Red

by astorii

Summary:

In which Shinichi finds himself dealing with a serial killer and a soulmate who doesn’t seem to want him.

Notes:

I do not and never will own DCMK.

Oh! And this was inspired by a Tumblr prompt I read years ago. ^ ^

Chapter 1

10 a.m. on the third Saturday of April finds Kudō Shinichi at a two-seater table in the corner of a modest coffee shop in the heart of Tokyo. As he sips on his larger-than-life-sized cup of iced coffee with a splash of coconut water, he wonders why he isn’t at home or working on another case whether it be from a client or as a police consultant—didn’t Sato mention something about a possible serial killer on their hands?

And then he looks across from him and remembers the out-of-the-blue text he had received last night at 23:57 from one Kuroba Kaito. Right. That is why he’s here. Because Kuroba had asked him to come and Shinichi found it hard to say no.

(There’s something about Kuroba that Shinichi has never been able to understand—

—and it’s just so exciting.

Each time they meet, he always leaves asking himself why he feels drawn to Kuroba. There’s a sense of familiarity surrounding him. Shinichi might have asked the magician to meet up if only to satisfy his own curiosity; however, his awkward nature and Kuroba’s obvious discomfort around him have been more than enough to dissuade the idea.

Speaking of, why…?)

Warily, he eyes the mocha frappucino with a very generous chocolate drizzle over two pumps of non-fat whipped cream that Kuroba ordered and then looks down at his own very plain iced coffee. Quietly, he takes another sip while Kuroba snaps a few pictures of his (admittedly) aesthetically pleasing concoction. His watch tells him that it’s been fifteen minutes since they both ordered their drinks.

Kuroba hasn’t said a word.

Shinichi just wants to leave.

“Are you going to tell me why I’m here?” he asks, silently tacking on a vaguely annoyed instead of literally anywhere else, but preferably at the station at the end, but he refrains because it’s not like anyone is going to miss him—except maybe Takagi, but that man is just as concerned about him overworking himself as the others, which is totally illogical because even he knows his limits.

(Or rather, he learned his limits during a bomb scare that occurred not long after he had returned from being Conan. Haibara had given him the clear to make his return as Kudō Shinichi public. Quickly, he had learned of the bomber and had turned to Megure to request his permission to participate as a consultant when Kogorō’s help proved useless. The incident had him running on nothing but coffee for three straight days because the bomber had decided to use obscure folk tales as hints to bomb locations. Admittedly, Shinichi remembers very little about those three days.

He does recall finding himself trapped with the final bomb. Shinichi, who is still growing used to not having to rely on himself, had run off to the bomb’s location once he had solved the riddle. It didn’t occur to him that he could request for back-up and have people listen.

Megure still holds it over his head to this day.)

“Want half of my bagel?” Kuroba asks, dodging the question. “Cinnamon raisin with strawberry cream cheese.”

Shinichi wrinkles his nose. He never liked raisins. And eating in the mornings makes him sick. “No thanks. Can you just answer my question?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kuroba says, waving him off. Shinichi quirks his left brow. “Just… just gimme a sec.” He huffs. “The lighting here sucks.”

“I’ve given you at least 900 of those—seconds, I mean,” he quips, only pausing to do the math. Kuroba snorts before his phone disappears with a flick of his wrist. Shinichi blinks, momentarily baffled, but shakes his head. Absently, he notes that, despite knowing Kuroba’s interest, he had never seen the magician doing any sort of tricks. Instead of pointing that out, he asks, “Is it a case?”

Kuroba looks at him and rolls his eyes with enough exaggeration that would make Shinichi’s own over-the-top mother proud.

“Detectives,” he says, sounding just as exasperated as he does amused. The overdramatic way Kuroba slaps the back of his hand to his forehead makes Shinichi roll his own eyes. “You go out of your way to ask them to hang out once and they think it’s a case!”

He’s probably talking from experience, Shinichi thinks, only half-listening to Kuroba and his ramblings. He remembers how he had met Kuroba through fellow detective Hakuba Saguru. Apparently those two had attended the same high school and have never gotten along swimmingly—something about a really bad first impression and baseless accusations according to Kuroba; Hakuba just pinches the bridge of his nose and changes the topic.

Now, Shinichi and Kuroba, on the other hand, had a pleasant if a little awkward first encounter. Shinichi has immediately sensed that there was something special about him. Kuroba wouldn’t stop staring at him as though he were some sort of ghost—of course, this only occurred when he thought Hakuba and Shinichi weren’t looking—and Shinichi himself felt uncomfortable in the magician’s presence. By the end of the day, Hakuba had seemed pleased.

Shinichi still wonders what that was about.

“I think it’s only natural,” he comments idly, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. For one thing, Kuroba has never wanted to be alone with him for extended periods of time. For another, Shinichi has never been able to read Kuroba—something about a poker face—so it piques his curiosity when he notices telltale signs of nervousness: subtle twitching, darting eyes, the verbose prattles...

“Point,” Kuroba concedes, taking a swig of his beverage. His eyes, as Shinichi notices, seem to be focused on his face. Shinichi’s hand twitches—is there something on his face? “In all seriousness, it’s not a case—at least, not your usual one.”

Shinichi hums. Observing Kuroba’s face a bit more, he sees a light blush beginning to blossom on his cheeks. Immediately, he rules out the following: murder, kidnapping, and robbery. And it probably isn’t a missing persons case or a torrid affair. So, what does that leave, then? Not your usual one, he says. Now, what does that mean? What exactly constitutes as usual? What constitutes as unusual?

Debating the definition of a not-his-usual case, he takes a sip of his iced coffee and notes how the coconut water gives a faint taste of chocolate—he’ll have to thank Ran for introducing him to this combination. But deciding that he’s been patient enough, Shinichi prompts Kuroba to continue with an encouraging gesture.

“This might sound weird,” Kuroba tells him, sounding uncomfortable. Shinichi leans forward, already on the edge of his seat, as he gazes into Kuroba’s wandering eyes. He never noticed how blue they were. He only half-wonders if he should run while he still can. “But, um… you see them, don’t you, Kudō? The Red Strings Of Fate?”

Shinichi chokes.

That… that isn’t what he had been expecting.

Frankly, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but that is far from it.

How did he—?

“What makes you say that?” Shinichi asks, sounding more defensive than he should.

“Your reaction just now, for starters,” Kuroba says, matter-of-factly. Shinichi feels his right eye twitch. “And maybe the fact that you wear those obnoxiously large glasses when you obviously don’t need them? They’re fake—I can tell. I’ve seen the papers—you never wore them until you returned from that big case. Other than old news, I’ve literally never seen you without them. And that was, like, back when you were sixteen.”

Kuroba reaches across the table, hand outstretched and ready to pluck the glasses off of his face. Shinichi flinches back. Kuroba has the decency to look apologetic.

Ducking his head, Shinichi readjusts his glasses out of habit. “That’s hardly enough evidence. Maybe I just like how I look in glasses.” He ignores the unimpressed look he gets. “Besides, all of that red string stuff? It’s—well, you know—”

“Yes or no, Kudō?” asks Kuroba, pinching his nose. “I’ll know if you’re lying.” He leans back in his seat, heaving a sigh as he crosses his arms and regards Shinichi with a heavy stare. “Look, I know Yukiko-obā—” Shinichi clears his throat “—Yukiko-san used to have her own matchmaking business until her acting career kicked off and then a certain author swept her off her feet.” Kuroba licks his lips, dropping gaze to his drink. “I also know that the ability is genetic—apparently sometimes it skips a generation or two. And that they make special glasses so that Seers don't see the red strings. And, well, it’s either you see the strings or…”

Or he doesn’t, Shinichi mentally fills in.

(Because Kuroba can’t possibly know that he was Conan, right?)

Well, Shinichi thinks, at least now the reason for Kuroba’s nervousness is clear.

It’s a tricky topic—the Red Strings Of Fate, that is. For thousands of years, matchmaking had been a popular business and has only become taboo in the past century. Seers would take in clients looking to find their Fated. Then, one day, not even fifty years ago, it came to light that Seers could manipulate these strings—could corrupt them—and change the Fated. Businesses boomed with people looking to find if their significant other or person of interest was their Fated.

And if they weren’t, well, the Seers would take care of that.

Then such practices were banned in certain countries—the manipulation, that is. Japan simply discourages and frowns upon it—unfair, they say, and the consequences can be… well, Shinichi isn’t too sure about those. Almost all matchmaking businesses shut down—those that didn’t simply struggled financially and some even began underground operations. People didn’t want to know if the person they love isn’t meant to be theirs.

But… some people never believed in the strings. After all, not everyone can see them. For some people, the strings exist only in romantic movies or romance novels. Hell, most people never even find their Fated! Part of the reason so many matchmaking businesses shut down is because so many people thought them to be scams.

“If I were a Seer,” Shinichi starts, “what would you do about it?”

Without missing a beat, Kuroba replies, “I’d ask you to see whether my best friend and I are Fated.”
 
“And if you aren’t?”

Kuroba sucks in a breath. Shinichi counts the seconds it takes for him to reply. 9… 10… 11…

“I’d ask you to make us Fated,” he whispers.

---

“Tanaka Kenji, aged 21, part-time worker at Danny’s and a university student at Tokyo University, found dead in his apartment by girlfriend Shishido Judi at approximately 10:30 a.m.,” Takagi says, reading off of his notebook.

Shinichi tugs on a pair of gloves as he kneels down next to the body. One doesn’t need to be a detective to deduce that Tanaka had died from a stab wound located in the chest; it appears to have gone through the heart. A quick glance around the room, which was apparently Tanaka’s living room, shows nothing in disarray and no obvious weapon in sight. There are drinks on the table though. He purses his lips and turns his attention to the body.

A roguishly charming visage. Dark hair that seems to have been dyed a shade darker than its natural color. A somewhat crooked nose. He probably didn’t have a lot of money, but definitely enough and some to get by and splurge on the occasion. And his fashion sense left a lot to be desired—not that it’s something of note—but, oddly enough, he’s wearing a loose red tie over a pale blue sweater and black jeans that had seen better days.

“Kudō-kun?”

“And the girlfriend?” he asks, still examining the body. Warm and stiff. Dead for as long as three hours but no more than eight. “10:30 was just over half an hour ago.”

“She’s in Tanaka-san’s bedroom with Sato-san,” Takagi replies. Out of the corner of his eye, Shinichi catches him slipping his notebook into his inner breast pocket. “Megure-keibu managed to question her before she had a breakdown and became inconsolable. Miwa—er—Sato-san’s been trying to calm her down so she thought it was a good idea to do it somewhere quiet.” The man pauses. “Thank you for arriving so quickly, by the way.”

Shinichi waves him off as he asks one of the forensic officers if they have an idea on what the weapon could be. When he gets a negative, he thanks the officer with a nod. He turns to Takagi with a crooked half-smile on his lips and says, “It’s no problem. I was actually in the area.” He stands up to give the officers room to take pictures of the body. “Thank you for calling me, by the way.”

And for the excuse to leave, he adds privately. Kuroba’s quiet admission had left him feeling uncomfortable. Shinichi didn’t feel right. The idea of possibly having to cut Kuroba’s string seems… wrong. They stared at each other in silence until the call had come in, minutes later, requesting for his presence at a crime scene.

Takagi gives him his own little smile. “Well, we were hoping with your help we’d wrap this up sooner,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. More solemnly, he adds, “Sato-san and Megure-keibu think this could be the third victim.”

With his brows knitting together, Shinichi tilts his head curiously, which happens to be one of those odd habits he still hasn’t managed to shake from his time as Conan. Thinking back to the other day during a visit to the station when Sato offhandedly mentioned a possible serial killer, he frowns. Shinichi had been working on the murder of a diplomat that one of his clients brought in when she brought it up while he was visiting the station, so he had already been busy.

And Megure has been discouraging him from taking on police cases unless he’s called in or there’s reason to believe that there is some relation with his own cases. Besides, at the time, it wasn’t certain that those two murders had been the work of a serial killer so he told himself not to worry just yet.

“The serial murders, right?” he asks, taking another look at the body. “Sato-keiji mentioned it. I wanted to join the investigation sooner but…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, what makes you think so?”

“Well,” Takagi starts, scratching his chin. Shinichi notices the barest hint of stubble—likely a product of having forgotten to shave with the stress over the idea of a serial killer, no doubt. Without meaning to, he rubs his own chin as well. “Tanaka-san seems to have been attacked the same way the other two have—a stab to the heart, but not with a knife as far as forensics can tell.”

Shinichi turns his attention to the body and kneels down beside it once the officers are done taking their pictures.

“I see,” he murmurs. He moves his hand, placing his index finger just below his bottom lip. It takes a few seconds for him to notice the weight of someone’s gaze on him. Shinichi looks up and meets Takagi’s eyes. The man jumps back, visibly startled and flustered. “What?”

“N-nothing!” Takagi squawks, drawing attention from the forensic officers. He apologizes and everyone returns to work. Shinichi continues to stare at him, brows raised and feeling just a hint of self-consciousness—what is it with people and staring today? “Sorry… just, you looked—it’s nothing! Sorry, Kudō-kun.”

Shinichi frowns. “Okay… I’m just gonna do the, uh, investigative stuff, okay?”

The man just nods fervently, leaving him to his devices. Shinichi ignores Takagi’s odd behavior when he notices a slight bulge in Tanaka’s right pocket. Curiously, he reaches in and pulls out—

Oh.

A velvet box slips from his fingers and he stares at it. He hears Takagi call out his name, but he pays him no heed. Shinichi picks it back up and opens it. Inside, he finds a modest diamond set in a silver band.

“Is that…?”

Shinichi nods, closing the box. “Tanaka-san was probably going to propose to her,” he says despite not needing to. He swallows. “Should we tell Shishido-san?”

The girlfriend, no doubt, deserves to know. The question is: would she want to know?

Takagi looks just as conflicted as Shinichi feels. None of the officers are paying attention—and Shinichi doesn’t know any of them well enough to feel comfortable in asking for any opinions. He looks to the inspector, who has been busy chatting with a forensics officer, and calls out to him. Megure simply purses his lips and nods when Shinichi gestures to the ring.

“Let her know, Kudō-kun,” Megure says. “Then secure it for evidence.”

Shinichi slips the box into his pocket and turns to Takagi. “I’ll talk to her. Please notify me if you find anything.”

“Ha-hai!”

Shinichi grimaces as he heads down the hall. He notices the door at the end is open. Inside, he sees two figures—one being Sato and the other presumably the girlfriend—sitting on the bed. Heaving a sigh, he presses forward.

“May I come in?” he asks, rapping the back of his hand against the open door.

“Kudō-kun! Just in time,” Sato says, turning to smile at him. He nods in greeting. “Megure-keibu suggested you might want to ask your own questions. Shishido-san says she’s ready now.”

“Thank you, Sato-keiji.” Given that both of the women were seated on Tanaka’s bed, Shinichi stood in front of them awkwardly before he pulled the desk’s chair towards him. With as pleasant a smile as he could muster given the circumstances, he says, “My name is Kudō Shinichi. Shishido-san, I understand that you are Tanaka Kenji-san’s girlfriend? How long had you two been dating?”

Shishido gives him a watery smile as she nods. “Ke-Kenji and I have been dating since our second year of high school.”

