"Bro, can we really trust that kid?" Vodka asked, swiveling at the bar to face Gin. "If he screws up and the rat slips away, it'll be a pain. Why not just let me handle it?"
"No need for extra work, Vodka," Gin replied, setting down his glass, now holding only a melting ice sphere.
He tilted his head slightly.
A rare, chilling smile cracked his stern face. "I'm starting to have a sliver of expectation for him."
"Huh?" Vodka blinked, confused.
The Organization was massive—large enough to attract countless infiltrators from rival agencies. But compared to its sprawling rank-and-file, elite members with codenames were a rare breed.
To Gin, some of those codenamed members were little more than incompetent dead weight.
So, scouting new talent was a constant task. Among the recent roster, Hayato Masaki's file had caught Gin's eye.
His striking appearance could prove useful someday—the Organization never shied away from exploiting every angle.
But what intrigued Gin more was Masaki's two bestselling mystery novels.
In this world, detectives commanded high social status. Perhaps influenced by famed novelist Yusaku Kudo, people assumed a skilled mystery writer would make a fine detective. Masaki's recent works—Kindaichi Case Files: Opera House Murder and Kindaichi Case Files: Freak Hall Village Murder—were bookstore sensations. The latter, in particular, had sparked heated discussion and widespread praise.
That kind of talent was rare in the Organization, and Gin was curious.
After Gin's explanation, Vodka nodded slowly, catching on.
"As expected of you. But you don't think he'll try to bolt, do you?"
"He's got one day, under the Organization's watchful eyes. Anyone with a brain wouldn't dare run," Gin said, his eyes narrowing with a cold smirk. "But once he pulls the trigger tomorrow night, he really won't have anywhere to run."
"Heh, that's why you're hyping his books, huh? Make him too famous to squirm."
Gin didn't answer.
The brighter someone's public persona, the more they clung to it.
Once Hayato Masaki killed tomorrow night, the Organization would hold his leash. A celebrated mystery novelist wouldn't risk falling into infamy as a murderer.
Threats on one hand, rewards on the other—the Organization's time-tested playbook.
Take Pisco, that aging has-been. A financial titan on the surface—did he want to do the Organization's dirty work? No. He was just too scared to defy them, with his own secrets in their grip.
---
It was past ten when Hayato returned to his apartment.
Flipping on the living room light, he sank into the sofa.
Gin's intentions had been clear the moment he'd ordered the hit. Hayato even suspected the Organization had pulled strings to secure his publishing deal earlier that day. But it didn't matter.
He was already planning his next move.
The Organization was a formidable threat, and as someone already stained by their world, he lacked the means to confront them head-on.
Not unless he could somehow obtain photos and names of every member.
But staying on their dark path was equally untenable.
Though Detective Conan hadn't concluded before his arrival, the principle of justice prevailing was undeniable. Sticking with the Organization would lead to only two outcomes: death or a cell.
Which left one option: carving out a place among the good guys.
It wouldn't be hard.
With the Death Note, he could manipulate a high-ranking police official, slip his name onto the undercover agent list, and—if he wanted extra security—orchestrate others to back it up.
"Time for another test," he murmured.
Click.
The sharp snap of a lighter echoed as Hayato set fire to a torn Death Note page in the ashtray.
Flames danced, reflecting in his dark eyes.
Bzzt. Bzzt.
His flip phone vibrated. Checking it, he saw a message from Eri Kisaki.
Eri Kisaki: Back already, Hayato?
Hayato: Yeah, just got in.
Eri Kisaki: Come over, then.
Hayato: Sure, give me a minute.
Dumping the ashtray's contents, Hayato slipped on his shoes and crossed the hall to the apartment opposite his.
The door was ajar, so he stepped inside.
"Pardon the intrusion."
"Out somewhere earlier?" Eri Kisaki's warm voice greeted him.
Hayato looked up. She'd clearly just showered—her damp hair, still glistening, fell loosely around her shoulders.
She was undeniably striking.
Anyone would think so.
Her casual home attire did little to hide her elegant, statuesque figure. Her refined features, softened without her usual professional edge, radiated an approachable charm. Her chestnut hair framed a face that could pass for someone barely into their thirties, exuding the poised allure of a mature woman.
"Just wandered a bit to kill time," Hayato said with a smile. "Rough day at work, Eri-san?"
"Rough enough," she replied, matching his smile. She headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge. "I ordered an extra hearty late-night spread tonight. Care for a beer? Call it a celebration for you."
"Sounds good."
Hayato didn't mind.
Living across from Eri Kisaki, late-night meals had become routine, especially since her legal work often kept her late. They usually skipped alcohol, though.
She seemed genuinely happy for him.
***
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