Chapter 16: The Bomb in the Box
If the explosives were still in the possession of these two suspicious men dressed in head-to-toe black, waiting for their illicit transaction to finish was a fool's errand. As long as the briefcase remained in their hands, they were acutely aware of its volatile contents. They wouldn't risk an accidental detonation. Striking now, while the threat was contained, was the most pragmatic move.
'No point in dragging this out,' Natsume concluded silently.
She stood up, smoothing down her skirt with practiced ease, and offered a polite, apologetic smile to her companions. "I am just going to step out to the restroom for a moment."
The aisle of the Shinkansen was narrow, the rhythmic sway of the train providing the perfect cover. As Natsume approached the row where the two men sat, she deliberately let her ankle roll. With a sharp gasp, she pitched forward, her hands flying out as if to catch herself on the edge of their seats—aiming directly for the sleek, black attache case resting between them.
The reaction was instantaneous. The men were coiled springs. The moment her shadow fell over them, the broader of the two snatched the case, yanking it out of her trajectory with a violent jerk.
Natsume caught herself on the armrest, letting out a breathless, flustered laugh. "Ah, I am so incredibly sorry! I completely lost my footing." She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear, her golden eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I think I might have grazed your briefcase. Is everything inside alright?"
The man clutching the case glared at her, his jaw tight. A vein pulsed visibly at his temple. These men were on edge, radiating a volatile impatience. They clearly wanted zero complications before their deal went down, and a clumsy civilian was the last thing they needed drawing attention to them.
"It's fine!" the man snapped, his voice a low, gravelly bark. "If you don't have any other business, keep moving!"
Recognizing the brick wall of their hostility, Natsume offered one last, sheepish bow. 'Message received,' she thought dryly, turning on her heel and continuing down the aisle with a perfectly measured, unhurried stride.
From the far end of the carriage, a pair of sharp, oversized glasses tracked her every movement. Conan Edogawa had just returned from his own wandering, freezing in his tracks the moment he saw Natsume stumble toward those specific seats. Cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck.
His heart hammered against his ribs. To Conan, those two men in dark suits were the very demons who had forced that experimental poison down his throat at Tropical Land. They were cold-blooded, ruthless killers. If they perceived Natsume as a threat, they wouldn't hesitate to silence her.
He let out a shaky breath as Natsume walked away unharmed. It was just a brief, accidental contact. They likely wrote her off as a clumsy passenger.
'Just you wait,'Conan thought, his small hands curling into tight fists at his sides.'One day, I'll get my body back. I'll be Kudo Shinichi again, and I will drag you both into the light.'
"Conan..."
The soft, familiar voice sliced through his dark reverie. Conan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, and looked toward the vestibule connecting the train cars. Natsume stood by the sliding doors, gesturing for him to come over.
He tilted his head, the overhead lights catching the lenses of his glasses. Why was she calling him over so discreetly? A spark of realization ignited in his chest. Had she noticed something during that brief, clumsy exchange?
Adrenaline surged through his small frame. He jogged down the aisle, slipping through the sliding doors to join her in the quieter, rattling space between the carriages.
"Sister Natsume, did you need me for something?" he asked, pitching his voice to sound perfectly innocent, though his eyes burned with unspoken urgency. 'Tell me. Did you find a clue? What did you see?'
Natsume cast a fleeting, cautious glance through the glass window of the door, ensuring the two men were still glued to their seats and completely ignoring their surroundings. Satisfied, she reached out, gently grasping Conan's shoulder, and guided him further into the secluded vestibule, out of any possible line of sight.
Conan tracked her careful movements, his detective instincts flaring. She was treating this like a covert operation. He was right.
Natsume knelt down, bringing herself to eye level with the boy. Her golden eyes were entirely serious, stripped of their usual lighthearted warmth. "Conan, I have always known you are an incredibly smart kid. Much smarter than you let on," she began, her tone low and measured. "I need to tell you something, but I need you to promise me you won't panic."
She paused, letting the gravity of her words settle. "I suspect there is an explosive device inside the briefcase those two men are carrying."
Conan's breath hitched. His eyes widened, the facade of a clueless first-grader slipping entirely. He had expected a clue about their identities, perhaps a glimpse of a weapon, but a bomb on a crowded bullet train?
"Sister Natsume," he whispered, his voice tight. "How could you possibly know that?"
"It sounds strange, I know," Natsume replied, maintaining her calm facade. "But I have an exceptionally keen sense of smell. When I tripped and fell near them just now, I caught a very distinct, faint trace of bitter almond. I happen to know that certain chemical compounds used in explosives, like Dinitrotoluene, carry that exact scent."
She gestured subtly toward the carriage door. "Combine that with their behavior. They don't exactly look like upstanding citizens, do they? And they are guarding that case with their lives. The moment I lost my balance, their first instinct wasn't to brace themselves, but to yank the case out of harm's way. They are terrified of it taking a physical impact. That tells me it's volatile."
She let out a quiet sigh, her expression turning apologetic. "But ultimately, this is entirely speculation. I have zero hard proof."
Natsume placed both hands firmly on Conan's small shoulders, anchoring him. "That is exactly why I pulled you aside. I need your help to test this theory. Adults naturally lower their guard around children. If a kid bumps into them or acts curious, they might get annoyed, but they won't immediately suspect foul play. If I am wrong, it just gets written off as a child being a bit too energetic."
Conan's mind raced, processing the information at lightning speed. A bitter almond scent. Extreme protectiveness over a locked case. The deduction was solid. But another thought gnawed at the edges of his mind. To detect the faint odor of Dinitrotoluene through a closed leather briefcase? That required superhuman senses. Combined with her flawless night vision during the incident at the amusement park... just who exactly was Natsume Natsuki? What kind of life had she lived before this?
