Conan pressed his fingers against his scalp, as if trying to physically contain the torrent of his deductions. It was a phenomenon he had never encountered in his tenure as a detective. The only logical harbor was that Leon possessed a form of precognition—but even that conclusion felt hollow, an intellectual surrender. Because how could he identify the motive as inheritance when Mrs. Minagawa had harbored that secret in the deepest recesses of her soul?
Meanwhile, Ran's voice broke the silence, laden with uncertainty. "D-did Leon truly utter those words?"
Sonoko offered a solemn nod. "And that was not the extent of it… Leon also spoke of a father's enterprise on the precipice of ruin… of a desperate hunger for capital… and of a mother's distorted desire to preserve her domicile and her son's prosperity… I initially dismissed it as another of his cryptic verses, b-but upon reflection… it aligns perfectly with this tragedy…"
She swallowed with difficulty, her throat constricting.
"And… Leon even specified that a homicide would transpire… facilitated by poison… p-precisely as it occurred…"
Sonoko's vocalization trembled as she spoke. It was not merely her—every soul within earshot felt a frigid touch of unease. And the individual most profoundly destabilized was Conan. His eyes dilated, as though he were staring into an impossible void.
"…T-that is a statistical impossibility…"
Inspector Megure, who had been a silent observer of the exchange, narrowed his eyes, his curiosity piqued. "Oh… such an occurrence took place?" He advanced toward the trio, his shadow lengthening across the floor. "Is this an accurate account of the facts?"
Sonoko nodded with frantic conviction, and Ran mirrored the gesture. Then Ran added, "I-it was yesterday… as we were departing for home… Leon-kun did indeed articulate it… correct, Conan…?"
Conan, still submerged in the depths of his cognitive dissonance, heard Ran's prompt and replied, "Y-yes… I bore witness to it as well," elevating his hand in a tentative, childlike admission.
"Fascinating…" mused Mouri Kogoro, who had finally liberated himself from his artificial slumber and intercepted the tail end of the discourse. "Must be a singular, hellish coincidence."
"Dad?!" Ran shrieked, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Do not startle me in that manner!" The Great Detective had manifested without a sound, unnerving her.
Megure added, "Indeed… that would be a remarkably surgical coincidence." Then he inquired, "Pray, who is this 'Leon' of whom you all speak?"
"My younger brother, naturally!" Sonoko rejoined with a flourish of pride, hoisting her chin.
"Your younger brother?" Mori Kogoro and Megure repeated in a perplexed unison.
Megure offered a slow, contemplative nod. "Intriguing… but if it transcends the realm of mere serendipity, then—?"
"S-serendipity, indeed…" Mori Kogoro echoed, emitting a hollow laugh. "There is no profit in over-analyzing it… hahaha." He chuckled, and Megure followed with a restrained, diplomatic laugh of his own, though beneath their mirth lingered a shared, silent tremor—a quiet, gnawing apprehension.
And thus, the curtain fell upon the tragedy of the Valentine gala. Yet, every survivor remained adrift in thought, incapable of fully divorcing their minds from the day's grim revelations. Especially Conan—or rather, Kudo Shinichi—not because of the mechanics of the crime, but because of the preposterous reality… the notion that a child could map out destiny before it had even begun to breathe.
At the palatial Suzuki estate, Leon remained blissfully oblivious to the fact that he had become a focal point of suspicion merely by articulating what he deemed casual observations.
He had concluded the preparation of the confections, and they were far from mundane sweets. They were intricate chocolate sculptures, each rendered with a jeweler's precision. Five distinct forms occupied the counter—a bestiary of his own creation: a hound, a pair of swans, a fox, and a feline.
Each effigy stood approximately eight to ten inches in stature.
The canine was a meticulous likeness of the one his grandfather cherished. The twin swans were intended for the architects of his life—his mother and father. The fox had been fashioned for his elder sister, while the cat was the designated tribute for Sonoko.
Leon had funneled his entire artistic reservoir into the sculpting of each piece. Naturally, every chocolate monolith was meticulously pigmented using specialized fat-soluble dyes. The result was a vibrant mimicry of life—the umber coat of the dog, the immaculate ivory plumage of the swans, the vivid russet of the fox, and the golden-amber hues of the cat.
It was a staggering exhibition of craftsmanship. The maid who had stood sentinel as he worked through the dark hours could only gape in a silent, reverent awe as the raw cocoa was transfigured into a gallery of high art.
Leon sequestered the finished masterpieces into their respective boxes, and the maid took the initiative to dispatch each set to their recipients. The solitary sculpture remaining in the kitchen was the feline—the feline for Sonoko. Leon deposited it with infinite care into a pristine white vessel, securing it with a neat knot of crimson ribbon.
He offered a minuscule nod of satisfaction once the task was fulfilled.
Then, he reached for a crystalline mug resting upon the table. A plume of vapor rose languidly from the liquid within—it was chocolate coffee, his favored elixir.
The retinue of maids and culinary artisans who had been observing his progress remained ensnared in a state of enchantment. Every gesture he made possessed an ethereal quality. His snow-white hair swayed like a silken veil with every motion, and his heterochromatic eyes—sapphire and emerald—remained fixed and unwavering upon his work. He navigated the space like a living porcelain doll—refined, fragile, and utterly mesmerizing. His youthful, guileless features only heightened the impression, rendering him a figure of profound endearment.
Leon took a measured sip of his chocolate coffee when a maid approached from the shadows, informing him that the tributes had been successfully surrendered to the couriers.
"My gratitude," Leon replied with a faint nod.
The maid felt as though an invisible, gilded arrow had transfixed her heart. She staggered, momentarily overwhelmed by the raw, unadulterated sweetness of his expression. Before her knees could buckle completely, a colleague rushed to provide support.
She was not an isolated case—the phenomenon seemed to affect any who bore witness to that simple, quiet display of gratitude. Muffled giggles resonated among the staff congregated in the kitchen, their faces etched with a fond, quiet amusement at the surreal scene.
AM N. NOT.(っ－＿－)っ♤♤DRAFT♤♤