Assuming she’s also twenty-one, then the two had been dating for about five years. Interesting. He glances around the room. There’s nothing to suggest a woman living here. So, Shishido and Tanaka had yet to move in together. Perhaps the two were waiting to move together in after marriage?

“Can you tell me when the last time you spoke with Tanaka-san was?” he inquires, watching her for any tells that she may be lying. As she’s the one who found the body, it’s only natural that she would find herself as the top suspect; however, her answer and its verity may change that.

“He called me around 9 p.m.,” she tells him, looking like she’s about to burst into tears. “He asked me to come over today—said he had a surprise for me.” When she wipes the corner of her eye, there’s a streak of mascara left on her face. “I was in the middle of a shift at Lawson, so I just said yes and hung up.” With a sniffle, she adds, “I was supposed to be here by 9, but I overslept.”

Lawson. A convenience store. He’ll have to check if one of the officers verified her that statement. Jotting this down in his tiny notebook, he allows for Sato to console the woman. Privately, Shinichi thinks about how odd it is to see Sato acting so quiet and soothing in contrast to her usually—for lack of better words—dangerous demeanor. Though, when he thinks about it, her softer side came out plenty of times whenever she spoke with him as Conan or to the kids.

When he looks up, about to ask if Shishido is still up for questioning, he notices that the buttons her top had been improperly buttoned as though she had gotten dressed in a hurry. She could be telling the truth or she quickly changed out of another shirt when it got covered in the victim’s blood during the attack, but he’ll give her the benefit of the doubt until he has more information. And, quickly realizing how inappropriate it may seem to be staring at the buttons of her top, he looks up.

“Are you still okay with questioning?” he asks. She nods while pulling out a handkerchief. With the affirmation, he continues. “Where were you between 2 a.m. and 7 a.m.?”

“Sleeping,” she mutters, hiccuping in the middle of the word.

He winces. “I don’t suppose you live with someone who could verify that, do you?”

“My roommate’s been staying with her parents for the past week.” She sniffles. “And we don’t talk to the neighbors in our building, so they probably got nothing to say.”

He purses his lips and asks for the name of the building. When she tells him the name, it’s only after he writes it down that he realizes that she lives in the same apartment building as Ayumi. It would take her about half an hour to get here then. Shinichi makes a note to have Megure send someone over to confirm that Shishido did not leave her apartment before ten a.m.

“Thank you,” he says. Shinichi wracks his brain for anything else he can ask. “Did you and Tanaka-san fight recently?” When she looks at him with an expression of devastated offense, he hastily adds, “I’m not suspecting you of having killed him, but please understand that I’m only asking so I can get a feel for your relationship with Tanaka-san.”

And for a motive to murder him, he thinks to himself. Of course, the benefit of the doubt still stands.

Sighing, she says, “We had a huge fight about a month ago—we’ve never fought so hard. It… it was because I asked how he felt about living together and he said he wanted to wait until we were married, but he said he didn’t want to get married to anyone but his—” she chokes on a sob “—his Fated.” She rubs her eyes. “We went to see a counselor that one of his friends recommended to him or something. Don’t know why. Didn’t think we needed to see one. I thought—I thought we were fine after that.” When she looks him dead in the eye, she adds, “I-I’d never kill him over that. I don’t care about being Fated, but apparently he does—did. I… fuck.”

Sato shushes her while rubbing circles on her back before she, too, makes note of this. Shinichi shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to do or say in this situation. So, he waits patiently for the tears to pass.

Fated, she says. Shinichi has to resist the urge to groan. There’s that stupid word again.

“Did you two ever check to see if you were... Fated?” he asks.

Sato looks confused by his words, but he ignores her look when Shishido says, “N-no. Even if we weren’t, that doesn’t change my feelings for him. It’s not like you can easily find a Seer business anymore.” She looks away and bitterly adds, “Kenji always… he always talked about how much he wanted us to be Fated. Something about how you can only be your happiest with the person you’re Fated with.”

Not true, he thinks sullenly. Sure, it’s said that there is something almost fulfilling when you find your Fated, but Shinichi is a firm believer in making one’s own happiness with whomever they choose.

“Fated?” Sato echoes, looking dubious. “Not many people care about that type of stuff anymore. It’s usually the older generations.”

“Yeah, well, Kenji obviously did,” Shishido mutters.

Shinichi frowns. He fingers his glasses, wondering if it’s worth checking out whether Shishido and Tanaka were Fated. It’s been a while since he’s taken the glasses off with so many people around though.

“Do you know what he meant to surprise you with?” he asks, mind drifting to the velvet box in his pocket.

When she shakes her head, he expels a sigh as he leans back in his seat. That… that may complicate things. If she truly doesn’t know…

“Do you want to know?”

“What does—” He holds a hand up, prompting Sato to close her mouth while he repeats his question in a voice which he hopes conveys his seriousness.

Slowly but surely, Shishido nods, looking apprehensive. Shinichi takes a deep breath as he pulls out the box, holding it out to her. Sato’s eyes widen in realization. Shishido stares at it.

“I think this,” he says, smiling sadly, “belongs to you.”

---

After Shishido found herself having a breakdown while clutching the ring to her chest, Sato decided to call it a day. They could return for questioning at a later date and time now that they had her contact information. Shinichi couldn’t object—not when he saw Ran’s face in Shishido’s dark hair and tearful bluish-purple eyes.

Sato and Takagi had driven Shishido back to her apartment while Shinichi went to the station with Megure, exchanging notes and observations in the car, and signed in as a consultant. By the time the pair had returned, forensics had narrowed the time of death to around 7:30 a.m., which means that Shishido would have had to leave her apartment around 7:00 to have killed Tanaka. And, according to Sato and Takagi who had gone ahead and verified Shishido’s alibi via security footage, she likely could not have done it since footage shows her leaving around 9:58 and there were no alternative routes for her to have taken.

Shinichi looks over the first case file. The victim, twenty-seven-year-old office worker Yoshino Yui, was found in her home by her twenty-five-year-old girlfriend Niwa Kiyoko. Same cause of death as Tanaka Kenji. Had been dead for three hours. Nothing else of note.

He turns to the second case file. The victim was thirty-two-year-old Mitsue Shiba, who worked as a baker at a bakery in Beika’s downtown shopping district. He had been found by his wife, Mino, in their home after she returned from an outing with two of her coworkers. He had been dead for five hours. Again, nothing jumps out at him aside from the victim having died the same way the other two had.

The only indication of it being the same killer would be the way each victim died. But… what’s the connection? Is there something connecting each victim or are they chosen at random? That… that doesn’t sound very reassuring—the being chosen at random prospect, that is. If this really is a serial killer with little to no criteria for choosing their victims…

“Kudō-kun?”

Shinichi looks up to meet Sato’s curious gaze. “Wataru brought you the case files, right?” she asks, nursing a fresh cup of coffee. The scent tickles his nose. Her eyes drop to the desk. “Oh, good. So, what do you think?”

“I literally just got them,” he says, giving her a half-smile. It falls away as he turns back to the case files. “Well… I can’t say for certain, but I’m inclined to think it’s the same killer. I’ve only skimmed the files, but…” He scratches his cheek. There’s no doubt in his mind that Sato realizes the distinct lack of connections between the victims. “I’d like to ask the girlfriend and the wife a few questions.” Glancing at his watch, he frowns. It’s just after noon, so maybe a lunch break is in order. “Can you check to see if either of them are available later today?”

“On it,” Sato replies without missing a beat. “Anything else?”

Shinichi shakes his head. “Thank you. Sorry for troubling you. I think I’m gonna take a lunch break now, if that’s okay.”

“You hardly need anyone’s permission to eat,” she retorts with a roll of her eyes. “We are not having a repeat of the bomb scare, am I clear?”

Ah, yes. Hadn’t Sato been the one to find him passed out at a desk in the station at one point during that case? He still feels bad about that. She likes to remind him of it.

“Crystal.”

With that, she disappears with a fleeting smile, leaving the faint scent of jasmine and honeysuckle in her wake. Shinichi sighs to himself and tidies up his desk before grabbing his suit jacket and heading out the door with the case files safely hidden in his messenger bag tucked under his arms. He’ll consult them with a nice glass of iced coffee. Maybe some curry.

“Definitely some curry,” he mutters as his stomach rumbles.

And it’s thirty minutes later that Shinichi finds himself seated in the corner of a Danny’s, ironically enough, with a plate of curry and a tall glass of iced coffee. He cleans off half of the plate before deciding that his stomach is satisfied enough. Then, he pulls out the file on Yoshino Yui’s murder.

Shinichi flips straight to the photos. Thankfully, the scene isn’t gruesome, but he still does his best to keep the pictures hidden from wandering eyes lest he traumatize someone; it is, however, enough to dissuade him from taking anymore bites of his curry for the time being. Serves him right for working on a case over lunch.

He hums. Nothing seems out of the ordinary with Yoshino’s body in the first photo. Shinichi frowns at the image. She’s half-curled up on the floor. One of her slippers is missing. Her long hair is half-covering her face, obscuring the mask of death that had settled on her visage.

Shinichi looks over part of the written report. No signs of anything in her system—sedatives, poisons, drugs… nothing. Stab wound to the chest…

Wait.

Nothing in her system? And a stab wound with its entry point being the front of the body? Did Yoshino see her attacker? The idea has Shinichi digging into the other file after pulling it out without hesitation. Mitsue Shiba also had nothing in his system. And Shinichi is willing to bet that the same can be said for Tanaka.

Hm…

Notes:

Whoa. Hold up. Did... Did I just write a chapter longer than 1k words? Damn.

But ohoho~

I’m so excited for this! I have roughly 7 chapters planned out, but I’m aiming for 10. ^ ^

Anyway. Murder mystery. I got it all planned out. Hopefully I’ll be able to avoid any plot holes, but if there are any in the end, please do hesitate to point them out.

Please feel free to ask questions tho. I’ll probably answer them in future chapters, but there are things I may miss. ^ ^

And, if you’re my FBI agent, sorry for the search history on my phone after researching for this story. I swear I’m just a writer.

Edit: So, I rewrote this so that Shinichi is more of a private eye/police consultant? I was just thinking about the ending and felt that it would make a bit more sense this way. >-< Just... just roll with it. Sksksks. It’s not that weird.

Chapter 2

“Well,” he murmurs around the straw in his mouth, “they each had a significant other.”

Two girlfriends. A boyfriend and girlfriend. A husband and wife. The only other connection between each victim that he can come up with at the moment. If not for the married couple, he’d assume that this supposed serial killer is targeting unmarried couples for whatsoever reason. Perhaps he will be able to find a link if Sato can get in touch with either the girlfriend or the wife.

On that note, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and sees two texts; none of which are from Sato or Takagi, who would probably contact him if there are any available witnesses, but he sees that both are from Kuroba. In other words: unimportant. Somewhat disappointed, he slips his device back into the pocket it had come from and returns his attention to the photos.

Yoshino’s half-curled body and Mitsue’s spread-eagled body don’t particularly strike him as anything odd—though, he can’t deny that something feels off. The former probably spent her last moments writhing in agony, curling up as if it would stem the blood flow. The latter may have fallen back in shock and laid there, unmoving, as the life drained out of him.

All in all, probably not the way either of them had wanted to die.

Shinichi releases a breath as he closes his eyes and rebuilds a scene in his head: a modest living room, small and tidy, refreshments (green tea in an owl-patterned yunomi cup and a blue mug of coffee with its handle to the right if he remembers correctly—and he should hope so given how solid his memory is) on the coffee table, and Tanaka’s dead body in the middle of it all.

Absently, Shinichi massages the inner corners of his eyes, pushing his glasses up for a moment before readjusting them with his eyes still closed.

He pictures Tanaka’s body as it had been found, crumpled on the ground between the TV stand and the coffee table and resembling someone who had simply fallen over—not quite the Western comma shape that Yoshino had taken on or as splayed out as Mitsue had been, but maybe a little bit of both. 

And then his eyes snap open as something clicks into place. As he recalls his earlier thoughts when glancing around the room for the weapon, Shinichi picks up two photos and murmurs, “Nothing in disarray…”

From what he can tell, the rooms in which Yoshino’s and Mitsue’s bodies were found had been in a state similar to Tanaka’s living room: neat.

He jots this down on a notepad that he had brought with him in his messenger bag, circling it and drawing two exclamation points around his note. Shinichi may be the Modern Holmes, but he doubts that even his hero could determine how clean the rooms were simply based on a photo in which the main focus is on the body; however, the rooms seem too clean from what he can see. Perhaps it’s nothing important, but he thinks it’s still something worth noting.

Shinichi also writes down the following next to his little note: Supposing victims were face-to-face with the attacker and had not been drugged, it’s only natural that they would put up a fight. Thus, the scenes should show some sort of disturbance assuming that the victims fought for their lives.

He frowns. But the photos do not betray any signs of struggle. Culprit either cleaned up or struggle never occurred. As an afterthought, he adds: Bodies relocated to scene where found?

Clicking his pen, his frown deepens as he takes another sip of his iced coffee. He’s almost certain that the rooms each victim were found in had been where the murders took place. It would be too risky to relocate the body—then again, when did that stop the countless of murderers that Shinichi has encountered? Maybe there’s a trick he’s missing…

No. Call it instinct—a detective’s intuition, if you will, but he’s fairly certain that there had been no relocating of any of the bodies.

Unlikely. He tacks that onto the end of his last note while pushing back his glasses with the tip of his pinkie.

So why were there no signs of struggle?

Glancing out the window, he sighs, watching cars roll by. Shinichi licks his lips, leaning back in his seat. Would the culprit really risk staying behind to clean up? Take Tanaka’s murder for example: the estimated time of death is 7:30 a.m. or thereabouts and Shishido was supposed to arrive by 9 a.m.. That leaves an hour and a half for cleaning up and getting out of the apartment complex, which is probably more than enough time.

Though, as for the other two… he’ll have to ask the wife or the girlfriend if their significant others had been expecting them at a certain time—he doesn’t think Megure mentioned that when the pair were headed back to the station. There had been three hours between the murder of Yoshino Yui and the discovery of her body. For Mitsue Shiba, there had been five hours.

Could there have been a coincidental change of plans? An uncoincidental change of plans?

Unfortunately, in Shishido Judi’s case, even if she had not overslept and arrived on time, she would have still found her lover’s dead body within the apartment, still with a ring in the right pocket of those faded black jeans.

He sighs. What a shame, he thinks, for such a tragedy to have occurred. Shinichi stares at the photos some more. Neither of the victims seem like the type who would win in a fight, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t try. Why, he himself would struggle in a fight if only because the only means of defense he has are a nasty kick and his limited knowledge of karate imparted onto him by Ran. 

Still, he cares enough about his well-being to fight if his life were in danger. And if the victims valued their lives—Tanaka surely would have given the proposal he had been planning—then they—

Wait.

What if… what if they didn’t see a need to put up a fight?

He jots this down too. Forensics say weapon isn’t a knife. He can only list so many objects that could have potentially caught the wounds found on the victims. Weapon seemingly ordinary and non-threatening. Victims saw weapon and thought nothing of it. Thus, no need to fight.

