Do the right thing

by summerfires

Summary:

Saihara Shuichi has been invested in the infamous mysterious Phantom Thief for years, until the newest heist happens in his relatively quiet hometown. Shuichi sets out on solving the case, but, as his investigation progresses, his involvement becomes more and more personal, and he is discovering a dangerous conspiracy.

Chapter 1: Do not touch works of art.

Summary:

Shuichi just wants to have a normal (insert day of the week) at his uncle's police station, but the universe said "no ❤️"

It is around quarter past 8 am, when Shuichi’s uncle, Saihara Seicho, the Chief Inspector of Isesaki PD mobile investigation unit and a very pleasant middle-aged man with only a slight caffeine addiction, walks into the office in long strides, a neutral smile plastered on his face. A scrawny older man - the superintendent - trails behind Seicho, a solemn expression on his face. That isn’t really a red herring or anything - just his usual resting face.

Shuichi, a 3rd year university student and an intern investigator, is chatting away with inspector Nozu-san, a nice and bubbly round-faced woman in her late twenties or early thirties, when his uncle comes in. More like, he calmly finishes his breakfast and listens and nods at appropriate times, while Nozu-san is telling him all the latest gossip. But as soon the superintendent and the chief inspector come into the room, all heads turn and the chatterbox snaps her mouth shut in an automatic response, her smart greyish eyes curiously scanning the two higher-ups. 

“G’day, chief,” an officer eagerly greets them, raising his cup of coffee, and lightly bows to the solemn slim man “Superintendent”.

“Good morning, everyone. Bon appetit, Shuichi,” Seicho grins widely as Shuichi chokes on his rice and flushes beet red, he really dislikes getting any sort of specific attention even as a greeting, especially as he awkwardly wheezes trying not to suffocate (not that anyone has ever died from choking on rice...or so he is informed). The older man’s grin doesn’t falter, even as his gaze grows more serious and he looks around the room where most of his unit is. “We have some... News.”

“We just got some information from our whistleblower.” The superintendent takes a step forward. One of the officers whispers “hopefully some juicy stuff”. Colleague next to him lightly nudges him to keep silent. “As you all remember, a week ago a number of very miniature bonseki were discovered after the passing of the only heir of an older local clan, and thereby were conferred to the Government and now are displayed in the Gotenyama gallery. They are extremely old and valuable, thus additional security has been installed in the gallery. However....” he averts his eyes, eyebrows furrowing. “Apparently, the “Phantom Thief” got his eyes on it and intends of stealing it. Today.”

Shuichi chokes for the second time. A loud gasp washes over the room. Nozu-san leans forward, her eyes transfixed on the bearer of the news, her eyes wide and lips parted, a quickened breath escaping them. The boy can’t really say he isn’t having the same reaction, his heart beating faster either in fright or in excitement or, most likely, both. 

Ah, the infamous fabled Phantom Thief. The source of Shuichi’s sleepless night of researching every single detail about their crimes in public access. The dreadful nightmare looming over everyone in possession of something valuable and unique, they appeared out of nowhere a couple of years ago and took both the law and the crime worlds by a storm. They are many things: skilled, highly intelligent, impossible to catch, have a sense of mischievous humour. What they aren’t? Someone that the law enforcement has any discernible information on. They have a style to their crimes - clean, quick, never violent, without witnesses who can tell anything useful. They always leave a funny note on crime scenes. Who they are, what do they look like? Police reports don’t even have gender or ethnicity or approximate height and body type listed. A complete mystery, wrapped up in countless masterful disguises and, presumably, absolutely average and forgettable features. 

Shuichi is an impressionable type, a curious and nervous and easily addicted, as many young people his age are. Even if he avoided the casual evils of smoking and drinking and gambling (that one barely), his brain found other thing to fixate on to an unhealthy degree. Putting aside his, to put it mildly, need and passion for caffeine, his one and only love in this world is true crime. He binges true crime podcasts and documentaries for days on end, real and fictional cases plague his mind. The epitome of it all was his uncle getting him an internship at his PD, where the little fanatic now has access to real, active crimes, case files fresh and warm and smelling of printer ink. 

But this? This is beyond his wildest fantasies. He is close, so close to the Phantom Thief, who has been on his mind non-stop for at least a year. Just hanging around the station, while the local police is dealing with this, is already good enough.

 

Shuichi’s uncle starts explaining the plan. The gallery opens up at 10, and it’s located pretty close, just 15 minutes by car, 20 with traffic, so they arrive at 9 at the latest. That gives them a bit less than an hour. They check the building, secure the most important positions (the entrance, all the exits and the room with the thief’s target in question), scatter a couple of officers in the halls to monitor any suspicious activity. The rest of the unit will monitor the outside of the gallery.

“Oh, and! We have a warrant for arrest. You know, in case we do catch the Thief!” Seicho exclaims.

Nozu-san audibly swallows. Her and Shuichi’s shared obsession with the Phantom Thief is what made them unexpected workplace friends. Although, where Saihara was only tiptoeing at the line between just being a huge nerd and being a full-blown obsessive fan, Nozu-san definitely has something different going on in that smart but ultimately weird head of hers. One time they were discussing the different imaginary scenarios of the Thief finally being caught. While Shuichi isn’t deluded enough to include himself in such scenarios - he is just an intern with no chance of getting even close to the criminal, Nozu-san entertained the idea to the fullest, discreetly (well, she thought she was discreet) rubbing her legs together in excitement at the thought of catching the Thief and, to be frank, most likely interrogating them with very unorthodox methods. Or maybe being caught by the criminal? Saihara firmly decided to not dwell on the thoughts of what his buddy could be imagining, if only for the sake of his own mental stability and ability to look her into the eyes.

“Based on his previous work, we predict he would attempt theft during working hours. Just to rub it in, as usual. That being said, let’s not stall.” Seicho finishes the brief explanation of the operation and superintendent nods.

Shuichi quietly sits and awaits for his uncle to instruct him on what to do, as everyone hurries from the office.

“Is something wrong, Shuichi?” Seicho turns to him. 

“U-uh, well, I wanted to ask if I should go home or if there’s anything for me t-to do here...”

“What? You’re coming with us!”

Shuichi freezes in shock, mouth agape. Something flutters in his stomach.

“You’ve always wanted to see the Phantom Thief, right?” his uncle smirks.

 

Saihara checks his watch almost every five minutes ever since they arrived to the Gotenyama art gallery at 9:05. Where back at the police station, comfortably seated in a small office with his fresh coffee and university work in his bag, he felt thrilled and enraptured by the prospect of being in vicinity of the thief, who he might or might not a weird sort of fan of, now, right at the expected crime scene, all he feels is as if the sword of Damocles is hanging over his head. He feels his heart beating somewhere in his throat, his hands cold and clammy and trembling as he grabs onto his cap or his sides in order to ground himself in reality. He knows full well that the Thief’s signature style of crimes is swift and non-violent, bearing little to no witnesses, there shouldn’t be any sense of danger, at least not to that degree. He’s a thief, not a murderer or something like that, for God’s sake.

Just as he starts to calm down a bit, attempting breathing exercises while hanging around the ticket office, at 11:47 an unsettling discovery is made, cranking up Shuichi’s anxiety to the max. The stand, usually displaying an array of ancient coins, and now solely serving to showcase the prized bonseki miniatures, was moved from the original position it was for the past who knows how long, apparent from the sharp line of the vibrant laminate flooring, previously concealed under the stand, in contrast to discolored floor that hundreds of visitors every day go over.