He shoved those questions aside. The immediate priority was the potential bomb sitting fifty feet away.
Still, he had to ask. He looked up at her, feigning a touch of childish confusion. "But Sister Natsume, why did you ask me for help?"
A spike of paranoia pierced his chest. Had she noticed the cracks in his act? It was impossible for anyone to deduce that he was a shrunken high school detective—the very concept defied medical science—but she might have noticed that he didn't act like a normal seven-year-old.
Natsume didn't miss a beat. She had anticipated the question. "Because you have always been incredibly sharp, Conan," she said, offering a warm, encouraging smile. "You are much more mature than the other kids."
'Even if you are a menace who constantly skirts the law, eavesdrops on private conversations, breaks into crime scenes, and completely ignores traffic safety,' she added silently, her inner voice dripping with dry amusement.
"I trust you," she continued aloud. "I believe that if anyone can find a clue without causing a panic, it's you."
And that was the absolute truth. When it came to reckless but effective investigation, the tiny detective was unmatched.
Despite his true age of seventeen, hearing such earnest praise from an older woman made a faint flush creep up Conan's neck. He rubbed the back of his head, letting out a sheepish, high-pitched laugh that perfectly fit his current body.
"Ahaha, I'm not that amazing, Sister Natsume! But don't worry, leave it to me. I'll figure it out!"
Natsume gave his shoulder a final, reassuring squeeze. "Alright. Just be careful, Conan."
Conan slipped back through the sliding doors, his demeanor instantly shifting. He strolled down the aisle, his eyes tracking the two men from the periphery of his vision. Natsume was right. They weren't just holding the briefcase; they were guarding it. It rested squarely on the lap of the larger man, his hands resting heavily on top of it, knuckles white with tension.
Conan paused a few rows away, calculating his angle. Then, he flipped the switch.
His face broke into a wide, obnoxious grin. He bounded down the aisle, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the floorboards, and threw himself toward their seats.
"Wow, mister!" Conan chirped, his voice gratingly loud and dripping with feigned childhood wonder. "That's a super cool box! What do you have inside? Can I see?"
Without waiting for an answer, he lunged forward, his small hands reaching directly for the leather surface.
A hand shot out like a striking viper.
Fingers like iron clamped down on Conan's wrist, stopping him inches from the case. The force was brutal, twisting his arm at an uncomfortable angle.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, you little brat?!" the man snarled, his face twisting into a vicious scowl.
"Ow, ow, ow! It hurts!" Conan wailed, squeezing his eyes shut and thrashing in the man's grip. But even as he cried out, he cracked one eye open, getting his first clear, up-close look at their faces.
His breath caught.
Wait. The jawline was wrong. The eyes lacked that dead, icy emptiness. These weren't the men from Tropical Land. They were wearing the same style of dark suits and sunglasses, but they were entirely different people. It was a coincidence.
The disappointment was sharp, but he shoved it aside. That didn't matter right now. What mattered was the briefcase.
In the split second he had lunged forward, he had inhaled deeply. Beneath the stale smell of train air and cheap cologne, there it was—a faint, sickly-sweet trace of bitter almond. Natsume's nose was terrifyingly accurate.
, even as the man yelled at him, his other arm remained locked rigidly over the case, shielding it from the minor scuffle. He was focusing on the stability of the box over everything else. It was a textbook reaction to handling impact-sensitive explosives.
"Conan!"
A panicked voice rang out from further down the car. Mouri Ran had heard the commotion. Seeing a strange, intimidating man twisting Conan's arm while the boy cried out, her protective instincts flared. She bolted down the aisle, her expression fierce.
Seeing a teenager charging toward them, the man clicked his tongue in annoyance and shoved Conan's arm away, releasing his grip.
"Keep your kid on a leash!" the man barked at Ran as she arrived, his voice dripping with venom. "Teach him not to grab things that don't belong to him!"
Without waiting for a response, the man shot a quick glance at his wristwatch. He muttered something under his breath to his companion. Moving with synchronized, rigid caution, the two men stood up. The larger man held the briefcase tight against his chest, and together, they pushed past Ran, heading briskly toward the sliding doors leading to the dining car.
Ran stood there, blinking in bewilderment at their retreating backs. She turned to Conan, kneeling down to check his wrist. "Conan, are you okay? What on earth was that about—"
"Sorry, Sister Ran! I just remembered I have to do something really important! I'll be right back!"
Before she could even finish her sentence, Conan spun on his heel and bolted down the aisle, his small legs carrying him as fast as they could in the direction the men had vanished.
Ran let out an exasperated sigh, her hand hovering in the empty air. "Seriously... what could possibly be so urgent?"
A few cars down, Natsume was casually leaning against a seat, half-listening to Kojima Genta loudly complain about his empty stomach to the other children. Her posture was relaxed, but her golden eyes were sharp, tracking the reflections in the train windows.
She saw the two men in dark suits hurry past, their posture stiff, the briefcase clutched like a lifeline. Seconds later, a small boy with oversized glasses darted through the doors, trailing them from a safe distance.
Conan caught her eye for a fraction of a second, giving a sharp, almost imperceptible nod.
'Confirmed, then,' Natsume thought.
The corners of her lips pressed into a thin line. The men were on the move, which meant their transaction was likely happening soon, or they were preparing to ditch the explosives. Leaving this to a seven-year-old—even one with the mind of a teenage prodigy—was a recipe for disaster.
She pushed off the seat, offering the kids a brief, dismissive wave. It was time to stop playing games. To prevent any further variables from endangering the passengers, Natsume prepared to take action directly.
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