It’s not as far-fetched as one may believe. A prime example comes of such a situation comes to mind from his time as Conan. Shinichi recalls the case with Hasaka Minayo the beautician. It was the case in which Ran’s mother was used to serve as an alibi. As a hairdresser, Hasaka had been able to bring the weapon near ex-boyfriend and fighter Nakasku Shiro’s neck without arousing his suspicion.

Perhaps a similar scenario had played out? If the victims saw the weapon but didn’t view it as a threat because its presence was to be expected...

Shinichi puzzles over this, setting his pen down in favor of spooning a few more bites of curry into his mouth. He supposes that the victims could have been threatened into not putting up a fight. Or maybe they were simply caught off guard—though, the murderer must be swift and strong in addition to knowing human anatomy well enough to only stab once to hit the heart if that’s the case. Or maybe the attacker had an accomplice who restrained the victims. And those are just a few reasons why there would have been no struggles.

He copies them down.

Hopefully either the girlfriend or the wife are available for questioning. There’s only so much Shinichi can do using the notes in the case files. If not, then he supposes he’ll have to call it a day—though, that’s also if he has no other leads to work with. And he currently doesn’t. Then again, Shinichi may as well just head back to Tanaka’s apartment in case there had been anything he missed. He’s sure that Megure still has some forensics officers on the scene.

And speaking of heading back...

Shinichi glances at his watch. It’s nearing 13:15 now. He probably should be heading back to the station so he can drop the case files off along with his own notes and observations to add to the ones already included in the files.

And, if not already, Megure is going to notice that Shinichi took the case files out with him without permission… again. Given that Shinichi is only a police consultant and not officially on the force himself, it’s likely that he’s already pushing it with looking at the case files let alone taking them. It’s a little disappointing, but he understands. Shinichi supposes that he should count his blessings. Technically, he’s still a civilian—famous detective or not. Being able to glimpse these case files is a privilege that he will gratefully take advantage of.

And, well, hello—consultant! He should reserve some right to the case files of the police want his help!

“Maybe I should have accepted his offer to join,” he mutters. Then again, he’s always talked about how he plans to become a private eye, which he officially did after graduating from university—during that time, he only took on cases when he stumbled upon them, which happened more often than he would like to admit.

It’s nice, he thinks, to be able to work essentially unrestricted.

With a sigh, Shinichi picks up his glass of iced coffee and takes a sip only for the straw to suck on nothing but air. Well, isn’t that just disappointing? And probably also a sign that he really should be leaving. Dismayed, he sets it back down and begins to clean up.

Hopefully, he thinks, this case is wrapped up quickly.

---

When Shinichi returns to the station, after having repeated the process of signing in as a police consultant, which he really should not have to do given how many times he’s come here, he is met with a familiar look of long-suffering on the inspector’s face as he sits behind his desk.

Already, Shinichi knows how this conversation is going to begin.

“Yo,” he says, saluting the man with a sheepish grin. His fingers knock against his glasses as he does so. “Hope you had a nice lunch break, Megure-keibu.”

“And I hope you enjoyed your time out with the case files,” Megure remarks, his voice dry and admonishing. Shinichi nods. He really did—or at least, as much as one can enjoy looking over case files for what’s probably Tokyo’s next serial killer. “Kudō-kun, I’ve known you since your father decided it was a brilliant idea to bring a seven-year-old to a crime scene, but that doesn’t mean I’ll keep letting you walk out with case files that really should not be seen by civilian eyes.”

Shinichi laughs, knowing full well that Megure truly does not care as much as he says he does. He suspects that the inspector only chastises him to keep up with the appearance of a responsible and exasperated veteran officer. With this in mind, he reaches into his messenger bag and holds out the offending case files for Megure to take.

When Megure tugs the folders out of his grip, he smiles. His mind immediately recalls the time his father had taken him to his first official crime scene. At that point, Shinichi had solved the odd case here and there of missing objects within his classrooms and some other things he can only vaguely remember.

At seven, Shinichi had read more than enough mystery novels and other genres in his thirst for knowledge. He wanted to know what a real case was like. Yūsaku did not deny him this opportunity—and, if anything, it seemed like he had been planning to take Shinichi to his first crime scene as soon as he had turned seven.

It was an eye-opening experience as well as his first experience with a dead body. 

For the police, it was a tough enough case that Megure had turned to Yūsaku for help. Shinichi remembers what it was like, watching his father observe the crime scene and interact with the suspects for no more than five minutes. He remembers staring at the body with morbid fascination and unease because human lives are so valuable and how could anyone dare to take one away just like that? 

And he remembers seeing that all-knowing smirk stretching across his father’s face as his glasses glinted in the light.

Because, in just a handful of minutes, his father had seen through the veil of deception when the police were still scrambling for answers. Shinichi vividly remembers as his father played the role of Mycroft and led the police to the culprit without outright saying who.

That, he recalls, is the day Shinichi knew in his heart that he wanted to be a detective.

And with some reluctance, he pulls himself out of his memories to say a rather half-hearted, “Sorry, sorry.”

“You’re lucky I know and trust you,” Megure tells him, his voice still so dry. His eyes drop to the case files before he looks back up at Shinichi, eyebrows raised and a silent question in his eyes.

“Nobody else saw what was in the files,” he says, bobbing his head. “And I’ve included my own notes, if that makes you feel better.”

“It really doesn’t,” mutters the man, following the release of a drawn-out sigh and a quiet shake of his head. He begins to scan the notes Shinichi had left—printed in his neatest writing and on a separate piece of paper so as to not ruin the professional reports—and hums. “Anyway, any thoughts?”

Any thoughts, he says. Shinichi knows what he means: does he think that there a serial killer on the loose or that this is just a series of unfortunate coincidences?

Shinichi sighs. Behind him, one of the officers offers him a chair, which he gratefully takes. He folds one leg over the other and leans back as he says, “Almost definitely serial. M.O.’s the same but still no clear connection.”

“Thought so.” Megure is still reading over his jottings with a tired frown. “Hopefully we’ll figure out how the killer’s choosing their victims—preferably before we have another one on our hands.”

“There’s gotta be something we’re missing,” Shinichi remarks, drumming his fingers on his knee. “Has Sato-keiji mentioned anything about the wife or girlfriend of the other two victims? I asked if she could see if either of them were available for questioning.” At the raised brows, he hastily tacks on, “Not that I think you did a bad job—because you didn’t; you did a great job—but I wanted to ask some things that—”

He pauses when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Curiously, Shinichi pulls it out, hoping that it could be Sato or Takagi updating him on the situation. Unfortunately, when he turns on the device, he sees a new text from Kuroba, asking if they could meet up again later today.

Shinichi really doesn’t have the time for this.

“You, uh, you going to get that?”

Shinichi scoffs. “No,” he says, clearing the notification before dropping his phone in his lap. Kuroba isn’t important right now. “It’s no one worth talking to. But, anyway, as I was saying, there are a few things that it seems you didn’t ask that I’d like to know. Did Sato-keiji get the okay yet from either of them?”

A little dumbfounded but otherwise used to Shinichi’s rather blunt dismissal, Megure says, “Last I saw her, Sato was headed to the parking lot.” He glances at the clock. “If you run now, you could probably catch her before she leaves. I sent her and Takagi-kun to head back to Tanaka’s apartment.”

“Thanks,” Shinichi says, jumping to his feet. He thinks to ask Megure why the pair are supposed to revisit the apartment, but he can get those answers from the two himself. Bowing slightly, he adds, “Later, then, Megure!” before he breaks out into a sprint.

He dodges a rather bemused Shiratori, who is juggling a coffee cup and some files in the other hand. Shinichi manages to apologize before he darts into the hall. When he rounds the corner, he sees Takagi standing in front of the elevator, fumbling with his phone.

“Takagi-keiji!” Shinichi calls out. He sees the man jump, looking over. Shinichi crosses the distance, stopping next to him just as the elevator door opens. “You’re headed back to Tanaka-san’s apartment with Sato-keiji, right? Is it all right if I come?”

“Please,” Takagi replies, gesturing for him to step inside first. Shinichi steps around him. “I was kind of hoping to run into you before we leave. Sato-san said that Niwa Kiyoko-san is free for questioning later today. She said to tell you just in case I saw you before she did.”

Shinichi nods, hitting the button for the parking lot. “So, what’s the reason for returning to the apartment? Forensics should have been out of there by now, right?”

“Well,” Takagi says, scratching the back of his neck. “We got a call from one of the officers. That ring you found? Apparently they can’t seem to find it.”

Oh? Shinichi furrows his brows. The ring is missing? Some part of him doubts that it’s of any true significance to the case, but Megure had wanted it to be taken in as evidence anyway.

“Last I remember, Shishido-san had it, but I thought I saw her give it to one of the forensics officers before you and Sato-keiji drove her back to her own apartment,” he says, frowning. Absently, he readjusts his glasses. He notices that the movement seems to catch Takagi’s attention. “Shishido-san couldn’t have taken it, then.”

“We’re just going to check out the scene.” The elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open, allowing the two to step out. “If we can’t find it, we can check in with Shishido-san just in case.”

Shinichi nods. He doesn’t get a chance to reply because Sato shouts, her voice echoing in the lot, as she leans against the driver’s side of her beloved red Mazda RX-7. Shinichi smiles to himself. It’s been a while since he’s last been inside of it.

“Ah, Kudō-kun, you coming along with us?” she asks, smiling at him. He nods. “Good. I hope Megure-keibu didn’t give you a hard time about the case files.”

“I think he’s pretty used to it now,” Shinichi replies, opening the back passenger door. He slips in, bumping his head on the roof. Right. Not Conan-sized. He really should be used to getting into cars by now. “Anyway, Takagi-keiji says the girlfriend is fine for questioning today?”

“And since you’re coming along, we can head straight to the rendezvous point,” Sato says, buckling up.

In the passenger seat, Takagi twists around as the car’s engine starts. “Is your head okay, Kudō-kun?”

“It takes more than a little bump on the head to incapacitate me.” Shinichi thinks back to all the little bumps he’s gotten. Bad memories, those are. Absently, he rubs the spot he had hit.

“I guess it does,” Takagi murmurs, sounding a little thoughtful. He turns back, facing forward as Sato pulls out of the parking spot. In a clearer voice, he asks, “What do you think about the case?”

Shinichi wonders what Takagi may have meant with those mumbled words. He has always wondered if the man figured out his identity. It had been a risky decision to continue wearing the glasses, after all.

And Haibara had made sure that he would never forget that. She spent the better part of Shinichi’s first weeks after his official return nagging him about how people are bound to figure out just where he spent those few years he claimed to be in hiding.

(Avoiding Haibara had been easier said than done given that she’s the one in charge of monitoring his health and making sure he doesn’t keel over whether it be from the antidote or because he’s run himself ragged trying to solve cases while trying to get his life back.

But forgive him if he’s a little selfish and wanted to be done with the red string business.

These glasses are as close as he can get to being normal.

The strings are obnoxious and bright and a painful reminder of—)

Clearing his throat, he says, “Probably serial. I’m hoping that talking to Niwa-san will help me determine the connection.”

Sato hums. “You’re stuck on that too, huh? Any ideas?”

Shinichi shakes his head despite knowing her and Takagi’s eyes are turned forward. “The victims were all romantically-involved with someone.” He leans back in his seat. “They could have all known each other or had a mutual acquaintance…”

“Megure-keibu asked Shishido-san if she could think of anyone who would want to kill Tanaka-san,” Takagi says. “Apparently he was a well-liked guy. Not the kind to make enemies.”

“And the other two?”

“The only person who disliked Yoshino Yui, according to her girlfriend, was her boss. Yoshino-san was part of the team in charge of securing a deal with another company and when it fell through, the company lost millions,” Sato answers. “Mitsue Shiba was a quiet guy and didn’t have many friends. According to his wife, he spent too much time baking, whether at home or at his job. He didn’t go out much aside from work.”

Takagi pipes up again. “And we looked into it already. Unless there’s something we’re missing, the victims had no prior relationship with each other and there don’t seem to be any mutuals.”

Quietly, he fingers the hinge of his glasses.

---

Shinichi settles into the seat across from the young woman who had introduced herself as Niwa Kiyoko.

The ring had not been recovered at the apartment despite how many people were searching for it. Eventually, the time that Niwa had agreed to had grown closer and the three had to leave the search to forensics. Sato and Takagi had dropped him off to meet with Niwa while they went to see Shishido just in case she had taken it with her.

“You’re awfully young for a police inspector,” Niwa says, managing to smile. She had ordered some sort of pink drink while a generous helping of ice. He watches as she unwraps her straw, plopping it into her cup, and smooths out the straw’s paper wrapper, laying it flat beside her napkin.

Shinichi, on the other hand, has a glass of lemon water. He had gotten his fill of curry and two glasses of iced coffee is more than enough for today. He returns her smile as he shakes his head.

“I’m actually on the case as a consultant,” he tells her, pulling out his notebook. He hesitates, wondering if she will clam up knowing that he isn’t officially with the police—though, he tells himself that Sato or Takagi should have already mentioned this to her. “I’ve read over the case files. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me…?”

“Oh. Okay. All right, I can do that.” She brushes back her bangs but they fan out in front of her eyes again. He notices that her nails are a soft baby blue color, polish chipping off—not that that’s important, but it’s a nice color on the eyes. “Well, um, my name is Niwa Kiyoko. Yui invited me to her house for dinner and that’s when—that’s when I… she…”

“I know,” he says, his voice soft as he places a comforting hand over one of her own. “So, why did Yoshino-san invite you?”

Niwa nods. “It was…” She swallows. “It was our two-year anniversary.”

Oh.

Um.

“She must have been a lovely woman,” Shinichi says, unsure of how to properly respond. He doesn’t want to come across as pitiful or insensitive. And he really would like to know why he hadn’t read about this in any of the reports.

The woman nods, bringing Shinichi’s attention to the dangling earrings that catch the light as they shake. “She’s the best,” Niwa gushes, pulling her hand away to place both over her heart. Shinichi raises his brows. “Such a romantic! I—” She stops, dropping her hands into her lap. “I guess… she is—was the best person. I can’t believe someone would go and kill her. Not even the boss from Hell would do that.” She stares at him, shoulders tensing at some epiphany she has. “You don’t think someone killed her because she was dating me, right?”

“Do you mean that there is someone who may hate you enough to want to kill your girlfriend?” Shinichi wonders aloud, staring back at her. Wouldn’t it just be easier to murder Niwa herself? He frowns. Could Niwa be connected to the other victims?

“I meant because we’re both women,” Niwa deadpans. She sighs, falling against the back of her chair. “You know how it is—some people aren’t that accepting.”

Oh. To be honest, Shinichi hadn’t really thought about that.

“I’m fairly certain this wasn’t a hate crime, Niwa-san, so don’t worry.” 

Shinichi wonders if he’s allowed to tell her that this could be the work of a serial killer whose motives likely aren’t what she fears they may be. Has it been publicized yet? He doesn’t remember hearing anything like that on the news—if he had, he likely would have forced his way into this investigation sooner.

“You’re sure?” she asks, biting on her lip. Her nails are drumming against the table’s surface. The taptaptap is quite soothing on the ears.

He nods. “I’m sure.” When he sees some of the worried lines easing away on her face, he clears his throat. “Moving on, do you by any chance know of a Tanaka Kenji-san? Or a Mitsue Shiba?”