“It wasn’t moved much, but still,” Seicho shakes his head. 

“Maybe the cleaning lady moved it?” a female investigator officer chimes in. “It has been moved semi-recently, but definitely not today or yesterday or something, the gallery has been heavily monitored for the past week.”

“So a while ago, a-ha...”

“Still suspicious... Nothing else seems to have been moved.” Shuichi mumbles under his breath. His uncle somehow catches on it and nods: 

“It is suspicious. I’ll jot that down, we might find anything else.”

The fact that they have found something, even as vaguely suspicious as a moved stand, puts Shuichi on edge. His stomach cramps and nausea clings to the back of his throat, so at around 2pm, when Nozu-san offers to get lunch, maybe even go to a coffee shop next door, he politely declines and decides to look around the gallery for the umpteenth time. There are two cops and a security guard in the bonseki hall, where all of the visitors flock to to see the newfound art pieces, that have been all over the local news some time ago. There are two in the central hall, officer Jin, a short perpetually angry man in his 40s that is playing the role of babysitter for Shuichi, even though the latter is free to roam everywhere or even leave, and that same officer, who was discussing the stand being moved with Seicho in the morning, average-looking middle-aged woman with piercing icy eyes. Then, at the ticket office, another gallery’s security guard and some cop Shuichi hasn’t seen before, not a part of the investigation unit. His uncle is in the security booth, where the monitors are, although he frequently comes out and strolls around the hallways. There are two cars outside, both of the mobile investigation unit, in case, as Nozu-san oh-so eloquently said before, “shit hits the fan”. Nozu-san herself was mostly in the entrance area around the ticket office, although at the moment she is with Seicho, eating noodles from a takeout box. She has been acting all nonchalant and carefree, although the occasional stutter she showcased revealed just how nervous she was about the whole ordeal. She is definitely excited about the fact that she could potentially come face to face with the Phantom Thief himself - Saihara, to his fear and confusion, can’t say the same. At best, he just feels a very intense and prolonged anxiety attack. 

 

It’s almost 3pm, when the source of Saihara’s sense of impending doom, taking refuge in a hotel just across the police station, wakes up to a call with an exasperated sleepy groan.

“H-hewwo?”

“Greetings- please don’t talk like that. Ever again.” a silvery female voice comes through the speaker.

“Sowwy, senpai!”

“Ugh. Anyway. I hope you remember you have work today.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course”, he yawns and stretches, already feeling his back hurting from falling asleep on a couch. “I’ll be there at 6, need to do some preparations.”

“Alright” the woman flatly says and hangs up. The thief sighs and rolls over to reach for a laptop. He needs to make a few arrangements and check some things before the heist. 

 

Just when Shuichi allows himself a glimpse of a thought that everything will be easy-breezy (and, he cowardly hopes, the criminal doesn’t show up at all), something that doesn’t exactly read as “easy-breezy” happens at around 17:34.

“Two excursion groups?! Are you daft!” the stern-looking investigator screeches, angrily fidgeting with her jacket.

“It’s not a big deal, Maruma-san,” Seicho cooes. “It’s just a group of schoolchildren and then a bunch of elderly people.”

“Yeah, Maruma-chan, it ain’t a biggy!” Nozu-San gently pats her on the back. “Just think about it, the Thief is most likely going to stand out even more in a crowd like that! There’s no way the sought for big bad criminal is either a middle schooler or an old lady! Right? Tell‘em, Saihara-chan!”

“Ugh,” officer Maruma turns away, clearly not impressed with the cheery attitude. Shuichi forces a polite smile. Maruma-san, a cold and no-bullshit kinda lady, reminds him of a friend of his. Somehow, it's a comforting thought. It doesn't really elevate the feeling like he's about to have a heart attack. If a place is crowded, it'd be hella tough to catch the Thief. 

 

The Phantom Thief in question stares at a yamato-e painting, seemingly curious, although his mind is definitely not on the painting. Or on the concerning number of police officers in the gallery. Or on anything, really. He absentmindedly listens to an art lecture that a teacher is hastily giving her students, standing a couple of meters from him, his eyes occasionally straying to the clock on the wall. He isn’t sure, why they just hung it there, an ordinary cheap clock that doesn't really clash with the exhibit but still is an eyesore once you notice it. It’s 18:15. 

A familiar clicking of heels approaches him and stops to his right side. They don’t even turn their heads to acknowledge each other, a moment of silence hanging in the air for a bit, as if they were strangers.

“Are you into this stuff, senpai?”

A young woman next to him thoughtfully hums. She is wearing a floor-length black empire waist dress, flowy and lacy, a mahogany cardigan with intricate beads pattern and huge black sunglasses inside. Definitely overdressed for a summer afternoon in an art gallery, but, to be fair, her everyday style is a lot more extravagant than that, belonging more to a photoshoot in Harajuku than everyday life.

“I can appreciate a good aesthetic, when I see one” she finally answers. “The gallery closes less than an hour from now, you should hurry.”

He traces the delicate brush strokes of the petals on the painting with his eyes and shifts his gaze to the human figures of the compositions.

“They are very European dressed. I thought this was traditional Japanese art?”

“You should go back to school. This painting is from the 18th century, and at that time the European influence already was prevalent in fashion.”

“Maybe you should be my private history tutor, senpai.”

The shades aren’t opaque, but it’s clear she’s glaring at him. Her nostrils flare out slightly, betraying her composure. He managed to agitate her in mere couple of minutes, he gently chuckles to himself, watching her with peripheral vision.

“I’ll be waiting for you at your place, at 9. Don’t be late. The money will be transferred per usual.”

She turns on her heels, short bob of sleek hair bouncing from the sharp movement, and moves towards the exit. 

 

It’s 18:31, Shuichi checks his watch once more, almost a nervous tick at this point. In less than half an hour, the gallery will be cleared of visitors. So far - no sight of the Phantom Thief. Well, of course, they earned their title for being extremely good at hiding, disguising themselves and slipping away from the law enforcement's grasp, but... There is no way they'd manage to steal something, when there is no one in the building but cops and security guards and two visitor groups, thoroughly checked at the entrance.

He grows restless, his stomach uncomfortably turns, giving him the tenth or so sensation of almost throwing up on the spot. The police has the building surrounded and on watch, but what if the whistleblower was wrong, and the thief's newest heist isn't here? Although, the alternative - that the famed criminal would actually be here - isn't better. It could be dangerous. He could easily be hurt, his uncle, everyone-

He excuses himself to the restroom, the officer he was hanging around dismissing him with a weak hand wave. 

Shuichi hastily snatches off his cap and turns on cold water to splash his face. It does little to help the tremors or the deafening pounding in his ears. It's okay, it's gonna be okay, he mumbles to himself, as he steadies his trembling hands. He stares at himself: hair sticking everywhere, his face pale and almost green from the uneasiness. His eyes twitch violently. Maybe he should listen to Akamatsu-san and look into getting some sort of medication for anxiety...

A sudden noise behind startles him. Ah, someone came out of a stall, not a big deal. 

A shorter boy in middle school uniform - same as that one excursion group, the investigator intern notes to himself absentmindedly - nonchalantly passes by him to the next sink, a neutral relaxed expression plastered on his face, although his eyes clearly are watching Saihara with a certain curiousity. Well, it's a given, he literally is on the verge of a nervous breakdown in an art gallery restroom, that's a sight to behold. Shuichi splashes his face one last time for good measure and smoothes his hair with damp hands. How is he going to become an actual detective, if just hanging around a stake out in open hours is too much for him?

