By the time the police had finished and everyone was cleared to leave, it was just past 8:40 PM. With only formal statements remaining, there was no reason to linger, and the group quickly departed from Yoko Okino's apartment.
"Really, the younger generation is just remarkable these days. Your mind works at an incredible speed," Kogoro Mouri praised Haruki the whole way down. His goodwill stemmed not only from Haruki's connection to Eri but also from the lucrative referral—and Yoko Okino's private number. He'd been too 'gentlemanly' to accept her payment, settling instead for two extra autographs.
"I can only say luck played a part," Haruki demurred with a faint smile. "And I saw your expression, Uncle Mouri. You must have noticed the inconsistencies as well."
"Hahaha! Well, I was just a step behind!"
(Why are you inflating this old fool's ego?)
Watching Kogoro laugh heartily, shamelessly scratching the back of his head, Conan's mouth twitched in silent critique.
Yet…
Conan couldn't help but glance up at Haruki. The man's calm, composed demeanor unsettled him. This was a first—a feeling of genuine intellectual lag during a case. He'd had the head start, more time to think, and still, before he could fully assemble the pieces, Haruki had dissected the entire suicide method with just a few glances at the scene.
Is a mystery novelist's deductive process really that… intuitive?
A fierce sense of competition warred with a sting of defeat. But the feeling was short-lived. Conan's spirit quickly rallied. Next time. Next time, I'll definitely win.
Oblivious to the silent challenge cast his way, Haruki was checking his phone. He then looked down at the group of children trailing beside them.
"It's quite late. We should see these children home first."
"Yes, their families must be worried," Ran agreed, bending down to their level. "What are your home numbers? We should call your parents to come get you."
"Okay, mine is…" Mitsuhiko readily complied.
"I'm so hungry, I need to get home…" Genta moaned, clutching his stomach and looking ready to melt onto the sidewalk.
At that moment, Ayumi Yoshida took a small, stealthy step backward and gently tugged on the hem of Haruki's jacket.
He looked down.
"Big brother… Ayumi's home number is…" she whispered shyly.
Conan, observing from the side, immediately understood her ploy—a transparent attempt to give him her number, likely hoping to get his in return.
(Elementary schoolers these days are too advanced…) he sighed internally.
Haruki, however, seemed unbothered. After noting the number, he took out his phone and dialed, much to Ayumi's quiet delight. After a brief conversation filled with relieved thanks from the other end, he hung up and looked at the little girl. "Staying out so late without telling your family isn't allowed again, understand?"
"Yes, Ayumi won't do it again," she nodded, the picture of obedience.
"Haruki's right, you really mustn't do this anymore," Ran added seriously to the boys.
"We know, Ran-neechan…"
"I'm so hungry…" Genta's protest was now a weak whimper.
Kogoro grumbled about kids being a nuisance, but in practice, he dutifully waited with everyone for the parents to arrive.
"By the way, Haruki," Kogoro said, shifting topics. "Have you ever considered changing professions? Becoming a detective full-time?"
"The thought has crossed my mind," Haruki admitted, pausing briefly. "Though it's also to gather material for my next book."
"Oh! Well, if you have any questions, feel free to consult me anytime! Haha, I do have years of experience in this business, after all."
"But Uncle hasn't actually solved any famous cases, has he?" Conan chose that moment to deliver a blunt, factual strike.
"What did you say, you brat?!"
A provoked Kogoro immediately responded with his signature "Iron Fist of Love," leaving a sizable bump on Conan's head.
Watching Conan clutch his new injury, Haruki's tone remained even. "Actually, there is something I'd like to ask your advice on, Uncle Mouri. If one wanted to establish a detective agency, what would the process entail?"
"Oh, that? It's simple—just register with the local police station. You can operate without it, but it makes certain… inquiries much less complicated."
"And for promotion, I highly recommend a nice, big signboard like mine, hahaha!"
The social standing of detectives in this world was peculiar—exceptionally high for the famous few, but for the majority, it involved the mundane: finding lost pets, conducting surveillance for suspicious spouses... the very work that had constituted Kogoro Mouri's pre-fame career.
Haruki gave a nod of understanding.
Soon, the children's parents arrived, collecting their respective charges with a mix of scolding and relief. Politely declining Kogoro's hearty invitation for a drink, Haruki hailed a taxi and departed.
In the quiet of the cab, his phone chimed with a new message. It was from Yoko Okino:
>Thank you so much for your help today, Haruki-sensei... I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there. If there's ever anything I can do for you in the future, please, don't hesitate to ask.
They had exchanged contacts just before leaving. Haruki's thumbs moved swiftly over the screen.
>It was nothing. But are you alright, Yoko-san?
The reply came a moment later.
>Yes, thank you. I'm okay. It's just... I don't think I'll be able to stay in that apartment anymore.
Understandable. A death, especially one so personal and violent, tended to linger. Yet another property value in Beika City plummets, Haruki thought with detached irony. The 'Grim Reaper' Edogawa bears significant responsibility for the local real estate market.
His inquiry had been merely perfunctory. For Yoko Okino, Fujie Akimitsu was likely just a ghost from a past life—a high school memory too faint to leave a lasting scar. The more immediate rupture was with her manager, Yamagishi Sakae. Even if she intellectually understood his motives, their professional relationship was now irrevocably broken by his confessions of manipulation.
A different, subtler vibration pulsed against his chest, distinct from his personal phone's chime.
It came from the inner pocket of his jacket—the device Gin had provided.
The screen illuminated with a stark, brief message:
> *Next Friday. 21:20. Firing Range. —Gin*
Haruki's expression did not change. After a measured pause, he typed a single character:
> *Understood.*
He sent it, then, with practiced efficiency, deleted both the received message and his own reply. The screen went dark. He leaned back against the seat, watching the neon-lit city stream past the window, a man balanced on a razor's edge between two very different worlds.