If he remembers correctly, Yoshino Yui had been the first victim. At the time of questioning, there would have been no reason to ask her about these people.

“I don’t think so?” Niwa tilts her head, looking as though she’s mulling over her thoughts and considering these names. Slowly, she shakes her head. “They don’t sound familiar? I know a Yamasaki Kenji though. And my otōsan is a Shiba.” She picks up her drink, sucking on it through the straw. When she pulls away, she asks, “What do those people have to do with the case?” Her eyes flash. “They’re not suspects, are they?”

“It’s not like that,” Shinichi says quickly, hoping that the answer appeases her. He’ll have either Sato or Takagi explain the situation to her once they get here. For now, he doesn’t want her to panic about a possible serial killer. Calmly, he continues his interrogation. “Would Yoshino-san have known them?”

“Probably not,” Niwa replies. “Yui’s only friends are—were from the office—and I know all of them.” She frowns, staring into her drink. “I think she kept in touch with some people from high school though.”

All right then. Shinichi jots this down. Possibly no relationship between any of the victims then.

He picks up his own drink, sipping on his water to buy himself some time. There had been a copy of the initial questions that Niwa had answered. They had been rather straightforward and he doesn’t need any clarification for any of her answers.

“At what time was Yoshino-san expecting you?” he asks, remembering his thoughts from earlier. “Were you late? Early?”

“I… I was early, I think.” She licks her lips. “This happened a few weeks ago, so…” Expelling a sigh causes her bangs to fly upwards a little. “She wanted me over by 7 p.m., but the cake I ordered was done earlier than expected, so I ended up arriving at… around 6:45? It was her favorite—triple chocolate with raspberry filling.” She clears her throat, cheeks flushed as she realizes that she’s getting off topic. “I, uh, I had a receipt for the cake order. It has the time and everything. I think the police took it though.”

“I see.” Shinichi makes note of this. Yoshino has been dead for three hours at that point. If the culprit had stayed behind to clean up, then there would have been enough time to do so and get out without crossing paths with Niwa. “And do you remember what the room looked like when you arrived?”

She frowns. “What do you mean? It—she was just laying there. Like—like a doll.” There’s a sheen in her eyes that makes Shinichi’s throat go dry. He doesn’t know what he should do if she starts to cry. “I wasn’t really concerned about the room when my girlfriend was laying there on the ground, unmoving and—” She stops herself, wiping her eyes with the back of her right hand. “Sorry. I’m just—it’s… I can’t believe sh-she’s…”

Shinichi pushes his glasses back with his pinkie. “I understand, but are you sure there isn’t anything you remember? Did it look like a struggle occurred in the room?”

“I—no?” She sniffs. “It was clean. I thought that was weird because Yu-Yui’s such a slob.” Niwa huffs, looking a little amused and understandably sad and reminiscent. “Last time, it was a mess and I had to clean up for her. We fought about it sometimes, too. I can’t stand it when things are all messy. I guess… I guess she wanted everything to be perfect.” Shinichi watches her hands clench. “Did that help?”

“More than you’d think,” Shinichi replies, writing it down. Now to confirm the state of the room Mitsue had been found in with the victim’s wife. He taps his pen against his lip. “Say, can you tell me…”

Notes:

Hi. There have been changes to the previous chapter. Feel free to reread it if you haven’t already, but the changes aren’t so big that you can’t pick up on them yourself. >-< So, like, if I wrote anything that contradicts what you remember, just roll with it because it’s probably been changed to suit the plot better. Thanks!

Anywho... I forget how weird it is to write Shinichi? Like a post-Conan!Shinichi interacting with other characters? Like we see Conan interacting with these characters so often, but the times we see Shinichi reacting with these same characters... it’s usually during flashbacks or for only a few minutes.

But lol. The irony. Shinichi being dismissive of Kaito. Hoo boy.

We’ll probably see Kaito next chapter? Hehe.

Also, side note, Yukiko doesn’t know that Kaito and Shinichi are Fated? People have been assuming so and I just wanted to clarify.

Anywho. I’m very tired. I struggled writing this. Lol.

Chapter 3

Notes:

a tl;dr for those who don’t feel like rereading just yet:

1) there’s a potential serial killer on the loose—we’ve spoken with the girlfriends to two of the victims, a conversation with the wife of the other still pending.
2) kaito still hasn’t gotten an answer on whether shinichi really is a Seer.
3) shinichi is more of a private detective/on-call consultant.

and that’s all i can think of. happy reading!

“This better be worth my while, Kuroba,” Shinichi says, dryly. He glances at his watch. Haibara expects him over soon to help out with dinner preparation—something about training him to be an eligible bachelor or something to that effect. If asked, he’d say she’s tired of climbing step stools for every step in the kitchen. Not wanting to have a conversation with the door wide open, he steps to the side, gesturing for the man to come in. Unexpected guest or not, his manners will always get the best of him, unfortunately.

Kuroba must have gotten his address from Hakuba who must have begrudgingly got it from Hattori. Shinichi might have a bone to pick with Hattori later, if that’s the case.

”I’d have given you a heads up if you even bothered to respond to my text,” Kuroba deadpans, waving his phone. With a sigh, he invites himself into the house, not even bothering to take his shoes off as they stand in the hallway. “You also never answered my question.”

Shinichi bristles as the other man’s query echoes in his head. True, he had not explicitly confirmed whether he could see the Red Strings of Fate, but Kuroba had seemed so set in his conclusion. He resists the urge to fiddle with his glasses, not wanting to draw anymore attention to them as he can see that it’s not his eyes that Kuroba is looking at but the glasses instead. Then, he sighs and looks Kuroba in the eyes and says, “You seemed confident that I’m a Seer. I’ll humor you—let’s say I am one. You really want me to see if you and your friend are Fated?” At the other’s nod, he continues. “And if you aren’t Fated, you’d like for me to manipulate the strings so that you will be. Why?”

For a moment, Kuroba looks surprised, but the expression quickly schools itself into something more fond and resigned. In this moment, Kuroba looks lighter than Shinichi has ever seen him; it’s a look he remembers seeing on Ran’s face when he was still Conan and she was unquestionably in love with him, not knowing that he was right beside her the whole time.

”I just love her,” Kuroba admits, softly. “And this sort of thing is important to her. Aoko—she’s been my best friend since we were kids. And I was stupid back in high school—never got to tell her how I felt. And I think it’s time now. But, first, I just need to be sure of this one thing for her.”

Something twists and turns in his stomach. Shinichi isn’t sure if it’s because he hasn’t eaten since lunch or if it’s because he understands where Kuroba is coming from. He and Ran had something special between them once, but she had desperately wanted to be with her Fated and he couldn’t bring himself to stop her—especially after seeing her grow in what she thought was his absence. After a few beats of silence, Shinichi sighs, bringing his fingers to rub the space right under his glasses. At this movement, he notices a slight numbness in his wrist; it’s like a thousand microneedles all over. He fights the urge to ground his teeth and just drops his hand, smiling pleasantly, if a bit fake, towards Kuroba.

”I’ll let you know when I’m available. We’ll talk then.”

Kuroba’s responding grin is so bright it hurts.

---

“Breathe in,” Haibara instructs, “and out.”

Shinichi does as he’s told. His inhales are long and slow and his exhales quiet and relaxed. The cool metal of the stethoscope is jarring against his chest. She moves it to another part of his chest, asking him once more to breathe in and out. Haibara repeats the process in two places on his back. He assumes that the sound of his heart and lungs are satisfactory as she pushes away from the examination table, the wheels of her chair almost silent along the floor. She stops right in front of the computer and begins typing away. Haibara turns her head, a glint in her eyes as she levels him with a piercing gaze.

“Have you experienced any changes?” she asks, raising one brow. “It could be small, could be big. And don’t leave anything out. The more you hide, the more you’ll end up hurting yourself.”

He ignores the personal jabs that she’s sent his way. Shinichi isn’t stupid, he knows better than to lie about anything relating to his current condition. He loathes these check-ups with a burning passion. With each one, he feels as though he’s forced to come to terms with the fact that he may never get better. Quietly, he admits, “It feels like it’s getting worse.”

“Elaborate,” she says sharply, turning back to the computer, fingers poised above the keyboard to note down every detail.

Pins and needles climb up his arm. He relays this, citing that it’s most noticeable at night. Today, for example, he had only felt a dull ache at times but it did not largely affect his movement. Shinichi admits that it often accompanies loss of strength, resulting in his grip loosening and objects falling to the floor, much like what had happened earlier to prompt this check-up; he had one last week and wasn’t due to have another until next week, but his episode in the kitchen had Haibara dragging him to the lab. In his opinion, it wasn’t that much of a big deal—sure, yeah, he dropped the knife he was handling while helping prepare dinner, but it didn’t even end up falling on his foot or anything! So, yeah, not a big deal in his books.

To Haibara however…

“Try wearing your brace during the day and limiting your movement,” she advises, her tone clipped. Her keyboard clicks as she makes a quick note. “Any other symptoms? Anything new or different—are your bowel movements ordinary? Cold or hot flashes? Numbness? Tingling?”

“Yes to the last two.” And he should hope his bowel movements aren’t being affected by a condition affecting his arm. “And you know I can’t wear that out in public. Megure-keibu and the others are going to ask questions. How am I supposed to explain that?”

She scoffs. “They might ask questions, but your wrist will be stabilized. It’s a disability, Kudō-kun. And it’s one you’ll have to make peace with before you lose your whole arm in general. You don’t want that, do you?”

Wisely, he stays silent. Shinichi knows she’s exaggerating—at least a little bit. He would never lose his arm, but he might see a limited range in usage and movement in the future if things don’t start to get better. Unfortunately, there is only so much that can be done medically for him. After the Takedown, the FBI and Secret Police were glad to pull some strings to get him the best medical care that money could buy; however, the APTX left his body irreversibly weaker than it had been. Doctors and specialists all had their theories on what his ailment was, resulting from horrible breakage and trauma at the mercy of Gin, but little could be done. Though, if you asked Haibara, she would tell you that Shinichi was hoping to avoid any solutions so that he wouldn’t need to confront the fact that something was horribly wrong with his body.

“If applicable, on a scale of one to five, how would you categorize the pain?”

“… Three on a bad day,” he says, training his eyes on a spot on the floor. Shinichi hasn't buttoned his shirt; it’s easier to unbutton one-handed than it is to button, after all. “One right now. Just above bothersome, but nowhere near incapacitating.”

Haibara clicks away at the computer for a few moments more before she powers it off, shouldering off her lab coat and hanging up the stethoscope. She slides off her rolling chair and ambles over to a drawer, opening it and finding a bottle. She unscrews the lid and he instinctively holds out his good hand. His action is rewarded with two nondescript pills—ones that she had formulated for their unique bodies and circumstances. With a sharp glare, she looks to him and says, “Take one now and the other right before bed. I’ll handle the rest of the dinner preparations.”

“Thanks,” he tells her, popping one in and swallowing it dry with only some difficulty. He slips the other one in the pocket of his pants.

She neglects to respond, instead making her way to the door. Before she crosses the threshold, she casts a look over her shoulder. “You’ve got a spare t-shirt in the guestroom. Use it. As attractive as you are, I’d rather not stare at your chest for all of dinner.”

He flushes at her compliment despite knowing that she’s only teasing. But, no, Shinichi is not pouting right now, thank you very much. He should have known that she’d realize he didn’t have the strength in his hand right now to button up his shirt. With a sigh, he peels himself off the table to find this supposed t-shirt. It might be a bit of a hassle to get his arm in the sleeve, but it would be a lot easier than trying to button his shirt with only his non-dominant hand. 

He quickly finds the shirt. As he’s busy changing, he can smell the pork as it cooks. At least Shinichi had managed to prepare most of the meal before it all happened.

---

When he’s back in his home, his stomach comfortably full, he finds himself sitting in his favorite armchair in the library with a new book he had picked up the other week. A few chapters in, his phone goes off; his ringtone is a little jingle for a chocolate commercial. He sets his book down and, with his good hand, and looks at the Caller I.D. Ran. Without any reservations, he accepts the call, wondering what she wants to talk about at this hour. Instead of being greeted with her sweet voice, Shinichi hears the sound of running water and dishes being stacked. Given the time, he can only assume she just finished having dinner—most likely with a friend like Sonoko as she seldom leaves the dishes for a later hour such as this.

”What’s up?” he says, settling back into his chair. His book is left untouched as he leaves his weakened hand atop its surface. “How was dinner with her royal Highness?”

”How’d you know Sonoko was here?” Ran asks. Then, she pauses. “Scratch that, Mr. Detective. Anyway, I just got some news. Can I ask you something?”

Shinichi smiles, knowing fully well that she can’t see it. “What, not even gonna ask how I’ve been?”

She huffs, fully encapsulating both exasperation and fondness in the brief sound. “Don’t even get me started with you. You think I forgot those first few weeks back in high school after you left me to go home alone after our date to go solving cases around the country for over a year? You never once asked me how I was!” Ran clicks her tongue. “We’ve both been so busy recently I had to make sure you weren’t about to disappear to God know where again!”

”Oi, oi,” he says, rolling his eyes. Despite her words, her tone is still fond and full of that well-meaning exasperation. “I’ve apologized a thousand times for that already. But shoot—you wanted to ask me something?”

“Right! Actually, first, is your wrist still bothering you? I visited Tōsan the other day—you know, he and Kāsan are doing so much better still. He’s been doing well for himself, taking on all of these spousal private investigation cases.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, he went out for drinks with Megure-keibu. Apparently he said you weren’t doing your usual thing.”

Ran is one of the few people he’s told about his wrist. He still hasn’t told her about the Conan thing, but he can at least be honest about this one thing. Thankfully, she didn’t care to ask too many questions as she was more concerned over making sure he didn’t strain himself more than he had to.

”My usual thing?” Shinichi echoes, half-amused and half-confused.

Ran hums. He can almost see her shrugging even as she precariously balances the phone between her ear and her shoulder while washing dishes. “Yeah, your usual thing. You know, taking down the bad guys when they try to get away. Megure-keibu used to always complain about you finding something to kick and nail the baddie on the head—which, you know, was incredibly dangerous and stupid. It’s a miracle you weren’t in the hospital more often.”

There’s an ounce of amusement in her voice and she giggles. Shinichi feels a burning sensation creeping along his neck, coloring his ears. It is kind of embarrassing to think about. Although it hasn’t been that long since he was just an overconfident teenager, he likes to think that he's long since left that foolishness behind.

”Can we not bring this up?” he asks, petulantly. “I only stopped doing it because it’s more effective to let the police handle it—with their guns and handcuffs.”

But also because he can’t risk somehow injuring his wrist again, whether it be from falling over or getting caught in the scuffle of chasing down criminals.

“Are you sure? Your wrist really isn’t bothering you anymore?”

“Well, it’s only sometimes that it acts up,” he admits, not wanting to lie to her too much. Shinichi hates that he feels he can’t be completely honest after all this time of lying to protect her. “Mostly at night. Honest. It’s hardly noticeable.”

She hums, sounding unconvinced. If she doesn’t believe him, then she doesn’t bother putting up a fight about it. “Right... Just remember, there’s no shame in needing help, okay? This isn’t normal. If it gets worse, you should get it checked out. I’ve known a lot of other martial artists who decided to ignore their pains and now they can’t even compete in tournaments.”