The cap is back on top of his unruly hair, giving him a sense of false security. He stares into the mirror at his dimly lit reflection.

"Yo."

The voice startles him, and Shuichi panicky turns his head to the source. The schoolboy is standing at the open door, looking at him with a smirk.

"Ditch the emo hat, you look better without it."

With that, the boy's gone to join his school group leaving. Huh.

Shuichi checks time once more. It’s 18:55. That same officer - Jin-san - barges in, face flush and hand quivering over the walkie talkie on his hip.

"Saihara! Here you are. Let's go, to the ticket office, your uncle's there. Hurry!"

"W-what happened?" Shuichi stumbles behind the officer, trying to follow in his almost running steps.

"He did it. The fucking thief, he-- We don't even get it, how?!"

"He... he d-did it?" the boy can't help but feel a sort of excitement bubbling in his chest, somewhere deep under the anxiety and dread of the news broken to him just how. The Phantom Thief, Saihara's little "professional" obsession, was here, and he - she, them? - has committed yet another smart, clean, astonishing, brilliant crime. 

 

They arrive at the entrance, where most of the policemen gathered.

"Ah, Shuichi," his uncle turns to him, worry apparent in his grey eyes that crinkle in a reassuring welcoming smile nonetheless. "You already know, what happened, right?"

"Y-yeah. They, uh... They escaped?"

"Seems like that. Either that, or the bastard's hiding somewhere inside the building. That’s actually more realistic, cause we checked everyone exiting the gallery, everyone's clear."

“H-how even...”

“Allow me to fill you in on the details!” Nozu-san chimes in eagerly, with her trained voice, but she quickly falters. “We, uh, don’t really have the details. We assume it happened in a very short span of time, right when all the visitors were leaving. The last to leave were two excursion groups, both were late due to a schedule mishap, so they ended up both in the bonseki room. Apparently there was a certain, ah, pandemonium? Due to the amount of people in such a small space...”

“A couple of school students were pushed into another exhibit in a quick huddle, and the attention was shortly on them,” another cop interjects, Taube-san, “And that was just enough time for the thief to nick the gravures and disappear into the crowd.”

“Bonseki, not gravures”, someone corrects him. 

“Well aren’t you the cunning artist!”

That’d be... Mere minutes. That’s almost supernatural, even for someone as notorious as the Phantom Thief.

“We’ll be checking camera footage, it must’ve been caught on there.” Maruma-san coldly states. Her face remains stoic and indifferent, although "told you so" is practically written all over her features.

 

The criminal sits on the ground in the football park, fumbling with his fake ID, as he stares at the reflection on his phone, until the black screen lights up with the message: “XXXX. Payment received: 42.96 ETH”.

 

(Un)surprisingly, the footage really isn't much of help. Mere centimetres, that the stand was moved, were enough to put one of its corners in the blind spot. Then, the kids, who were pushed forward, slightly obscured the view, a play on the perspective. It left an entire 1/3 of the stand and it's display hidden from the surveillance cameras.

Chief inspector Saihara Seicho stays at the gallery, watching over the investigation. He promised his nephew to give all the information the next day at the PD and sent him home. Most likely not on his volition, Shuichi bitterly thinks, his uncle personally would love to have him by his side, with, to quote Seicho himself, his "hyper perceptiveness and lofty deduction skills" (even ex-classmates often jokingly called him the ultimate detective). But they already threaded on thin eyes, for his whole internship wasn't exactly official - so no one would want some random kid hanging around the crime scene.

Shuichi doesn't take the bus and walks instead, trying to breathe the cooling evening air in. Every sense in his body is heightened, and the stress of the day makes his mind race. They did it, they've stolen the protected exhibit. Consistently with the style of previous crimes, it was quick, swift, clean and undetected. They even left their signature note in place of the stolen bonseki, a torn piece of grid paper with a crudely drawn cartoony sad policeman. Somehow, inexplicably, the Thief twisted the police round their finger. Once more.

The boy doesn’t remember how he got home, head buzzing with all the facts and evidence, which, in all fairness, there wasn’t a lot of, the long walk done nothing to soothe that anxiety-ridden smart brain of his. Walking into his bedroom doesn't calm him with the familiarity - if anything, his room always felt empty, uninhabited, with how clinically clean and organized he kept everything.

He falls onto his bed, not bothering to undress. His mind wanders, flips between scenarios in his head, both real and speculative, going over and over the theft on loop. His brain somehow keeps coming back to the note, the telltale sign that it was, in fact, the Phantom Thief, the elusive genius and apparent megalomaniac. A note, with a childish drawing of a cop. A note. Grid paper, torn out of somewhere, like a notebook. Childish drawing and a grid notebook, almost like a

Almost like a school notebook.

Shuichi jolts up and starts pacing around the room, the gears in his head turning almost audibly. He rushes to his desk, where a neat stack of papers and files sits. He grabs a handful of them and hurriedly looks through, not a care in the world at the fact that he toppled all the papers over. He finally finds the copies of the case files he needed: a handful of cases, where the disguise, used by the Thief, was somewhat deduced. Young detective-in-training pulls out a clear sheer of paper and starts frantically writing down the needed pieces of information. Another ten or fifteen minutes are spent organising his writing into a neat concise strings of words.

Disguised as a nurse. Note on the back of a medical form.

Disguised as a hotel room attendant. A sticky note on the door of the cleaning supplies closet.

Disguised as an airport baggage handler. Note on a printed out description of that exact position from Nipponshigoto.

Disguised as a clerk in an insurance company. Note on a health insurance tax form.

Disguised as a free course listener. Note on

 

Saihara peels his eyes away from the paper. If the data in the case files is correct, than it shows a distinct pattern. Every note, left by the Thief on the crime scene, is a direct reference to his current disguise. Which means...

He grabs another document, the most worn down of all. The only one, where they dared include vague uncertain assumptions about the physics appearance of the Thief.

"..Height: approximately 150 to 160 cm"

They're short. If they're short, then they could potentially pretend to be a school student.

Shuichi feels elated, something hot and proud settling in his chest. He might be onto something.

 

The Phantom Thief stares out the window longingly. It's nice and cool outside, dusk painting the surroundings in a comforting orange glow, yet he's confined to a small dark room, where the only bright source of light is occupied by the woman looking at the paintings through a jeweller's loupe.

"So, all good? Am I going back yet, senpai? Isesaki's fun but I miss home! Actually, it’s a lie, this shabby town is boring as hell!"

"You’re getting the rest of the payment shortly. However," senpai looks up at him through her dark bangs and long eyelashes, putting the bonseki into separate ziplocks. "You have one more job to do in this area."

The Thief loudly groans.

"It should be more interesting and action-packed. Heard of that pachinko place on Mimurocho street, like 10 minutes by car from here?"

Notes:

The whole fanfic with all of the upcoming chapters only exists because I saw the bathroom scene in killing eve and thought that's saiouma material r ight th ere

I hope I did the description of anxiety justice, I struggle with it but suck at writing it. Actually I just suck, English isn’t my first lang and this is my first fanfic in yearss so I appreciate feedback on my writing.

Why is it set in the real city of Isesaki? Shuichi’s canon school is Spring Field HS, and Isesaki is Springfield’s sister city! Don’t worry, I stretched before doing such a reach. All the locations and events are cohesive with the real-life geography, down to driving time between them!
Shuichi’s uncle’s name, Seicho, is a reference to Seicho Matsumoto, a crime fiction author that I highly recommend, his books are exquisite.

