Edogawa, he navigated this surreal existence with a genius-level intellect camouflaged beneath a puerile façade.
Conan exhaled a soft, weary breath.
His vigilance ebbed, if only by a fraction.
He felt a twinge of internal conflict.
Only yesterday, there had been a detonation incident aboard a train. He had suspected the two men in black responsible were the same predators who had poisoned him. And now… he had gone so far as to suspect this boy—merely due to his funereal wardrobe.
"Compose yourself…" he whispered under his breath.
One by one, they rose from their chairs.
Genta spearheaded the group, marching forward with his customary vigor. Ayumi and Conan followed in his wake, while Mitsuhiko walked alongside the newcomer, synchronizing his stride.
The boy in black moved with agonizing slowness.
So lethargic was his pace that the rest of them were compelled to recalibrate, softening their steps to remain in his company.
After a moment, Mitsuhiko inquired.
"I've been yearning to ask… but why the gloves and the face mask? Are you… perhaps infirm, Suzuki-san?"
"Yes, I was ruminating on that as well," Ayumi added, her inquisitiveness palpable as she peered at him.
"Maybe he harbors a dread of the sun," Genta suggested, scratching his head, visibly stumped.
Ayumi and Mitsuhiko erupted into spontaneous laughter at the preposterous notion.
"Hahah, why would any soul be terrified of the sun?" Mitsuhiko managed between chuckles.
Then Conan's voice cut through, steady and authoritative.
"Actually, Genta is correct. Suzuki-san truly does have a reason to avoid the sun—or more precisely, he possesses an extreme sensitivity to solar radiation."
All three immediately pivoted their focus toward him. Conan casually reclined his hands behind his head as he spoke, his expression a mask of composure.
"Ha… how is such a thing feasible? Fearing the sun?" Ayumi asked, baffled.
"Sō da, Ayumi is right," Mitsuhiko added, nodding.
Genta merely tilted his head, his cognitive gears grinding.
Conan offered a fleeting, knowing smile.
"Because Suzuki-san is a rare case of albinism."
"A-albinism?" the three children echoed in a confused chorus.
"What is that?" Ayumi queried.
"Is it some kind of exotic confection?" Genta added, his face a map of bewilderment.
"Wait a moment…" Mitsuhiko suddenly spoke, as if a lightning bolt of realization had struck. "If I recall correctly, albinism is a condition where someone possesses extremely pale, nearly snowy skin, right?"
"Precisely," Conan continued. "Suzuki-san dons black garments to insulate his skin from ultraviolet rays. Earlier, when he dislodged his mask, you witnessed his cadaverous skin—that is because his biology suffers a biochemical incapacity to synthesize melanin, the natural pigment that provides skin with its hue. That is why his dermis appears so spectral."
He paused momentarily before elaborating.
"Dark textiles absorb more thermal energy and are significantly more efficient at intercepting deleterious ultraviolet (UV) rays. That is why he is cloaked in black—for self-preservation. And that is also why Kobayashi-sensei permitted him to retain his cap during the lesson."
The children stared at Conan in sheer awe, visibly moved by his deduction born of pure observation.
Then their scrutiny shifted back to Suzuki.
He remained mute, simply absorbing their dialogue without contributing.
Genta spoke up again.
"Hey, Suzuki-kun, is Conan speaking the truth?"
They all hung on his potential response.
Slowly, Suzuki offered a faint, affirmative nod.
"So that is the reason…" Ayumi remarked softly.
"But wouldn't it be profoundly melancholy… being unable to frolic in the sunlight?" Genta said, clenching his fist as he projected himself into Suzuki's plight.
"True… but it would be far more catastrophic if Suzuki-san were compromised by UV exposure," Mitsuhiko added solemnly.
"Then… does that not imply it is perilous for him to commute home every day?" Ayumi asked.
The group nodded in silent accord.
It truly was a hazardous endeavor.
They were ignorant of the specific consequences should Suzuki remain exposed to the sun, but they grasped the necessity of precautions—after all, they had invited him into their circle.
Then, once more, they heard Suzuki's voice—reedy and debilitated.
"D-Daijoubu… I possess my parasol here."
His Japanese remained fractured and stumbling, his enunciation unpolished, but they could at least decipher the opening word with clarity.
The remainder was somewhat obscured—but the intent, at the very least, was partially comprehended.
The quintet watched as Suzuki unzipped his bag and meticulously extracted a collapsing umbrella. It was crafted from a profound, untainted black fabric—utterly dark, devouring light rather than reflecting it.
With a soft engagement of the mechanism on the handle, the umbrella deployed in one fluid snap.
He elevated it, employing it to shroud himself from the brilliance, sheltering his upper body beneath its canopy.
Mitsuhiko cocked his head. "Suzuki-san, is that truly sufficient? Will that umbrella actually shield you from UV radiation?"
Before Suzuki could retort, Conan intervened.
"That is no commonplace umbrella," Conan said placidly. "It is a specialized UV parasol. Judging by its construction, it is engineered specifically to obstruct ultraviolet wavelengths."
He adjusted the bridge of his spectacles, persisting with his analysis.
"Furthermore, it is already past 4:00 PM. The sun has moved beyond its peak intensity, so he should remain uncompromised."
"Oh, truly? Then all is well!" Genta exclaimed, guffawing in relief.
AM N. NOT.(っ－＿－)っ♤♤DRAFT♤♤