”Hai.” Privately, Shinichi thinks about how he already gets his wrist checked out. Sure, Haibara’s expertise isn’t in bones or muscles, but she’s also the only person who knows everything about his body and its quirks—courtesy of the APTX, of course. Although, she has told him off on numerous occasions, claiming that he can feel free to consult someone more suited to this field than she is. He’s yet to find the time. “I know, I know.”

”I’ll spare you from my needling,” she tells him, shutting off the faucet. He hears the plates clatter around; more likely than not, she’s returning the dishes to a cupboard. He wonders what the occasion was—if there were any at all—but then attributes it to a simple girl’s night. “You know, we haven’t seen each other in a while. You’ve been eating okay, right? I know you’ve been learning to cook. You’ll have to invite me over so I can taste it!”

The clear concern in her voice brings a soft smile to his face. He flexes his wrist. Some things never change, huh? Even before and during his time as Conan, she always checked in with him despite not having to. Perhaps that explains a great deal as to why he loved her the way he did for as long as he had. Of course, he still loves her—in fact, he probably loves her more than anyone else in this world—but…

There’s something different about the way he loves her now.

Or maybe he never loved her like that—maybe he just wanted to defy the strings and along the way had managed to fool himself into thinking he was truly head over heels for her and her smile…

But who wouldn’t fall for her? Ran is incredible.

Shinichi has absolutely no idea what he’s done in this life or any past life to deserve someone as lovely as her in his life despite everything that’s happened. He doesn’t deserve her and her kindness, that’s for sure—not after all the lies that accumulated over that time he spent in the body of a grade schooler. And while the transition from childhood friends to sweethearts may not have worked out as he had dreamed, he feels that it’s meant to be this way.

She’s… she’s constant—she’s Ran. And even when the distance between them seems like worlds apart, she’s always right there by his side. Then during his time as Conan, she waited and waited and waited despite how selfish it was of him to ask her to.

God, he loves her just for that. Shinichi can’t imagine life without her. Maybe he won’t tell her, but he would do anything to keep her in his life. Vermouth was right about one thing: Ran really is an angel. But regardless of his feelings for Ran, it’s been far too long since the two have met up—for longer than a few minutes and for reasons other than happenstance, that is. Being (or as she likes to say is Shinichi’s case: trying to be) functional adults leaves them with too little time for hanging out. Their schedules tend to conflict—Shinichi’s because he still prioritizes cases above all else and Ran’s because she has her own job and life to lead.

“Shinichi?”

Pulled from his musings by the sound of her voice, he hums in acknowledgement. Somehow the scowl on her face is audible—and he knows that Ran is scowling, annoyed by the lackluster response. Shinichi should know her well enough to guess her reaction. She’s probably even rolling her eyes in a manner that he dares to say is affectionate even if she prefers to pretend that it isn’t.

“That’s not an answer and you know it,” she says, her voice desert dry. Exaspération bleeds into her voice as she continues. “Look, I don’t care if Sherlock Holmes said that thing about how starving helps the brain or whatever. You’re always forgetting to eat—it isn’t healthy! It’s no wonder you aren’t as tall as your otōsan! Jeez. For someone so smart, you do a lot of stupid things. Ever since you got back, you’ve—”

Shinichi sniffs, tuning her out for the most part because he would prefer not to be lectured. Ever since he got back, she’s found some way to work the same spiel into their conversations. As much as he loves her, he loathes these moments. Over the years, he’s learned to lie with the best of them, but that means nothing for his guilt-ridden conscience.

Deceiving so many people for long enough that you feel like you’re still living in a lie even after it’s over isn’t very healthy, believe it or not.

But, anyway, okay… so maybe Shinichi does often forgo eating—he doesn’t simply forget, thank you very much—if only because he’s never been big on eating anyway and it’s somewhat of a distraction during cases, but Haibara is trying to break him out of—

Distraction?

“Anyway, Sonoko was wondering if—”

He sometimes misses small details when he eats while working on a case—and he blames the fact that he has to actively remind himself to eat, which probably says a lot about his eating habits, but he doesn’t want to talk about that. Shinichi prefers playing with a soccer ball—muscle memory is a true blessing, really. It’s simply easier to lose himself in his cases while allowing for his body to instinctually dribble the ball in whatever fashion he so wishes than to do so while eating where he has to focus on making sure he doesn’t make a mess or leaves the dish alone for so long that it’s no longer in its best condition for consumption.

Haibara has to tell him time and time again to keep his case times and meal times separate. Because even if it’s typical Shinichi fashion to forgo a little food here and there, that means nothing to Haibara, who has taken to monitoring his admittedly less-than-stellar health since his return.

“—eist and she thought that maybe—”

As Holmes once said: the faculties become refined when you starve them. Believe what you will, but Shinichi really does his best thinking when he hasn’t eaten in awhile. All he needs is a little bit of coffee—preferably iced with a splash of coconut water, but black with three sugars is nice too—to pull through. Eating can wait when trouble is afoot…

But perhaps he should revisit those case files as soon as possible. That sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it? But what time should he go in? Noon? Earlier? Later? Maybe noon. Shinichi wants to finish this book if it’s the last thing he does tonight. That means he’ll be up late. And if he’s up late, he may not wake up as early as he’d like. Noon sounds perfect.

And this book is getting good. He only has a few chapters left! After he finishes, Shinichi just might have to read it again—it’ll be just as great the second time, he knows it! If his deduction is correct—and it almost always is—then the criminal must be—

“Hey, Shinichi, are you even listening to me? Have you heard a single thing I’ve said?”

Without missing a beat, he says, “You mentioned Sonoko so I tuned you out,” in the most unapologetic voice. On her end, Ran grumbles about how rude he is to their friend. He snorts. Friends? Him and Sonoko? Sure, yeah, you could call it that. Their dynamic is interesting.

“You’re so annoying, you know that? And mean. You and Sonoko both to each other,” she informs him. And although she cannot see it, he rolls his eyes. “Jirokichi-ojisama challenged Kaitō Kid to steal a jewel he bought during one of his trips. They found the notice earlier today and the heist is gonna be in just two days. And, well, since Conan-kun is gone, she was wondering if maybe you could…?”

In the middle of turning the page with his thumb, he stills.

A… heist? A Kid heist?

Shinichi licks his lips.

Needless to say, heists have no place in Shinichi’s schedule. Kudō Shinichi has no business being there—though, apparently, Kaitō Kid was responsible for that one night, not long before he shrunk, at the Ekoda Clocktower… and of course he was, that ostentatious bastard! Shinichi often wonders how Kaitō Kid felt that night, going up against him. And now that he no longer has any right to the title of Kid Killer, it feels wrong—like going to a heist as Kudō Shinichi would be some sort of mistake despite any of the excuses he could make to justify why he would wish to attend one.

After all, Edogawa Conan had stopped going to heists after the takedown. And Kudō Shinichi did not pick up where he left off. Now, it felt far too late to start. And the last thing he needs is for anyone to start drawing connections between Edogawa Conan and Kudō Shinichi.

“Shinichi?”

“Pass.” He pulls his book closer. “I’m on a case right now. I don’t have time for chasing thieves.”

But he has all the time in the world for reading. Sound logic right there.

“Another one? But you just finished your last case!” She sighs. “Promise me you’ll at least think about it. I’ll email you a copy of the notice. I think it’s pretty straightforward though. Just… if you’re in the area, please come? For me?”

Even now Shinichi finds it hard to say no to her.

“I’ll think about it. Promise.” His chest feels tight upon uttering that last word. He really doesn’t want to break another promise—especially not one he made for Ran. “No guarantees I’ll be there, but…” He swallows. “If I—I’ll go if I’m around.”

“Thank you.” There’s a smile evident in her voice. “Thank you. You won’t regret it. Call me if you do come, okay? I miss my best friend, so I wanna know if I’ll see you. And you could use a break. Conan-kun always had so much fun at heists.”

Oh he knows. The gentleman’s agreement between Kid and Killer… the battle of wits… the challenge and constantly having been kept on his toes… not being treated like the child he appeared to be…

It was refreshing. Exhilarating, even.

The mood now lightened, they exchanged their good nights. Her smile is somehow audible as she hangs up. Shinichi busies himself with his book, ignoring the email notification on his phone. Maybe he’ll look at the notice another time, but for now he’d prefer to stay as far away from Kaitō Kid as possible, not wanting to long for that part of his life.

---

Fingernails dig into the delicate skin of his cheeks—they’re much too full of unshed baby fat. He can’t do anything as Gin half-lifts him off the ground, squeezing tight with a manic grin on his face. It’s a horrifying picture as blood trickles out of Gin’s nose from when he had kicked it. He tries and tries to break free, but his wrist is screaming and he’s beginning to lose his strength all around.

How much longer can he keep on fighting in this state?

“Heh. To think you’ve been under my nose this whole time, making a name for yourself and even manipulating a poor girl’s father into thinking he was a true detective,” says the man—the monster—with a deep, dark chuckle. “Who knew Sherry’s poison could have such an effect?”

Although still in his too-little body, he feels like Shinichi. He had lost his glasses in the scuffle, creating a momentary distraction as the world exploded in red everywhere as the strings appeared and assaulted his eyes. This was all Gin needed to get the upper hand on him, throwing him against the wall multiple times. Blood trickles down Shinichi’s forehead, running down the side of his nose and cheek. Being the sadistic man he is, Gin wipes some of the blood as it reaches his chin before throwing him down.

Shinichi pushes himself up with a gasp, looking up in time to see Gin licking the blood off his thumb with a predatory grin. His wrist aches so terribly; it had most likely broken upon impact just minutes before after he’d been thrown at the wall for a second time. His belt is out of soccer balls and he isn’t sure if there are any tranquilizing darts left in his watch—or if he could even use it in his state.

“I was so close that day when I suspected that oaf. I bet you were sweating bullets just thinking I was about to kill him.” Gin raises his other hand, a gun pointing straight at Shinichi’s face. “Any last words, little detective?”

He wishes he had something snarky to say—a clever quip or even just any idea of how to get out of this situation. As he stares the barrel down, there’s a startling realization as he notices a blackened string attached to Gin’s finger; its frayed end hangs loose.

What had he done?

---

Shinichi awakens with a start. He sits up in the darkness, pressing one hand to his chest to calm his racing heart. His other hand, although weak, grips the fabric of his sheets. He looks around, using the moonlight’s glow to illuminate his surroundings. He identifies the calendar on his desk, a lone sock on the floor, and his coat folded over his chair—of course, he also sees his string stretched all around as his glasses are resting on the nightstand. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Surprisingly, his wrist doesn’t ache. He attributes this to the pills that Haibara had given him. Shinichi falls back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling for only a moment before he closes his eyes, giving them a rest from all of the red of his own soulmate string. He wonders how there was ever a time before he wore those glasses, hiding the red from view.

That day will forever haunt him—the feeling of extreme uselessness and desperation in what he thought was going to be his final moments. Seeing that Gin had his string cut—had denied his Fated… it made him so sick. Rumors and wives tales all foretold that anyone who had their string cut would go crazy. It’s as though cutting it not only cuts off their ties to their Fated, but to their own humanity as well.

He could never dream of doing that.

Vaguely, he begins to recall Kuroba’s outlandish request to make him and his best friend Fated should they not already be. It isn’t an unheard of practice for Seers to manipulate the strings like that, of course; it’s only unheard of for a Fated to not allow themselves to be made Fated with another. Shinichi thinks that it must be so cruel, because then there is someone out there, unwilling but forced to go crazy from the extreme rejection. As Gin’s blackened string burns in his head, he can’t help but wonder which poor soul was Fated to him.

He wonders also how long Gin had gone without a Fated.

Shinichi does open one eye, looking at the alarm clock on his nightstand. 04:08. He had fallen asleep some time around 22:00. Six hours of uninterrupted sleep has been the longest he’s gone since the Takedown. Whatever Haibara had given him had worked really well, all thing’s considered—there’s no overwhelming pain. Tiredness overcomes him once more, weighing his eyes shut; he’s too tired to even breathe, honestly. Slowly, but surely, he falls back asleep.

Notes:

so… been five years since i last updated this one. can i still plead guilty for writer’s block?

wowza. okay, admittedly, i don’t remember where i was going with this and i’m pretty sure i accidentally deleted the note in my notes app that had each chapter plot and all that jazz, so please bear with me. i think i know what i wanted to have happen, it’s only a matter of getting there. parts of this were written within the past five years, others today, so if you notice any changes that’s why!

but yay! some backstory. and my glaringly obvious lack and disregard for science and medicine. basically, shinichi’s wrist is effed up and with all of the APTX bs, no one quite knows how to fix it. poor guy.

anyway, perhaps we will be seeing that heist, sooner or later…

Chapter 4

Before Conan, he had never worn glasses; it would be a touch too close to looking like his father, he always felt. But afterwards, when he began wearing them first as a mask, it became something much more than just an accessory. The glasses became some sort of crutch—or, at least, this is what Haibara would tell him before chasing the diagnosis with a comment about how psychology is too soft of a science for her taste and that she highly recommends he go see a therapist.

By the time he was Shinichi again, almost an entire year after the Takedown due to the various injuries he had acquired and the time it took both for them to heal and for Haibara to synthesize a hopeful final cure, he had grown too used to the glasses for the comfort they gave him. At first, he had hoped to shed the glasses from his identity, but when he grew sick and irritated over all of the red constantly everywhere, he had gone to Agasa.

Agasa, who was one of the few who knew Shinichi had inherited the Sight, and a brilliant if eccentric inventor in his own right. And although Shinichi was accustomed to the red strings, having been born with the ability, the inventor had wanted to understand how the special lenses worked—the ones which would hide the strings from sight.

But Shinichi had grown up used to the strings and even though it was a hassle at times—in those denser population areas, typically—he had never felt a need to hide them. Then, during his first time as an elementary schooler, a company had come out with the prototype lenses; its glass was somehow formulated to allow a Seer to experience life in the way that most others do: without strings. Like most other Seers, like his mother, and even non-Seers, like his father, he was skeptical: how could a simple glass remove the strings from view? And when his parents had offered to buy him his very own pair—curious as they were—he had declined. To this day, Shinichi still does not understand the science behind it. And he does not care to learn either; it’s one of those rare mysteries that he is perfectly content to leave as is.

All he knows is that Agasa had been intrigued despite not being a Seer. The inventor hoped to figure out how such a thing was possible—maybe even engineer a way that works in reverse so that a non-Seer could see the strings and provide a breakthrough miracle that might finally convince the whole world that the strings were real. He managed to obtain some of the special lenses and, after much trial and error, came up with no results. Although, he had managed to integrate his own special technology into the lenses to create Conan’s signature spectacles. For the then-shrunken detective, he cared less about now being able to see the Strings anymore and more about the technological capabilities: criminal-tracking, telescopic lenses, nightvision, etc. just to name a few. But, deep down, it was actually quite refreshing to not see redredred everywhere at all times.

(Red. Red like blood. Red like fire.)

But once Haibara perfected the antidote, long after the Takedown and shortly after Conan had healed, he went and got his eyes checked during a routine check-up as Shinichi only to find that he had developed a slight astigmatism.