Chapter 2: Casino Royale (dir. Martin Campbell,2006) wasn't even that good smh

Summary:

The Phantom Thief swings by a casino, and Shuichi spends quality time with his boo(crossed out) friend Akamatsu.

Shuichi wakes up around 2 am, startled by the sound of working coffee machine. He stumbles into the kitchen to see his uncle, still in full gear, hunched over the counter, his usually relaxed smiling face scrunched up in unpleasant thoughts, a deep wrinkle across his forehead.

“Good.. morning?” boy softly says as to not to startle the man.

“Ah, Shuichi!” Seicho turns around, his face changing to a welcoming grin in a matter of milliseconds as if a switch was hit. “Sorry to have woken you up, I didn’t realize how loud this thing is.”

“It’s okay, I wasn’t sleeping well either way,” Shuichi offers a timid smile as he reaches into the cupboard for a mug of his own. That’s not a lie, his sleep was troubled to say the least, although that’s not an uncommon occurrence.

They shared a comfortable moment of silence, drinking their coffees - which, arguably, isn’t the best course of action when they both have to get up early. Shuichi sighs in content, as he feels caffeine slowly hitting in, and finally manages:

“I’ve, uh, looked into some stuff. About the P-Phantom Thief.”

“Mhm” Seicho nods. “Any breakthroughs, Monsieur Poirot?”

“Y-yes. Ah, I mean... I guess? I looked through the cases where the details of their heists were more... clear? I think. Um.”

“Go on.”

“T-the notes. They usually correspond to their disguise or something. Like, a college student a-and a book page. You know? Like that. Something like that. This time it was a torn notebook page, right? I think, um, I’m thinking they were among the students. The thief was described to be short in one report, so. That’s, that’s my guess.”

His uncle shakes his head.

“Good call. Nozu-san and I said the same thing. But we searched everyone at the exit, got everyone’s IDs, patted down, you name it. Superintendent said we rule them out. For now, at least. Focusing on the gallery staff.”

“I see...”

“Welp, too bad our hands are tied. So, Shuichi. You’re quite the law abiding citizen, eh? If I were, to say, give you the exact school and class that were on that excursion trip, you wouldn’t go and check it out yourself, correct?” Seicho winks and all but waltzes out of kitchen to catch a couple of hours to sleep before work.

Shuichi sips on his ristretto, head buzzing per usual. So his uncle wants him to help- not just help from the sidelines as usual, but to actually go and investigate by himself. Without a warrant, unofficially, against the apparent directions of the PD. That’s cool. It’s actually not, it makes him nervous, as if he was actively breaking the law (or was he? Is he about to conduct an illegal private investigation?). 

He grimaces as he look down to the now empty cup. Capsule coffee isn’t the best, but at least gets the job done.

 

Shuichi lays awake staring at the ceiling for hours. Why did they dismiss the students, if both his uncle and Nozu-san have prompted that possible scenario? His throat feels tight. It’s not unlike the police to focus on only one possibility and pursue it, either out of lack of resources or general indolent dismissing of patently dead end cases. Even Nozu-san and Maruma-san, two wildly different but united in their encompassing passion for their work professionals, would sometimes rather kiss off certain cases. They’d rather rule everything out and stack it all with all the other cold cases - which basically is all police has been doing recently about the Phantom Thief. But still, isn’t it in police’s interest to look into every loose end? Almost like they don’t really want to catch them.

Several alarms go off one after the other in another room. Ah, it must be around half past six then. His mind wanders back to the lingering thought of going off investigating all on his own. Or maybe... Shuichi reaches for his phone, habitually checking time before opening LINE to type out a message. His eyes glance up to the time once more. It's really, really turning into a nervous tick. He promises himself to play Distrust for a bit or rent a movie after he's done for today, as a treat, just like he used to do in high school. That’d be nice. Or maybe call Momota-kun and hang out.

 

It's 10:37, Saihara notes after double checking the information his uncle texted him, as he approaches his old school. He looks up from his phone and, at the sight of his "detective partner" for today, breaks out a timid but genuine smile.

"Good morning, Saihara-kun!" 

"Good morning, Akamatsu-san. Thanks for coming on such short notice." 

"Ah, no problem! You know I couldn't pass up being the Watson to your Sherlock!" she smiles widely and he can feel ice and snow melting in the Antarctic. 

"A-ah, that's.." oh no, she sounds so excited. Akamatsu is always do cheerful and vigorous and throws herself into any activity, be it something she enjoys herself or finds helpful to others. It'd be a shame to tell her what they're doing is essentially chasing a deemed dead end.

"I'm joking! Let's go, what are we waiting for?" she shakes her gorgeous blonde head and tugs on his sleeve, guiding him into their old school. "Wanna get ice cream after we're done?"

"That'd be a pleasure, Akamatsu-san."

They're let in the school building without any issues, most likely they already had a call from his uncle. They stand outside the classroom - coincidentally, their old middle school classroom, - patiently waiting for the bell signifying the end of the lesson.

"How are we even going to question them?" Kaede whispers, peering into the classroom through glass on the door. "Like, we can't legally interrogate kids? Or can we?"

"N-no, we're just going to talk to the teacher. Maybe she noticed something off, like if someone was skipping school a lot lately, or hanging out with weird people or anything else. O-or something weird at the gallery itself."

Akamatsu hums in acknowledgement.

"They're... like 14, right?"

"Yeah" he mouths. As the bell finally rings, the acknowledgement of the situation darkly dawns on him. There's no way a criminal of that caliber would turn out to be a 14-15 year old student, and there's absolutely no way the Phantom Thief would ask anyone for help, much less a kid. How would a kid even accomplish... whatever it was that the thief managed to do at the gallery. There's gotta be years of experience to reach that level of skill and expertise. The moved stand too...

They're- Shuichi's just waiting everyone's time. The teacher's. Akamatsu-san's. He should really apologize to her, to both of them, and call it off, and-

And Akamatsu tugs on his sleeve again, urging him into the room, and the teacher, surprisingly young with a comely pinkish blush, looks at his curiously with her round green eyes.

"Ah, you're Saihara-san, correct? I was informed of your visit." she extends her hand for a handshake. "Yukizome Chisa, grade 9 homeroom teacher."

"S-saihara Shuichi."

"Akamatsu Kaede."

"Right." Yukizome is wearing a baby blue tea dress with a peter pan collar, which, combined with her pale red hair, makes her look younger and very homely but put together at the same time (their homeroom teacher really wasn't like that, Shuichi notes in passing, he was a carefree man who didn't shy away from showing up to class drunk). 

They're standing just outside the classroom, as he asks the teacher questions. In vain. No students abnormally skipping school, all the necessary permission slips, no unusual behaviour, nothing. Kaede, bless her, even comes up with unconventional but helpful questions regarding delinquency. Even then, nothing of unusual. Same regarding the day at the gallery as well, aside from the schedule mishap on the part of the gallery staff.

"Me and the kids, in fact, wanted to go in the morning, which we initially asked for, but it was rescheduled", Shuichi carefully notes her words in his head. 

Their conversation doesn't really lead anywhere, so when the bell rings again and she excuses to go back to her class, there's not much inclination to waste any more of her time. Although-

"Wait, Yukizome-san. May I perhaps take a look at the students?"

"Huh? Of course..." she goes into the classroom and stops at the blackboard, flashing a comforting smile to her students. Shuichi steps inside, Kaede peeking in from behind him. Kids look at them curiously from their respective seats.

"Yukizome-san, is someone absent?"

"No, the whole class is present."