It was the perfect excuse to start wearing glasses.

(There is so much blood.)

The strings that used to flood his vision only did so in sparingly few circumstances. It was nice to have something on his face when he was back out in the world; laying low for as long as he did left him immensely paranoid and hypervigilant to a noticeable degree that the police force and his classmates watched him warily when he first came back. Shinichi, despite knowing that the glasses hardly shielded him from view, felt that they gave him somewhat of a barrier. Overtime, he had grown used to fidgeting with his glasses when deep in thought or restless with nerves. And it even served as a physical indicator that he had changed and grown to those who knew his formerly obnoxious self. Why, the first time Megure had seen him after his return, the man clapped him on the shoulder, guffawing about how Shinichi was finally starting to take after his father more. But Ran had stared at him in silence for a few seconds too long when she had seen him in his glasses and he feared in that moment that she had finally found him out; he isn’t quite sure if she has, honestly.

Now seated in the back of Sato’s Mazda RX-7, Shinichi keeps his eyes trained on the ground as he cleans his glasses with a spare wipe that he’s made a habit of carrying around in his back pocket. It’s an interesting reminder of how strange the strings are. The strings behave as if fully tangible, unable to fully defy the laws of physics. Despite not wearing his glasses, he still has some reprieve so long as he doesn’t look out the window. The only strings in the car other than his would be Sato’s and Takagi’s—whether they share the same string is something he does not feel privy to despite the burning curiosity. Shinichi’s own string, which he sees out of the corner of his eye, is caught in the closed door. If he dares to look outside, he would see strings all across the road, climbing up the sides of buildings and caught between closed doors and littering the ground.

But the strings lay along the ground the farther apart a soulmate pair is. When the Fated are close, their string shortens, sometimes coming above the ground depending on the proximity of either person. And as far as Shinichi knows, only a Seer can manipulate the strings through direct touch or via object—but there has to be an intention to do so. If a Seer did not mean to interact with the strings, then the Seer could breeze past the strings. If an ordinary person were to touch a string by accident, then nothing would happen for they are not aware of its existence or presence; like some sort of Schrödinger’s cat scenario. Shinichi isn’t sure how the tangibility works in this manner, but he supposes this is one of those things with no logical explanation. If he weren’t a Seer, he likely would be one of the skeptics as many are these days…

It’s strange to think that there was a time when all he saw was red.

Just as he fixes his glasses back in place, Sato pipes up from the driver’s seat. Conspiratorially, she asks, “Say, Kudō-kun, are you seeing anyone?” as if they were on their way to a restaurant to gossip rather than visit the wife of victim Mitsue Shiba. In a jovial voice, she adds, “I won’t tell Ran-chan if you ask me not to!”

Shinichi just wanted to look over the case files once more with a sharper mind and emptier stomach. Had he known that he would be subjected to the gossip-loving nature of the woman, he might have reconsidered the invitation when Takagi had finally gotten a hold of the victim’s wife. And so, intelligently, he says, “Eh?”

“Sa-Sato-san!” Takagi sputters, his ears turning pink despite not being the one asked about his relationship status. “You can’t—you can’t just ask someone if they’re dating—much less Kudō-kun!” He turns in his seat as much as the seatbelt will allow and attempts to bow his head apologetically. “Kudō-kun, I’d like to apologize for her!”

The two begin to bicker—not heatedly, Shinichi notes gratefully, as Sato laments about there not being enough young officers at the station to tease and Takagi shakes his head fondly yet exasperatedly. The two have come a long way since dancing around each other. Shinichi registers a dull throbbing in his wrist as he settles his hand down in his lap, but he doesn’t dare look as if doing so would make it worsen. Feeling only a little flustered, he tucks the used wipe into his pocket. Despite Haibara’s urging, he left the brace at home.

“No harm done,” he says, easily placating both parties. At Takagi’s skeptical look, he affirms this once more. “Really—I don’t mind.”

Truthfully, Shinichi had not given much thought to relationships or romance since returning to this body. When things did not work out with Ran, he had decided then that he didn’t need love—and he most certainly did not want to be told who to love, either. If he ever meets his Fated, Shinichi isn’t quite sure if he would ever pursue a relationship with this person. Perhaps this is another reason that he has clung on to these glasses; if he hasn’t met his Fated yet, then perhaps he can keep it that way. He loathes the idea of being with someone simply because the so-called Universe is saying it must be so. Shinichi has, in all his years of living, seen many relationships between those who are not Fated. And quite a few of these relationships have been and continue to be largely successful from his perspective.

So, many, it boils down to a need to be in control; he fears not having a choice on who it is he gets to love.

“But, if the traffic division must know,” he begins, lacing a joking tone into his words, “you can tell them that I’m not currently in a relationship.” He pauses when Sato’s eyes begin to twinkle. “And I’m not looking to be in one either, for that matter.” Inwardly, he winces, recalling the various matchmaking attempts that occurred within the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department both as Shinichi and as Conan. He hopes that it goes without saying that he would prefer to not be in the midst of matchmaking schemes—especially by those who took years to recognize their feelings and confess.

Sato seems to hear his silent plea and sighs, slamming on the brake just a touch too quickly for Shinichi’s liking as they get to a stoplight. She takes the opportunity to look back over her shoulder. “That’s too bad, Kudō-kun,” she tells him. Turning back to face the road, she adds, “You’re so handsome! I still don’t understand why you and Ran-chan didn’t stay together when you got back. But at least you two are still good friends, nē?”

In his seat, Takagi groans, but not too miserably. He makes a comment that Shinichi must be too busy solving cases and whatnot to worry about finding a relationship.

“So he’s too busy and we weren’t?” Sato asks, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Takagi makes a long-suffering sound into his hands. Shinichi can’t help but laugh a little. As if she’s one to talk! It took her and Takagi forever to actually start dating…

---

“Thank you for speaking with us, Mino-san,” says Sato, nursing a cup of matcha. The woman had insisted on fixing them all up with a beverage; Shinichi himself was sipping lightly on a can of melon soda while Takagi stared morosely at his own matcha when the woman admitted to not having coffee at the moment. “Takagi-keiji and I are both with the Metropolitan Police Department on this case. And this is Kudō Shinichi-kun, he’s serving as a consultant and has full permission to be present during the investigation.” Conveniently, she manages to leave out any information that betrays the suspected serial killings; there is no sense to cause alarm amongst the general public just yet. “My condolences for having to press you on the matter, but we’d like to ask some questions to see if there’s anything at all that you might know.”

Mino has an air to her that he can’t quite describe. Her dark brunette hair is pulled back into a sleek bun with not a hair out of place. She has on a rather simple pair of pearl studs on her ears and her emerald green sweater is tucked perfectly into her beige linen pants. The woman is very poised and clean cut; a stark contrast from her late husband, who seemed to have been a little less put together based off his case file.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Mino snips with her own cup of matcha at hand. “I’ve been so busy with work and preparing for his wake. I finally found some time today.” She leans back in her seat. “I moved some things around for you, so I’d like to make this as quick as possible.”

Shinichi raises a brow at her nonchalant, uncaring tone. Make this quick? And already working? After finding her husband murdered, upon returning home from an outing? The relaxed posture she takes on and the even tone of her voice tells him that she is fully telling the truth. He wonders if she had at least waited a couple days before returning to work so she could process the loss and grieve. Perhaps it’s because Shinichi’s lucky enough to have never lost a partner in such a tragic way, but he can’t say that he’d want to be working so soon after their passing…

“So, we have it noted that you had just come back from an outing with two coworkers,” Sato says, turning the mood serious. By the glint in her eyes, he wonders if she has a similar idea as him. “Where do you work? I know you were out before the discovery, so if you can think of anyone to verify this that would be helpful. We’d like to construct as accurate a timetable as possible, if possible. The more honest you are, the faster we will be able to find his killer.”

The suggestion is bordering on glaringly obvious, but if Mino notices then she doesn’t say. Instead, the woman sips at her matcha slowly. “I work as a bank teller. It’s an Aichi branch bank over by the closest station here. And my two coworkers, Hana and Junko, were only with me a few hours earlier—around when they said Shiba was killed. After that, I went window shopping.” She pauses. “But they can confirm I was with them. We went to a Korean barbecue restaurant.”

So, a potential alibi assuming that forensics was correct in deducing an approximate time of death; it only holds if she can prove for certain her whereabouts at the proposed time. Still, Shinichi has some suspicions. It bothers him how callous she’s being about her late husband, but maybe that’s just how she is when it comes to traumatizing events such as walking in on your partner’s corpse…

“We can get security footage or ask for a receipt timestamp,” Takagi says, mostly to Sato, who nods seriously. Shinichi makes a mental note to follow up on this so that he can decide whether to rule her out as a suspect. Mino rattles off the name of the restaurant and its address, which Takagi dutifully writes down.

“How would you describe your relationship with Shiba-san?” Shinichi asks, curiosity getting the best of him.

Mino looks at him, one brow delicately raised. In an even voice, she says, “With my husband?” At his nod, she purses her lips. “We’ve been married over ten years now. We were sweethearts back in junior high.”

Ten years and no children from the looks of it; he hadn’t seen a single baby photo or family portraits anywhere. He isn’t judging—for all he knows, they wanted to or were forced to be child-free. Their home is impeccably clean, the fresh scent of jasmine wafting from somewhere without being overpowering. Everything was arranged meticulously, down to a perfect spread of magazines on the coffee table. But married over ten years and having dated since junior high? That’s quite an impressive amount of time to have been together yet have so little to show for it…

“Was he expecting you home when you arrived?” Sato questions, looking rather serious. “Was there a special occasion? An anniversary? A birthday?”

Valid questions, Shinichi thinks, remembering that he had wanted to ask something similar. He recalls that both of the other victims had been expecting their partners for one reason or another. But when Mino replies that there wasn’t anything particularly special about that day, he casts aside any theories he might have had. Although, he wonders if maybe Shiba had decided in his own head that something special was going to happen and that Mino was simply none the wiser.

“Did he have anyone in his life that might have been wishing for his downfall?” Takagi queries. “Friends, family, coworkers?”

She shakes her head. Shinichi’s fingers twitch. He resists the urge to finger his glasses as the dull throb from earlier turns into a numbness that spreads from his wrist to the middle of his forearm. This questioning is getting them nowhere. He begins to ask questions not dissimilar to those he had asked Niwa. How did the room appear upon finding his body? She answered that it was clean, but it always was because she was a bit of a neat freak and hated any degree of disarray. Did the names of the other two victims ring a bell—obviously he asked this without disclosing that they were possibly murdered by the same person or people. But, no, she’s never heard of a Tanaka Kenji or a Yoshino Yui and she can almost certainly say that neither had Shiba unless those two had stopped by the bakery before. And then the big one…

“What was his stance on the Fated and the red strings?” he asks, schooling his features. The woman has not lied to them—not once. Her body language has yet to indicate a full lie, but…

Mino seems confused and annoyed all at once. With a long-suffering sigh, she settles against the back of her seat and drums her fingers on the table. “Shiba was a bit of a romantic at heart. It was endearing when it wasn’t… much,” she says, slowly, as if having to think hard on how to phrase her words. “Seer businesses were before our time, but he’d always wanted to find one and see if we shared a string.” With a shrug, she brings her matcha to her lips. “I didn’t care as much.”

---

When he gets in the car, he makes sure to sit behind Sato this time so that he can use his left hand to close the door. By now, his right hand feels weak. When Shinichi manages to buckle back into his seat, Sato pauses with her key in the ignition.

“Kudō-kun, do you think the red strings have anything to do with these murders?” she asks him, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “You asked Niwa-san that same question. I didn’t know you believed in that sort of thing.”

It was inevitable that either Sato or Takagi would question him, he supposes. Shinichi scratches his cheek lightly. “Well, Shishido-san mentioned it before that she and Tanaka had fought with each other over the topic. Leave no stone unturned. A good detective can’t rule out any possible connection,” he answers. Speaking of, he wonders about the missing ring. Hopefully it turns up, but truthfully neither he nor any of the officers feel too concerned as it likely has little to do with the case; if it were of any significance then it would have been stolen when Tanaka had been murdered. “I’m aware not everyone believes in the string, but I’m inclined to believe in them.”

Something seems to click in Takagi’s head. He thumps the palm of his left hand with the balled fist of his right. “That’s right! Your mother is a Seer! Megure-keibu used to tell us about that. He says that she confirmed he and Midori-san are Fated.” He looks somewhat longingly to where his string would be before adding that Megure, surprisingly, takes it very seriously. “Do you really think that the strings have anything to do with the killer choosing their victims?” After a beat, he then asks, “Wait, but when someone dies, what happens to the string? And the Fated?”

What a loaded question, Shinichi thinks as he seeks out some way to explain it all without losing them. He neglects to inform either officer that he is also a Seer; this information is something that he would like to keep to himself. Shinichi hadn’t wanted to be known for anything but his merit as a detective and it was hard enough being seen as a product of nepotism. Besides, as a child, he had been ridiculed enough by some of the kids about his mother being delusional for thinking she sees the strings.

“In theory, the string still remains. Kāsan says that the bond never becomes severed unless a Seer intentionally does so. The string transcends all known laws of physics according to her. When someone dies before their Fated, nothing truly changes until there is no physical body left—whether flesh or bone,” he says, intentionally making it sound as though he has no firsthand knowledge of the subject. “Even then, after death if a body were to be cremated or decomposed over time, the string would remain intact. As long as a string remains intact, nothing happens to its person.”

Which is why cutting the string never does any good—and one can only cut the string, never just simply untie it from one person to the other. Thus, when the string is reattached, whether to its original strand or to another, the Fated or newly Fated are spared from the damage—to a degree, at least. The truly Fated have an easier time with it. The falsely Fated tend to experience changes, some minute and some so great that it becomes debilitating. Again, this is why the Seer business went out of fashion. Regardless of whether everyone believed in the strings, enough Seers and non-Seers had seen the effects that have occurred with a fair amount of the latter population believing the effects to be a product of extreme psychological distress.

Shinichi wisely keeps this to himself. This whole string business is starting to get on his nerves—or maybe it’s just Kuroba, in all of his obnoxious and persistent glory. Speaking of, he needs to find a time to talk with the latter so he can get this whole thing done and over with; he’s rather tempted to just straight up lie to Kuroba’s face if it turns out he and his childhood friend aren’t Fated; it might be better for everyone after all.

Takagi makes a thoughtful sound at this new information. As she starts the car, Sato remarks that perhaps they should consider getting an expert on the Red Strings of Fate in case there is something worth looking into on the idea of these murders being related to the Fated. Shinichi stays quiet about his abilities. It was, unfortunately, too late for him to have checked whether the surviving partners were Fated with the victims. Besides, it’s not even a fully viable theory—Shishido just admitted that she and Tanaka just happened to get into a fight over it, which doesn’t mean much in relation to the other couples apparently.

Couples?

“Didn’t Shishido-san mention she and Tanaka went to see a counselor during that fight?” Shinichi pipes up, feeling like there’s a new lead to explore. “Perhaps it’s a couple’s counselor. All of the victims were in a relationship.”

“That’s a start,” Sato says, amicably. “Niwa-san and Mino-san didn’t mention anything about therapy though. Write that down, Takagi, maybe we’ll ask anyway. Like Kudō-kun said, we can’t rule out anything.”