No, that's wrong. He looks at them, seated at their desks, in their ordinary black school uniforms. It's so quiet, you can hear the gears turning in Shuichi's head and pieces clicking into place.

"Did you have anyone not from this class on your excursion yesterday? Like, someone from the same year, but parallel class"

"No."

That's it.

"Have you seen anyone, in school uniform, with dark purple-ish hair? About, uh, about this tall, and--"

"The guy who pushed Takami-kun?" a schoolboy chimes in. Everyone turns to him.

"Yeah, I think? Like, octopus-like hair?" another boy, presumably Takami, hums. "He pushed me and then hid behind Kenta."

"Exactly!" Shuichi signs in relief. So not exactly a dead end, maybe. The police had the information that everyone was from the same class, so... fake ID? He glances to the side, where Kaede gives him thumbs up. "What have you seen of him?"

Yukizome-san taps her chin, trying to remember anything. Kids start talking, sharing what they saw. Admittedly, not a lot. Most didn't even notice him.

"Not much, really. He would mostly tag behind our group, but he wouldn't do much. Left also with us."

"I don't think he ever did anything but stand around?"

"Except from pushing idiot Takami into Kenta."

"Who you calling idiot?!"

"I'm not sure there were any other students but us..."

"He didn't even enter with us!"

"Alright, um..." Shuichi stumbles for a moment before turning to the teacher. "Sorry for interrupting your lesson, but your help means a lot. I can write my number, so you could contact me about anything else you remember. Is that alright?"

Shuichi and Kaede bow, before exiting the classroom.

"She's sweet", Akamatsu notes. "Has this big sister energy."

"I'm sure no one would've be been as compliant," Shuichi shakes his head and grips his hat. "Especially no one would've let us ask minors anything without a warrant."

"Well, no one but Kizakura-sensei, but he just doesn't give a damn," she grins. "I'll be honest, I don't think Yukizome-san would've survived our class, we really needed someone as chill as our sensei."

"He wasn't a very responsible teacher though, that's not exactly a good thing," Shuichi frowns. They stand at the school gate.

"So," Kaede looks at him, her plum eyes honest to god sparkling like rare iolites in the almost-noon zenith sun, and Shuichi wonders why they ever split up. "Onward to the gelateria, Saihara-kun?"

 

They take a bus to an ice cream shop at Miyakomachi, where they used to chill on weekends back in school. Sometimes other classmates would join them, mostly Momota-kun, after they became close friends in the last year of highschool. But mostly just the two of them. Their first date was there as well, something swells in Shuichi's chest. Akamatsu, clearly unaffected by any memories that might come to her bright head, cheery as ever, skips to the counter, not for a second stopping her story. She's been talking about her orchestra almost from the moment they left the school grounds. Not that Shuichi minds - he adores the way she finds beauty and wonder even in the most mundane things, which shines through her descriptions and opinions.

"So then, our tuba player fell asleep with his head in the bell!" she giggles, and it's the most entrancing sound he's ever heard. "Um, hi, good morning! Do you have the greek yoghurt ice-cream today? Oh? Ahh, then just peach boba, please! Thank you!"

"I'll take oolong. Y-yeah, that's it. Thank you." they pay for their order and sit down. Shuichi mentally salutes himself for only stuttering once. Maybe, one faithful magical day, he won't get nervous just ordering food. Maybe. 

"Woah, you ordered something other than black coffee! What's next, is it going to snow today, in the middle of summer?" Kaede light-heartedly teases him.

"W-well! I'll have you know, I drink stuff other than coffee, miss," he jokingly retreats. Ah, he missed it. The comfortable closeness, the playful jabs. They didn't have that when they were dating, and their short-lived post-break up phase was horribly awkward. But this - this is perfect. Maybe they just were made for that deep, safe and stable platonic bond, not for the flimsy passion of romantic relationships, where you burn out as quickly as you fire up.

She laughs. It's the kind of laugh you'd find almost too loud, but in an endearing, childish way. It's untainted and clear like a mountain river, echoing in his ears and settling someone deep beneath his diaphragm. It's almost like he can't breath when she laughs and giggles, startled by the warmth and heart of it, but the next gulp of air he takes feels like the freshest cold morning air he's ever taken in years.

"Excuse me, sir," Kaede bows in an exaggerated manner. A teenage-looking waitress brings them their drinks.

Shuichi opens his backpack and fishes out an unlined notebook and a pencil, to map out all the things they gathered from Yukizome and her students, while it's still fresh in his mind. Kaede falls completely silent, aside from quiet sips on her boba, and curiously watches him separate the sheet in two and write down all the testimonies in a list. 

Black gakuen, "octopus" purple hair. Male (?)

Not from the class or parallel, [police said all students were from one group] -> fake student ID (?)

"Trailed behind the group" -> always in their vicinity (?)

Pushed a student, started a fight

Didn't enter with the group, most likely later?

Schedule mishap -> ?

Saihara starts writing another list in the second column, then circling certain bullet points, connecting points together, crossing out inconsistencies, writing down new conclusions. Kaede watches in awe: it's an elaborate system of going through and categorising information that Shuichi created for himself back in 8th or 9th grade. It was kinda hard following his logic on that, the bottom line is he uses factual information (evidence in detective cases) to prove or disprove other, less substantiated statements and draw connections and conclusions from it. On practice it seems much less clear and simple - oh well, that's just how the future detective's smart brain is wired. If only he himself realised he's actually really talented in that area.

"So, what's the indictment, officer?" she mouths quietly, as to not to disturb the thought process, as he stopped writing and drawing.

"Elementary, Watson," Shuichi chuckles. "The good thing is that my hunch was right, I'm pretty sure I literally saw the thief, and could describe them pretty clearly. As I could probably lay down the very general timeline of the theft."

"And the bad thing?"

"I, uh.. It doesn't lead us anywhere. The Phantom Thief is a professional, they probably used a disguise. And the timeline doesn't tell us much about the preparation for the crime. And they're most definitely not in Isesaki anymore, so.."

Akamatsu thoughtfully hums, chewing on a tapioca pearl. Saihara sighs and pulls out the phone to text his uncle. If his conclusions are correct, than the guy he saw at the gallery restroom is the thief. The Phantom Thief. It's a scary but exciting thought, and it alone exhausts him by the sheer intensity of the emotional whiplash. "You look better without the hat or something" my ass, he huffs as his hands automatically raise to tug at the eponymous baseball cap, his trusty everyday companion since 5th grade. Truth be told, it's kinda underwhelming. The apparent interaction with the sought after Thief, not the cap. It's just so... disappointingly mundane. Very much unlike the flashy criminal, who leaves notes with childish drawings just to taunt the police. That's some BTK Rader stuff, brutal murders aside. Maybe the Thief is a true crime or detective fan, and that's where he gets his ideas? Shuichi wonders for a bit, if the Thief watches heist movies and if they think it's a good enough portrayal, until Kaede waves her hand before his face to distract his zoning out. 

After sitting in the shop and chatting idly for a little while, Shuichi walks Akamatsu to her house. They don't really discuss the case, for there isn't much to talk about. The walk is filled mostly with sweet nothings, memories of fun and dumb situations back from their school times, promises to attend one of Akamatsu-san's recitals and stories about the officers in Saihara's investigation unit. Kaede laughs quietly, listening about officers Taube-san and Maruma-san, complete opposites, more often than not engaged in squabbles because of Taube's careless and loud attitude in contrast to Maruma's cold quiet precision in everything she does, from solving cases to ordering takeout, who usually are paired together nonetheless (much to Maruma-san's dismay).

"A classic duo, just like Momota-kun and Harukawa-san! Oh, that reminds me, we haven't met all together in a minute!"

"Maybe we should ask them out for brunch some day," Shuichi agrees. He's only seen Harukawa-san once, and while she seems a little bit (an understatement of the century) intimidating, she is Kaito's friend, so she must be nice to be around, once you get to know her. Once you really get to know her. And Kaito, well, Kaito's his best friend, the ultimate "bro". Even if he's a tad too cocksure and brash for most people's comfort.

"That'd be awesome!" she clasps her hands on her chest. Her wide sunny smile wavers ever so slightly. "It's been a while, since we just... All hang out. I miss it."

"I miss that too." Shuichi gently takes her hand in a unusual fit of confidence. "We've all been k-kinda tangled up in work, maybe we all just need to unwind."

"Yeah... Unwinding sounds just like what I need," she chuckles, somehow suddenly very sad.

"D-did something happen?"

"It's just... It's.. It's okay. Nothing really, just some thing's have come up," Kaede tries to convince him, but she won't meet his gaze.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" he urges. A few years back it would've been Akamatsu-san holding and reassuring him, being the calming strong presence that she is, helping him to slowly but surely loosen up and open himself to others. How the tables have turned.

"I know, I know," she finally looks at him. "I'll tell you, okay? Just later, I'm a bit uncertain about... well, the thing that I'm uncertain about. You know?"

"Hm.. Alright."

It's awkward between them. Again. Shuichi nervously shuffles. Neither of them makes a move to separate, though, tensely standing near Akamatsu-san's house.

"By the way, Saihara-kun."

"Hm?"

"You said that you're investigating the school thing.. Separately from the police, right?"

"R-right."

"I have a friend, she's a really, and I mean really good artist. If you need a drawing of that guy you're looking for, you could probably describe him to her, and she'll draw him."

"Oh, like a police sketch? That'd be so much help, Akamatsu-san!"

"Haha, thanks! I'll call her, okay? I'm sure she'll be happy to assist!"

 

Meanwhile, the Phantom Thief, one of Japan's most famous criminals, a favourite thorn in law enforcement's side, the terror that flaps through the night, the bug that crawls up the cops’ trouser leg, wakes up on a floor of his economy class hotel room (ironically, still in Isesaki) hugging a huge Badtz-Maru. He blankly stares at it, until his sleepy brain remembers his early morning (as much as you can call 4 am morning) escapade of catching a night bus to Maebashi, aimlessly wandering across the dark streets of suburban areas, watching sunrise in the forest park and then raiding Sanrio gift gate, where he left a goodly chunk of money on all sorts of merch, specifically stuffed toys. The big ones, for that matter. He knows it couldn't have been a significant portion of the money he earned from the art gallery theft, but still, it isn't the cheapest toy store, and overall it's a horrible decision, really, the Thief sourly scowls at himself as he looks around the room, scattered in all kinds of plushies. He even bought 30cm tall Gudetama ones, the worst character of them all!

Frankly, it's a miracle he managed to bring all of his purchases back to his hotel room. Although, maybe not a very miraculous miracle, as a convenience store shopping cart is "mysteriously" also present at his suite. Maybe, if he doesn't have any urgent "assignments" in the nearest future and goes home right after today's work, he'll just mail all the toys and ask someone to pick them up. Maybe he'll ask his minions (agh, he hates the word now, minions, those horrible yellow cartoon creatures ruined it. he really needs to buy some minion merch to piss himself off even more) to do the work for him. Yes, that's definitely the most important thing to care about, the transportation of his impulsively bought plushies because he had one night of insomnia.

The Thief drags himself to the bathroom and then to the wardrobe to change into the attire (read: disguise) for today. Now bright and clear from sleep eyes flicker from a Kuromi clock (that's tacky, but at least the character is kinda cute? dark and lowkey goth but actually gentle and like cooking. reminds him of an acquaintance, that he would gladly be adopted by, were they not the same age) to his reflection in the mirror wardrobe door. Light platinum blonde hair, almost white in the weird unnatural lighting of the hotel room. Big round eyes, the distinctive feature, the spice of his look - heterochromia is cool enough to pull in some attention, yet weird enough to divert it from everything else about him. A hoodie, slightly too big because the american clothing store in Saitama doesn't carry small enough sizes. A neat classy suit under it, for no reason other than to give that extra flair, when he masterfully and dramatically steals the prized possessions of his victim.

A name, an age, a reason to be at the future crime scene, a vague plan of events to unfold, he puts it all on as another piece of clothing, as a costume. It's around four or five in the evening (he doesn't actually care about time, for time is essentially an elaborate lie the whole world agreed on) when Ouma Kokichi, a college dropout and an Isesaki local, a gambling addict and definitely, absolutely, no chance in hell the Phantom Thief himself, steps outside to get breakfast and then steal valuable and ambiguously illegal collectibles from the owner of a local casino. But breakfast definitely goes first. Even if it’s more like an early supper.

 

When he arrives to address at around 6pm later by foot, the casino - or the pachinko parlor? What’s the difference honestly, who cares? Definitely not him! - is by no means small, but it looks more like a huge supermarket, not to mention it’s located in a pretty boring part of the city, surrounded by a huge parking lot on one side and a “bed town” on the other. Pretty underwhelming. Not like he has any prior experience to compare - he’s never been to a casino before, and his only points of reference are movies and internet, and in hindsight it would’ve been dumb to expect a downtown casino in a quiet medium sized city to look like the Casino de Monte-Carlo or the MGM Grand casino. He goes through the entrance facing the street to Mimuro shrine, grinning to the traffic officer smoking outside. The cop nods to him in slight confusion and goes back to staring at his boots, huffing out smoke. 

So, as Ouma was saying - actually narrating in his head - he has never been to a casino before. Frankly, he wouldn’t be caught dead in any casinos of sorts, unless he was trapped in an enclosed space with literally no other opportunities of passing time in any slightly entertaining way. Like in prison (prisons don’t have casinos though?). Or like a remote island. Or a school. Imagine being trapped in a school, that’d be sick though. Sounds like a premise to either a horror movie or a reality tv show like the Terrace House or Big brother. He should pitch this idea to his friend who’s majoring in tv production or something like that, he doesn’t really listen to her ramblings (he does, but he’d rather be crushed to death than admit it).

Inside the building he quickly passes by a cafe, a gift shop and a small cozy bookstore, until he reaches the casino itself and swings the doors open. Interior of the casino is just as mediocre as the outside, just a dark space with a bunch of pinball machines, slots and one-armed bandits. The illumination of the machines is the main source of lighting, although there is a row of dull lightbulbs on the ceiling. He looks around the rooms, populated largely by haggard middle-aged salarymen in their boring cheap suits, obsessive looks on their illuminated faces, grimaced in more often than not defeat as they lose yet another bunch of money. Security eyes him suspiciously, so the thief takes place at one of the horribly anime themed slot machines, next to a young sickly looking white collar, feverishly loading up the machine with coins.

“So, how’s Lady Luck for you today?” he strikes a conversation with the guy.

“Not exactly smiling, but definitely not frowning” the guy shrugs, unblinking eyes focused on the machine before him.

“Oh, cool. You work somewhere around here, fortune boy?” god he absolutely despises gambling, he just gotta wait for the security to fuck off somewhere.

“Kinda? I work for an insurance company, it’s like... two blocks from here? I’m Mitarai Ryota" he turns to Ouma as he loses a game and then reaches his hand for a handshake.