---

His phone buzzes to life with an email notification in the midst of puzzling over the case file. Curiously, Shinichi looks to the screen, smiling when he sees Ran’s name pop up. He taps the notification to see a scanned image attachment of a very familiar sight: a heist notice.

Shinichi can’t help himself when he pulls away from the case file.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Shinichi reads. “On this upcoming wind’s day, I request an audience by 1900 hours, sharp. The lunar goddess shall await my acquisition.”

Ran’s words echo in his head. I think it’s pretty straightforward though. And Shinichi can’t help but agree. With a quick Guruguru search yields immediate results for the target. This Wednesday, two days from now, at 7 PM, Kaitō Kid will steal Selene’s Tears, a large moonstone set within a necklace that legend says came from a drop of moonlight—whatever that means, obviously. He swallows, thickly, overcome with an emotion he can’t place. It’s been too long in his opinion since he’s gone anywhere near a heist. And this heist wouldn’t be too far! In fact, it’s—

Another notification pings his phone and, with some annoyance, he finds that it’s Kuroba, reminding him about trying to set up a good time to meet up. Shinichi resists the urge to pinch his glabella. Having to deal with Kuroba’s silly side quest in addition to these serial murders is going to be the death of him. He can hardly stomach Kuroba on a good day for some reason—why, he doesn’t yet know, but he suspects it has to do with the strange feeling he gets around the other as well as Kuroba’s proclivity to showing off in a way that reminds Shinichi of his former self. It’s like looking into a mirror with Kuroba except it’s like a funhouse mirror, warping the vision and bending the light in ways that give one a headache.

“Why did I agree to help this guy?” he asks no one in particular, trying to figure out a response.

---

Kaito sighs, staring once more at his phone. Another few seconds tick by and he’s growing anxious, waiting for the screen to light up with a response from Kudō.

Ugh, Kudō.

He had hoped before that he would actually like this detective—and he kind of does, but only when Kudō doesn’t have some sort of stick up his ass or something. By now, he’s grown fond of even Hakuba, if only because Aoko has a soft spot for the guy… a little too soft, if you’d ask him. Kaito worries that he’s losing the latter. For a while now, Aoko’s grown more distant, choosing to spend her time instead with that half-British detective that waltzed into their classroom wearing a deerstalker cap of all things.

Maybe it’s a bit silly, but he often wonders if he and Aoko are meant to be together—Fated, as his mother would often say about herself and his late father. Perhaps finding out that they are Fated would give him the motivation he needs to keep her as his rock and maybe fight even harder against Snake and his men. Some part of him worries that they might not share the connection that he has longed for, but Kudō more or less said that he could take care of that part…

As Kaito continues to try to justify to himself why he wants Aoko as a soulmate so badly, he thinks of her and everything that makes her beautiful. From her adorably messy hair to her laugh to the frustrated noise she makes as she chases him around after a bit of teasing on his part. And her eyes! Aoko’s eyes have a certain sparkle to them, like a jewel, that ignites when she feels passionate. Then a brief image of blue eyes flashes in his vision—blue eyes which hide behind wide frames…

“I wonder how he’s doing,” he murmurs, suddenly remembering why he thought he might have grown to like Kudō.

Supposedly, Kudō is related to the little detective that used to chase him around with a tranquilizing wrist watch and a self-producing soccer ball belt of all things. Or, perhaps, it should be the other way around. Kaito himself had never fully confirmed it. He thinks he’s heard from Aoko who’s heard from her father who’s heard from who-knows-who that there was a brief period where Kudō and the chibi Tantei were seen together—a period after Kudō’s return and the departure of one Edogawa Conan. Apparently Kudō had been involved in a huge takedown of some criminal organization. He had spent quite a few months still in hiding while the FBI and CIA all worked to catch as many loose ends as they could. Afterwards, Kudō soft-launched his return by simply sitting for high school exams and college applications. Edogawa was seen spending time with the newly returned Kudō before hopping on a flight to the States.

Although he would sorely miss the little detective, Kaito hadn’t paid too much mind; after all, he had his own life to navigate.

Suddenly, a ping captures his attention. It’s a text from Kudō.

Is this Wednesday at 6:30 PM amendable? This is where we’d be meeting.

There’s a link with a Guruguru Maps location.

“Is he attending the heist?” Kaito asks, to no one in particular, when the date and location sink in. Another notification bumps him up. “My friend invited me to a Kid heist. You are welcome to join us—she’ll be preoccupied, so there will be time to discuss our business.”

He snorts, amused by the tone. It’s so formal and businesslike.

Kaito hadn’t planned on attending his own heist as a civilian; in fact, he had told Aoko that he planned to meet with someone when she had invited him to stand with her to support her father. But, if this was what Kudō wanted…

“I’ll be there,” he says, typing it out. “See you then.”

And he then proceeds to chuckle at his own stilted tone.

Notes:

got some Strings lore building and a Kaito interlude!

i have re-mapped out what i want each chapter to contain so it is simply a matter of keeping inspiration, but hopefully i see this through til the end!

edit: so, if it wasn’t clear, when Shinichi got his body back, Haibara would disguise herself as Conan and they’d make it a point to be seen together to further solidify a distinction between the two identities. or perhaps it was Hattori as Shinichi and Conan as Conan. take your pick! ^ ^

Chapter 5

Like a boulder, the glasses weigh heavily in his hands despite their petite frame. Alone in his house, the only string in sight is his own. He pays it little heed as he sets the glasses down carefully. This is the most free that Shinichi can feel nowadays—sans glasses and alone in a house far too big and far too empty for his comfort after time spent crammed in the Mouri’s apartment above the agency. But if he tries hard enough, Shinichi can pretend that his own string does not even exist. Sometimes he wonders how he had ever lived his life bombarded with strings everywhere he looked, painting his vision with that color.

Other times he wishes he could go back to that life—the life before the glasses, before Conan—when he thought that the world was empty without all of the red.

---

The nostalgia comes as a surprise to him; it’s like rediscovering the book you begged your mother to read you each night, over and over despite her mounting boredom with each repeated read. But Shinichi had not realized just how much going to heists had impacted him. This feeling… It is absolutely addictive. He feels like a man wandering in the desert drinking water for what feels like the first time in days. In fact, Shinichi can feel himself drinking up the atmosphere with all its liveliness and excitement. The heist has yet to begin and even still the world around him buzzes with anticipation. Everyone seems to be on their toes—some literally—and excited or nervous for one reason or another. Save for the task force and the minority of protestors, everyone appears happy and carefree as many wonder about the tricks that will be witnessed tonight. There is a spark in the air that fills Shinichi with a lightness that leaves his heart pounding for all of the best reasons. He missed this.

He really did.

The heist notice echoes in his mind as he scans the crowd. It was disappointingly easy to decipher, so he can’t help but feel there must be more there, whether it be a hidden message or a double meaning that somehow escaped him. Flashes of a now-distant memory of whirring helicopter blades and spotlights and fireworks and smoke enter his mind.

Despite himself, Shinichi counts down the seconds.

He pulls back the sleeve of his sweatshirt—one oversized enough to hide the brace he begrudgingly wears today—to find that Ran should be at the entrance within half an hour. It’s only 6:15, so his rendezvous with Kuroba is approaching. And faster than he would like, honestly. Shinichi rues the idea of further discussing Kuroba’s string conundrum. He wishes that he had insisted more strongly that he was not a Seer or at least made it abundantly clear that he did not partake in the Seer business as his own mother had at one point. But even though he can hardly call Kuroba a friend, he just could not bring himself to lie.

But now he’s thought about those stupid strings more times in the past week than he has in a long, long time. Between Kuroba's request and the potential relation to his current case... it's a bit much. He has a serial killer to catch. What is he doing wasting time dealing with another person's love life?

Before Conan, the strings were a normal part of his life. After Conan, he became more comfortable in hiding them away. And that color—that red—was only a bitter reminder of all the things he had seen.

The very idea of manipulating someone’s string—or, rather, Kuroba’s string—sits uncomfortably in his chest. His mind and his stomach churn, soured by this thought; perhaps it’s the fact that manipulating Kuroba’s string means manipulating multiple strings without the consent of their owners. If Kuroba isn’t Fated with his hopeful, then he’s asking Shinichi to change that fate for everyone involved.

“What a selfish guy,” Shinichi murmurs. Subtly, he lowers his gaze to where his own string would be. He’s seen what happened to Gin with his broken string. He would never wish that fate on anyone else. Some days, Shinichi even dares to wonder whether Gin might have still turned out the way he had had his string not been cut.

But Shinichi doesn’t even know if he ever wishes to know who his Fated is. He made it sixteen years without meeting them, that’s for certain! Whether he met his Fated as Conan or now with his glasses is an idea he finds he doesn’t mind never knowing. He doesn’t find his heart aching for a person that a so-called destiny has quite literally tied him to. Shinichi thinks he may be able to live, content with whoever he chooses to love if the day ever comes. Fate means little to him in the case of the strings. The heart is a fickle matter and he does not think a string that the majority of the world cannot see should dictate his own feelings.

With a shiver, he readjusts his sleeves to cover his hands as best he can. The night is chilly despite the day’s earlier temperature; its air is biting in a way unbecoming of the approaching Summer. Despite his coldness, he savors this feeling, knowing soon that Summer will worm its way in. May is just around the corner. The year is flying by and everyone seems to be moving forward.

But here stays Shinichi, stagnant under the weight of these glasses and the secrets that they carry. He worries, sometimes, that here he will stay, bound to this spot by truths he can’t fully share; half-truths tumble out of his mouth constantly nowadays.

Shinichi distracts himself, grounding himself with the task of people-watching. Strangers bustle past. Couples are laughing or debating the tricks that will be seen tonight. Task force patrols with vigilant eyes and fuzzy radios. No one pays him much heed. Once upon a time, this might have offended him. Now, he feels content in blending into the background—a product of spending far too long paranoid and hiding to ensure his own safety. Shinichi recognizes a few of the officers even if he cannot recall their names; he can’t even remember the last heist that he had attended—or rather, the last heist that Edogawa Conan attended; the takedown of the Black Organization and the completion of the antidote had both come as surprises after all and left very little room for saying goodbyes.

Then his instincts shoot up. The hairs on his nape stand straight. His muscles go taut from his shoulders to his ears. Shinichi whips his head around, grasping onto the railing in front of him as he drinks in the faces of everyone within the general vicinity. Without thinking, he takes a step back, his brace-covered hand going instinctively to his watch. Somebody is watching him—he’s sure of it.

But that can’t be—who would be watching him? And now? They should all be gone now. So who...?

He continues to scan the crowd, his heart pounding, and then:

“Man, don’t you just love these things? I mean, just look at this crowd. Crazy, right?”

Shinichi jolts, fighting all instinct to aim his watch and shoot because he immediately recognizes Kuroba’s voice. A quick glance to his right shows Kuroba, who seems to have materialized out of nowhere and into Shinichi’s blind spot. At this point, he finds that the weight seems to have disappeared; the eyes on him are gone. It must have been Kuroba, watching for an opening to sneak up on him.

Of course it was. It just seems like something that the other would do.

Kuroba flashes a grin, stepping back to lean on the railing that Shinichi had been using. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. Kuroba’s hair is tousled as it always is. Then, he speaks in that careless manner he always does. “I know I’m early, but I figured I’d chance it to see if you were early too. You seem like the type. Plus, I just love Kid heists—huge, huge fan, actually—and wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a second of it!” Kuroba glances at the museum entrance, whistling at the sheer amount of people. “According to Hakubastard, Kid is gonna steal the jewel by 7.”

“Something like that,” Shinichi replies, absently, as he surveys the man standing next to him. He drops his hand from his watch as relief floods his body, leaving him weak-limbed. His wrist throbs. At the reminder of the time, he says, “I’m sure my friend won’t mind if you join us. I’m meeting her soon actually.”

“Actually,” begins Kuroba, one hand moving to rub the back of his neck. A nervous gesture. “That friend I was talking to you about… she’s actually here too. I told her I wasn’t coming because I was meeting someone else, but then you decided that we’d meet here. And, well, what I’m trying to say is that maybe you can check tonight…?”

As Kuroba trails away, he thankfully drops his gaze. Although Shinichi doesn’t know Kuroba all too well, it’s still strange to see him in this manner. The logical part of his brain says this is the best opportunity to put the Kuroba-strings business behind him. Even if Kuroba isn’t Fated with her, he can always lie if only so he may be able to spare more focus on the case. The illogical part of his brain can’t comprehend lying to Kuroba about this. But some lies are necessary. His time as Conan taught him as much.

“Let’s just go find our friends,” Shinichi says, not quite responding the way Kuroba must want him to.

But the magician takes it in stride, leading the way through the crowd with a casual gait as if he belonged there amidst a sea of people. Shinichi follows without question. For one heart-stuttering moment, Kuroba looks over his shoulder. “So, you’re a detective—what did you make of Kid’s notice?”

Shinichi hums, thankful for a change of topic. He quickens his pace to walk alongside Kuroba as he places his gaze forward, seeking out Ran’s figure in the crowd. “He only said that he wanted an audience by 1900 hours, not that he’d steal the jewel. I’d bet that he’s hoping to utilize the crowd somehow.” After a beat, he says, “Judging by his style, at least.”

“His style?” Kuroba echoes, curiosity in his voice. “I didn’t realize you went to these often enough to know that. I’ve never seen you at one.”

“I… knew someone who did,” Shinichi says, vaguely. “But, ah, this person moved away. I just heard a lot about them.”

If Kuroba is more curious, he doesn’t say. There’s a few beats of silence between them. Shinichi decides that now is as good a time as any to make his thoughts clear.

“Before we find either of our friends, I just wanted to clarify. Your Fated… I’m not agreeing to make you Fated with your friend.”

When Shinichi steals a peek, there’s a downturn to Kuroba’s lips—a movement so small and fleeting that Shinichi could say he imagined it; it still tugs at his chest all the same. But then the other speaks.

“I understand,” says Kuroba at last, tone clipped and eyes clouded. “I’d at least like to know. But are you sure—”

“Kuroba.” Shinichi’s voice slips out from him quicker than he intended. And more sharp as well. He doesn’t know why this frustrates him so much. “I’ve seen what happens when people interfere with the strings.”

He leaves it at that, hoping that maybe Kuroba won’t press. His wrist pulses again at the reminder of Gin. It makes his stomach open up into a pit to think of Gin with his cut, blackened string dangling without a tether besides the monster’s own finger. For a brief moment, he wonders if Gin had chosen that fate for himself or if someone had sent him down that path. It sickens him either way. Things could have been different. Maybe...

“Making you and her Fated affects two others aside from yourselves,” Shinichi murmurs. “And it can change you—both of you. I need consent, Kuroba. From everyone.”

The silence that follows stretches. The taste of iron—red blood—manifests on his tongue in a phantom memory as cold, unforgiving eyes glow in the back of his brain. The dull ache in his wrist grounds him. A beat passes. Then another. And another. Then, finally—

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get there,” says Kuroba, sharply, turning away from him.

“You mean ‘cross that bridge’,” corrects Shinichi, mostly absently.

“Let’s just go find our friends,” Kuroba decides, marching forward like a soldier on a mission.