“Cool. I’m a NEET, alas. Name’s Matsuno Osomatsu.”

The guy’s eyes widen.

“I- I’ve seen that anime”.

Fuck, he’s an otaku. 

“Ah, you cannot be tricked, wise young man. I’m Ouma Kokichi.”

“Is that your real name?” the guy laughs. Bleh. 

“I won’t tell! Identity theft is a not a joke, millions of families suffer every year!” Ouma chortles back at him. “What about the insurance company though? Haven’t heard of it.”

“Oh, it’s-“

Kokichi has to spend another excruciating fifteen minutes listening to the guy oversharing about his work, about anime (bleh) and about how he always wanted to be an animator, not a clerk (bleh but doubled), until he abruptly exclaims that he’s got the biggest, most awful, most tragic, most despair-inducing diarrhea and escapes using the salaryguy’s directions to the restroom. Past the restroom doors, past the staff door, and he stands in the stairwell leading to a basement floor, because according to his lovingly nicknamed "senpai" that's where the real casino and it's owner, the next victim of his thievery, resides. In only two flights of stairs most of the disguise is discarded, and inside of the casino steps the Phantom Thief, in a classy suit, choppy violet hair tied in a loose ponytail.

A security guard, much more imposing than the one on the top floor (mostly because he carries a gun) stops him. 

"Identify yourself."

"Mitarai Ryota. Work for Gunma General Insurance service. And you are?"

"Gunma general face control service," it's supposed to be a quip but the man's face and voice are as expressive as a brick wall. "We weren't notified of anyo-"

"Senpai!" Ouma- 'Mitarai' ignores the guard and waves at the dashing bruenette lady in a gothic lolita dress at the nearest poker table, who is staring at him with a graceful smile, almost concealing the fact that her eyes twitch in annoyance at the mere sight of her annoying ""kouhai"". Her game opponents glance between him and her in amusement. She sighs.

"I do, in fact, endure the pleasure and misery of knowing this garçon . Do let him in, he's a person on the know" she dismissively waves at the security, in an elegant limp of her pale thin wrist and long fingers adorned in knuckle rings. Her personal bodyguard (or what 'Mitarai'' assumes to be her bodyguard, as he just stands behind her and is built like a 90s yaoi seme) silently scowls, fiexing impressive muscles under his dark blue jacket. Casino's security flinches.

"O-of course. Welcome to the Yorii-Bunke Casino, sir."

 

Shuichi really, honestly wanted to go home and waste the day away absentmindedly playing games or watching documentaries, and the worry that Akamatsu-san's sad smile instilled in him just furthered that need to calm down or he'll inevitably have a heart attack and for personal reasons pass away at the tender age of 20. Unfortunately, his legs, uncaring to his fragile heart and mental health, automatically carried him all the way across the city to the police station, instead of his and his uncle's home. At least he had a good two hour walk, since Akamatsu-san's house is so far away. That'll do for his cardiovascular health, right?

As soon as he enters the station, at 17:48 according to the entrance hall clock, he feels that something's awfully wrong. He checks out at the reception desk and maneuvers across the building to the mobile investigation unit's shared office. At 18:00 square he opens the frosted glass door and is met with the unusual sight of a very, very angry Nozu-san. If drinking coffee could kill, the sheer intensity she's sipping on her cup with would've caused a genocide of a small ethnic group. Noticing him, she mellows out a bit, which, considering her initial state, just means that she looks slightly less dangerous and fuming than a wounded lioness.

"Oh, Saihara-kun! Good afterno- evening. Good evening. How's, ah, how's life?"

"Good evening, Nozu-san. Is something wrong?"

She cackles sourly and crushes the now empty paper cup. 

"These idiots have put the investigation on hold and want to delegate it to Tokyo."

"W-what?!"

"And they have arrested someone. Who, clear as day, is not the Phantom Thief. Just some pathetic crook they decided to shift the blame onto. Well, and guess what? They've released him, like, two hours later! They couldn't even go through with their bullshit narrative. It's a fucking circus."

"Why didn't they look into the school group lead? I, uh, I've talked to the-"

"I! I don't know! They strictly prohibited us from going there," Nozu-san fumes, but then her voice suddenly lowers to barely above whisper. "That's why Seicho asked you to go to the school, right? He told me you got something, but didn't specify."

So that definitely was prohibited by the PD. His uncle is risking a lot.

"Y-yeah, I got a lead," he murmurs back. "I've seen a suspicious person in the gallery, and I'm meeting with an artist, completely third party, she'll help me with the police sketch."

"Great," she mouths. "You can send me the pic on Line or something once you get it, right? I'll try using my outside sources."

Shuichi nods, and something in his head clicks. Outside sources. What about his uncle's whistleblower? As far as he's concerned, no one but Seicho has any contact to this person, and that's already at the very least in the grey zone of the law. This person could have leads to the Thief, but interrogating them isn't possible due to confidentiality breach. He shakes his head and huffs, mind buzzing. His responsibility now is getting a good enough sketch from the artist, that's it. No good bothering about something definitely out of the realm of his possible actions.

Nozu-san sighs, calming herself down.

"Yo, Saihara, you seen the last episode of Unsolved Mysteries? They went back to like a thirty years old cold case..."

"So, Mitarai-kun , took you long enough. I started to think you wouldn't show up at all."

"Why wouldn't I, oh dearest?" he replies, busy with building a tower out of poker chips.

"You have displayed your disdain for such facilities aplenty. Truth be told, I expected you to reject the invitation at the spot."

"Eh. Gotta feed my family somehow, y'know."

"You don't have a family."

"I have DICE?" he frowns.

"You jump through hoops for "Dice", yet I'm not entirely convinced they are real in the first place. Oh, monsieur ," she turns to one of the players, a elderly white man in an offensively expensive but costume-ish attire. " Placez les antes, s'il vous plaît ".

"They are real, and you will face a defamation lawsuit for insinuating my powerful and fearful organization isn't real! Belle tenue, monsieur! Où avez-vous trouvé cela, dans une foire aux costumes du 19e siècle ?" The man chokes from the sheer audacity of the insult to his impeccable fashion.

" C'était une blague de mauvais goût, monsieur Nevermind ," she them turns to her companion in crime. " Du termite , that's inappropriate. This lovely gentleman is a whole king, and this is his country's formal wear."

"What kind of country is that, Narnia?" some of Japanese players snicker, leaving mr Nevermind, the poor monsieur only knowing French and English outside of his native language, squint suspiciously.

"I can't believe you're about to singlehandedly destroy all sorts of diplomatic relations between Japan and Novoselic."

"Well that might be a tad too hard, they love our anime too much" another player smiles meekly, a woman in her 40s, who was introduced to him before as Gokuhara-san, a part of the wealthy yet historically disgraced and forgotten japanese aristocracy. She doesn't really have any criminal ties (except for gambling in illegal casinos, apparently) and in general doesn't offer much input unless she has the opportunity to rave about her son, a brilliant - what's the word? endocrinologist? No, that's not right, but something similar, - who left their family estate for studies all across the country. "Sounds more like he just wanted to escape you, you say words like 'decorum' and 'gentleman' more than an etiquette tutor", the thief thinks sourly.

"Mitarai-kun. Would you please be so kind as to go get me a drink and get lost somewhere on the way there?" the gambler says through a sweet smile, before her "friend" can say something mildly insulting once more.