---

As luck would have it, their friends are easily found. Ran and Sonoko are together as expected, with the unexpected company of one Hakuba Saguru and a brunette that Shinichi now knows as Nakamori Aoko. The four had been engaged in a deep conversation until Sonoko noticed Shinichi approaching.

“BaKaito!” shouts Aoko-san, hands flying to her hips as she glares at her friend. So this is who Kuroba hopes to be Fated with. “Aoko thought you were meeting someone!”

“Yeah, him,” says Kuroba, jabbing a thumb in Shinichi’s direction. He sounds annoyed—so unlike himself a few moments prior. “I can have other friends too, ya know. But then it turned out Kudō wanted to come to the heist, so I ended up here anyway. Funny how that works, huh?”

“Not that funny,” Hakuba murmurs. His voice is pitched so low that Shinichi almost misses it.

Briefly, Shinichi wonders what the other detective means. But then Kuroba and Aoko-san begin to squabble; it’s not exactly heated, but the two are engaged in a familiar dance. He can see the fondness in Kuroba’s eyes as the magician tries to defend himself. He can hear the exasperation in Aoko-san’s voice, but there’s a tinge of fondness there too. But then Sonoko makes a comment about how it’s like watching himself and Ran back in high school, fighting over nonsensical things despite their ‘obvious attraction’ to each other at the time—Sonoko’s words, not his. Ran sputters and reminds her best friend that those days were long behind her and Shinichi—they’d tried once before and it hadn’t worked out, but they are still the best of friends all the same.

Sonoko continues to lament to Ran about missed opportunities while Kuroba and his friend are still deep into their tiff. At this point, Hakuba settles beside him. “I’m honestly not that surprised to see you and Kuroba together.” When Shinichi neglects to respond right away, he adds, “Though, I am surprised to see you here at all, Kudō-san.”

“Huh?” says Shinichi, eloquent as ever.

“You haven’t been to a heist since you returned,” Hakuba elaborates, seemingly unaware as tension creeps into Shinichi’s body. His return? Shinichi had never been to a heist as himself—not that he can recall—so the only reason why anyone would ever assume he’d go to one is if… if they knew. But Hakuba can’t possibly know, right? Outside of the FBI, CIA, PSB, and other similar parties, no one knew of Shinichi’s stint as a grade schooler. There's no way that someone as logical as Hakuba would ever guess that...

“I’m more interested in solving murders,” Shinichi states, simply.

“I gathered as much considering you’ve only attended a single heist in the past.” Hakuba watches his two friends—if Kuroba is even a friend—and sniffs. “As I’ve been told, you shot at Kid from within a helicopter, revealing the trick that he’d used to make it appear as though the clock face had been stolen.”

That was Kid? is all Shinichi can think. He vaguely recalls this memory; it wasn’t long before he became Conan, but it was certainly before he’d ever heard of the Phantom Thief. He remembers how exciting it had been—how utterly captivated he was by the brilliance at play. Though, in hindsight, of course that was Kid. He should have known after attending a few heists as Conan. That level of audacity, of showmanship… it screams Kid.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re not surprised to see me and Kuroba together,” he points out.

Hakuba opens his mouth to respond, but then Kuroba’s infuriatingly nonchalant voice interrupts to say, “Hey, Kudō, you’ve got a lil something on your glasses,” and then suddenly the world explodes in pink.

The smoke is sudden and all too thick. It floods Shinichi’s lungs, blossoming inside in a manner that leaves him coughing. All around him, voices collide in a cacophony of sounds. Aoko-san shouts at Kuroba for being rude, her voice mostly unfazed as if she’s used to this sort of thing. Ran grounds him with a warm hand on his arm as she frets between her own coughs. Sonoko’s delighted shrieks suggest her excitement. Hakuba sputters and hacks, probably having received the brunt of the smoke as well; he curses out Kuroba in a surprisingly dignified manner.

But Shinichi hardly hears them as the smoke gives way, pink fading out and red, red, red cutting through his vision.

Then he sees Kuroba, staring down at him—when had he dropped to his knees?—and wearing an apologetic look on his face as he holds out a hand and the stolen glasses.

Shinichi moves to take Kuroba’s offered hand when he sees it: a string as red as blood, taut as steel, and stretching only mere centimeters between them. The earth gives way—or so it feels. Shinichi’s stomach lurches as he takes in the length of the string. His heart quickens into a rhythm which deafens him. Kuroba’s lips are forming words, but Shinichi can hardly hear them as he allows himself to be helped up. As his eyes glide over to Aoko-san, he finds that there is no mistaking it: Kuroba and Aoko-san are not Fated.

This revelation comes as a hollow blow. Shinichi doesn’t know why it shocks him so much—why he’s suddenly feeling winded and like the world has turned upside down on him. He swallows, allowing Ran’s gentle hands to search his body as she ensures his well-being.

“Oh, jeez, sorry about the smoke! It must’ve gone off accidentally.” Kuroba’s voice cuts through to him, piercing Shinichi’s shell-shocked world. “Occupational hazards to being a magician. Things just fall outta nowhere and all that. Anyway, there really was a smudge on the lens. But I got it!”

Kuroba wiggles the glasses as if he’s showing off a trophy. To anyone else, this is a lighthearted tease. To Shinichi, this is a taunt. It means more to Shinichi than Kuroba may ever know.

“Thanks, Kuroba,” Shinichi replies, his voice tight. He snatches back his glasses, desperate to reclaim the reprieve that they provide him. His heart continues racing, almost beating out of his chest. Being Fated to Kuroba is a truth he had not foreseen.

“Are you all right, Kudō-san?” Hakuba’s critical gaze sweeps over him. For some reason, Shinichi feels more seen than he had ever felt in awhile. “You’re looking a little pale.”

“I am so sorry about him,” Aoko-san shouts, bowing down. “BaKaito didn’t mean that, right? This dummy just doesn’t know when to quit.”

Ran continues her fretting. She places a hand on his forehead and gently takes his afflicted wrist. “No fever... You’re wearing your brace…” She bites her lip, looking torn. “I promised Sonoko I’d stay and watch, but I really think we need to bring you home.” Turning to the heiress, she asks, “Sonoko, can you see if Jurokichi-ojisama can get us a ride?”

Sonoko gasps, sounding rather affronted at the suggestion. “But Ran! You promised! I need this detective geek to capture Kid-sama for me!” she all but wails, apparently not caring much about Shinichi’s well-being. He isn’t entirely offended though. “He’s my only hope ever since that chibi brat went and left us.”

It’s too much—the nonstop conversation between this group and the ambience of the increasingly agitated crowd. It’s almost 7 PM. Kid is probably hiding somewhere, wearing a face that isn’t his, awaiting the time to make his entrance. Despite his excitement, he can’t be here right now. Someone’s speaking, but Shinichi can’t be bothered to determine who as he licks his lips.

“I can make it home by myself just fine,” Shinichi insists, straightening himself up. He shoots Ran a small smile before he bows towards everyone. “It was nice to meet you, Aoko-san. Good to see you, Hakuba, Kuroba. My apologies.” Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heels. He can afford to miss the heist—it’s not like Kid will miss Kudō Shinichi after all.

Shinichi stuffs his hands into his pockets, trying to calm the thudding in his ribcage that makes it feel like his whole body is falling apart. There is a weight on the back of his neck, but when he dares to peek everyone has already gone inside. Still, there remains the unmistakable feeling of being watched—it’s probably Kuroba, curious and eager to know what he had seen. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he can’t bring himself to look in case it’s Kuroba asking for a consensus.

“He doesn’t want me,” he says quietly. Then, he chastises himself. Why should he care whether Kuroba would want to date him? Shinichi never put much stock into the Strings—who said your soulmate had to be romantic anyway? “I’ll just tell him they’re Fated and get on with it.”

But something inside him twists horribly at the thought of telling such a lie.

---

With Shinichi’s abrupt departure, the four still remaining exchange glances. The crowd moves on around them. It's mostly quiet. Then, Sonoko pipes up, hands on her hips as she sighs loudly.

“What a drama queen,” Sonoko sniffs, turning her nose up and ignoring Ran’s sound of offense on Shinichi’s behalf. “I can’t believe he’d ditch me like that! Who else is supposed to capture Kid-sama for me now that that chibi brat is gone?”

“Tōsan’s working very hard to catch that thief. And Saguru-kun is, too,” supplies Aoko, not seeming to notice that Sonoko meant capturing Kid in a different manner. But she turns to Kaito, looking upset as she says, “This is all your fault, BaKaito! Look at what that smoke trick did! Poor Kudō-kun looked upset and you just stood there grinning like a crazy person!”

In mock surrender, Kaito throws his hands up, placating. In a jovial voice, he says, “Hey, now. That could’ve happened to anyone! It was an accident. Wrong pocket, wrong trigger—or something like that. My bad. You know I always mean well!”

“It wouldn’t happen to anyone normal,” groans Aoko, rolling her eyes.

“Regardless,” says Saguru, “Kudō’s reaction was… peculiar. He seemed very shaken—more so than one should be over a bit of smoke.”

Aoko murmurs in agreement. Kaito just turns his gaze to the sky as his hands slip into his pocket. Sonoko looks at the crowd and suggests that they should all start heading inside before they miss anything.

Ran sighs, looking down at her phone. She had pulled it out, meaning to text or call her friend. But she refrains, thinking that he might feel more content not being absolutely coddled. “He’s been working on a case. I don’t think he’s gotten very much sleep recently.” In her mind, she recalls feeling the brace underneath the fabric of his sweatshirt. “He’s been dealing with a lot ever since he came back from that big case.”

The topic of Shinichi dissolves between the rest of them as Sonoko calls attention to the time once again. Kaito stares in the direction that Shinichi headed off in before following everyone else, sending out a discreet signal to Jii. He hadn’t planned on meeting with Aoko, originally, but he wouldn’t be the infamous Moonlight Thief if he didn’t have a backup plan to ensure that his secret stays just that.

“He’s just not cut out for show business,” Kaito murmurs. “Can’t handle smoke or mirrors, get off the stage.”

---

The startling revelation of being Fated with Kuroba leaves Shinichi lying awake hours later. His pockets are many yen lighter after the taxi fare. His glasses lay atop his nightstand. The sheets are cool against his skin. The room is quiet in a way that leaves his heartbeat drumming thunderously. He can’t stop looking at his string, which seems brighter than usual. Perhaps this is merely an illusion—a product of his sudden hyperawareness of the blasted thread.

The thread which ties him to Kuroba whether he likes it or not.

Truthfully, Shinichi is not sure how to feel. He always imagined that, if it were Ran, he would be ecstatic—overeager to do everything to please the person that he was told to be with by unseen forces. But Kuroba is nothing more than a mere acquaintance to him, a friend of a fellow detective whom he respects. Shinichi has not had the pleasure of meeting with Kuroba that often. Their encounters were sparse. The initial encounter had been memorable only because Shinichi could not help but feel intrigued by the sense of familiarity and the way that Kuroba would stare at him as if he were a ghost when the latter thought he wasn’t looking.

But Shinichi noticed—Shinichi notices a lot of things about Kuroba. Like the way Kuroba has a spot in the back of his head where the hair lay somewhat flat despite the bird’s nest the majority of his hair has formed. Or the exact shade of deep blue of his eyes—like the midnight sky. Or the litheness hiding beneath Kuroba’s usual attire.

The magician’s trick earlier with the pink smoke… if only he knew how cruel it had been to—

Pink smoke?

Shinichi sits up, slowly, carefully. His brows knot together as he recalls the moment in which his world exploded in pink then red. Out of sheer surprise, it had never occurred to him that that moment reminded him of his first ever encounter with Kid on that rooftop a couple Aprils ago. That night, the world exploded in a flash and an overwhelming blanket of pink. There was a note that fluttered to the ground. The moon hung in the sky. Helicopters surrounded the building, blowing his hair everywhere as they got closer.

In his mind, something clicks. A magician and a showman thief, both with sharp tongues. If he overlays their voices in his mind, they sound so similar. From what little of Kid’s face he had ever been able to see, he swears that the features are similar; the thief never did much more than hide behind a monocle and the shadows of his hat or the night. He’s not quite sure what Kuroba knows—what Kid knows—if anything.

“My soulmate is Kaitō Kid,” he says, aloud, and suddenly wonders if he’s finally lost it.

Although he does not wish for it to, it makes sense. From Kuroba’s glances or that niggling feeling of familiarity to Hakuba’s comments earlier. If it’s true then—that Kuroba is Kid—then it sounds like Hakuba suspects as much but has yet to fully prove this theory. And it really does make sense. That's why Hakuba would never be able to prove it. Because Kid was always one step ahead. And that’s what—

—that’s what Shinichi loved about him.

Liked.

Admired.

That’s what Shinichi admired. Because for once, aside from his own father, he had found someone who could match him in ways he never expected. Kid was a challenge; a beacon in the darkness that being Edogawa Conan had been. The gentleman thief was equally as intriguing as he was infuriating. And Shinichi had always had the most fun with puzzles that confounded him to no end.

He wonders if Kuroba knows about him.

---

“So, this is it?” Shinichi asks, looking at the building before them. It’s a rather unassuming building in a somewhat shadier area; it hides a little ways down an alleyway. There were no lights that he had seen, save for the one by the street. He wonders to himself why someone would maintain a business in such a place. Even if he had a partner and they were having issues, he would not fancy himself a trek down this alley just to talk over their problems with a stranger…

He pushes all thoughts of Kuroba and the strings out of his mind.

“This is the place,” Takagi confirms, looking through his notepad. “Shishido-san confirmed that this is where she and Tanaka had gone for that couple’s counselor. His name is Ehara Oiwa, forty-seven-years-old. Went to school in Tokyo and became a relationship counselor with his own practice for the past twenty years.”

Sato claps her hands on one of both Shinichi and Takagi’s shoulders. “All right, boys,” she exclaims, “you ready to get therapized?”

Takagi squawks in protest, sputtering as he asks what either of them would need therapy for. Sato only laughs, pulling open the door. Before Shinichi steps in, he takes notice of red strings tied along the building’s overhanging, holding up small decorative lanterns. The door closes behind him.

The waiting room area is clean. A large potted plant sits in the corner. There are a few arm chairs and a long sofa arranged around a low coffee table with various magazines scattered atop in an almost purposeful manner. Above the long couch hangs a painting which grabs his attention with its entirely black background and a red string. Shinichi stares at this painting, feeling vaguely haunted before a soft voice calls out.

“Hello? Do you have an appointment with Ehara-san?”

Notes:

wowowow. another update this year? what a miracle!

also, spoiler, but Kaito does not know Shinichi is Conan. he just thinks that they look eerily similar. :)

I am not too impressed with this chapter, but this is just how it came out. and I could not bear the thought of disappearing for another two years before the next chapter comes out. I'm determined to see this story through til the end!

edit: hopefully I caught all of them, but if you notice repeated passages or sentences, it's because I tend to write and rewrite. but hopefully I deleted all original pieces and left behind the finals!

Notes:

As always, thank you for taking the time out of your day to read my work! If you enjoyed reading, please consider leaving a comment and/or a kudos! ^ ^

Please remember to take care of yourself and any responsibilities you may have forgotten!! Again, thank you, and have a lovely day! xx