"Yes ma'am!" he readily hops onto his feet, knocking over the chip tower, and storms the opposite direction of the bar, until he's in the empty part of the establishment, pulling out a Colombina mask from the inner pocket: it won't really conceal his identity, given a number of people have already seen him in all his glory, but it might give him that extra flair. Besides, his last heist was as bland as airport coffee. Nothing screams "Phantom Thief" as much as a fashionable suit, an elegant mask and a bit of stolen items, right?

 

The Thief watches his target talk to the croupier near the roulette table. His target is a lean elderly man in his late 60s, sad wrinkles and dark pigmentation covering his stoic sunken face. His name is Watanabe... something-something, he's a former yakuza member (how does one leave yakuza alive?) and now mostly earns a living from his casino and being a rentier. Maybe "earns a living" is to put it mildly, the guy definitely makes bank. Well, guess it's now time for the Thief to make bank outta him, right?

The man's work office and simultaneous study is located in the further part of the casino, where a storage room would usually be located, and, obviously, is locked. It's not exactly hidden behind the corner or something, and, with the right angle, the security guard and the Watanabe Whateverhisnameis can both definitely see any suspicious activity around the door. The only advantage the Phantom Thief has is being, as some of his acquaintances eloquently put it, a little gremlin, so he crouches behind the craps table, completely hiding his small frame, and fumbles with the inner pockets for his lock picking tools. He laments for a moment that his snake rake definitely needs to be replaced soon (and what a shame, the whole set was not cheap, especially for Amazon!) and traditionally starts with skeleton keys. Underwhelmingly, it's all it takes to unlock the door. Apparently, ex-yakuzas don't bother with security enough to install anything more secure than a basic warded lock. Alright, less work for him. The Thief opens the door just enough to slide in and firmly closes it behind him.

The study is definitely more expensive-looking than the basic lock suggests. All the furniture looks extremely luxurious, dark and wooden, adorned with golden swirls and leafs. There's a security camera neatly tucked in one of the tall cabinets, so he stares right at it and grins cheekily. The Thief takes a moment to place the mandatory "lol u suck"-note to the police under the camera and finally starts looking through the numerous items in the office. There's a lot of expensive stationery, some papers (estate documents?) and a stack of magazines on the desk ("Yamaguchi-gumi Shinpo", he notes the name to himself to maybe google it later), lots of old big books and gem inlaid boxes in the cabinets. Out of curiosity, he opens one of the boxes, wide and flat, with some sort of eastern european folk pattern in red and yellow gems. The content of the box makes him stretch his mouth in an unnerving grin, if only to push down the nausea. It's a sheet of dried human skin, with an intricate dark tattoo design. The vague past knowledge of yakuzas preserving (and selling) skin of their dead members was already more than he wanted to be aware of the topic, actually seeing it was not a nice experience, 0/10, would not recommend. The Thief closes the box and puts it back, disgust bubbling in his chest, and decides to ignore it and just look further. Most of the boxes are filled with jewelry and old rare coins, so he absentmindedly grabs a big laptop bag from the leather armchair (as expensive as everything else in the study) and tries to fit as much as possible in it. His main objective is stealing a) expensive stuff that Watanabe Dumbname has obtained during his time as a yakuza, and, most importantly, b) passport and other essential papers, like insurance, casino documentation, etc. But the latter won't take too much space, right?

Busy trying to stuff in a platinum statuette of some indian god in the bag and wondering if he could take the cool katana hanging on the wall, the Thief doesn't pay attention to the muffled jazz music stopping in the playing area outside of the almost soundproof walls of the study.

The door swings open, Watanabe standing there, chest raising in rapid shaky breaths, face skewed in anger and panic.

"Uh, good evening?" the Phantom Thief greets him nonchalantly, raising eyebrows curiously beneath the mask, quads and calves tense as he's ready to take a hit and run. 

The man chokes out something and his legs give out, him dropping to the floor like a puppet with cut strings, revealing a gun wound on his back. The Thief freezes in place. The door-shaped bodyguard approaches the study, placing a Glock pistol back into the chest holster under his blue jacket.

An unmistakable clacking of red heels fills the silence.

Notes:

Placez les antes, s'il vous plaît - Place your antes, please. (fr.)
Belle tenue, monsieur! Où avez-vous trouvé cela, dans une foire aux costumes du 19e siècle - Beautiful outfit, sir! Did you find it at a 19th century costume fair? (fr.)
C'était une blague de mauvais goût, monsieur Nevermind - a joke in bad taste, mr Nevermind (fr.)
Du temite - you termite (ger.)

Dennis BTK Rader is a serial killer who sent taunting letters to the police
Badtz-Maru, Kuromi, Gudetama, etc are all characters belonging to Sanrio (the guys who own Hello Kitty). I swear this chapter wasnt sponsored by Sanrio *sweats*
Yorii-Bunke is the name of a violent yakuza group, which, coincidentally, has its HQ in Gunma (the prefecture where Isesaki is situated).
Colombina is an italian dell'arte character, who is characterized by being a smart and cunning trickster. Y'know..fitting. Also her mask is a half-mask which is also fitting because Ouma is an attention whore.
Yamaguchi-gumi Shinpo is an actual magazine published by yakuza. And the tattoed skin thing.. also an actual thing, unfortunately.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This chapter is basically "what if you wanted to write saiouma, but god said "ur big gae for akamatsu""
And Ouma would definitely not find Casino Royale particularly good, trust me im a kinnie. This movie isn't even relevant tbh, i just didnt like it.

Chapter 3: Parasocial breakup

Summary:

Parasocial breakup - a situation where a seeming emotionally attached relationship between a spectator and a performer is cut off, due to the performer no longer being available for the spectator. Like when a show stops being aired. Or when Ted Bundy is arrested and no longer broadcasted, sorry fangirls. Or when your friendly neighbour Phantom Thief loses his ”friendly” status.

Usually in movies, when detectives arrive to the murder scene, it’s gray and depressing, dark clouds covering the sky, everyone trying to hide inside of their boring coats. A lot of times there’s a downpour, just for added effect.

Shuichi and his uncle’s investigation unit aren’t graced with any of those, the weather is insultingly good and sunset is almost an hour later than usual, painting the sky in beautiful pinks and oranges, while the police is investigating a double murder. If the universe was a performer, it would’ve been a stand up comic specializing on irony and dark humour.

Shuichi isn’t let into the building, obviously (it's probably a hurried mistake that they didn't leave him at the PD), so he stays outside with a couple of officers. He knows their names, definitely seen them around, but can’t muster up the mental strength to care enough. Isesaki is far from being the quietest, safest city in the world, but still. He’s never been to a murder scene. He’s scared - not his usually anxiety, but a genuine fear overcomes him. The thought of his own mortality, once vague and chilling as he watched Cold Case Files and murder mysteries, now hit him like a firetruck, real and tangible. The panic he had back at the gallery, where he thought someone would hurt him or the ones he cares about, that he dismissed after the almost funny in a way “hat” interaction, was now coming back at him akin to a tsunami. He wants to go home and sleep the horror away, he wants to go to a doctor in case he has a panic attack, he wants to stay, he wants to fade away into nothingness and lose his corporeal form for a foggy presence that doesn’t have the concept of life and death.

It was 19:34 when both the mobile and the organised crime investigation units were mobilized. A unique case for a small mediocre city like Isesaki: double murder, gun violence, illegal casino, taking in account past yakuza activity in that city area. A wild mix.

 

Saihara doesn’t know how much time has passed, in a weird daze, where he would allow himself to be handled as a mannequin, be guided back to the police car and shoved nasty vending machine tea into his stiff hands. When he comes to his senses, it’s already dark, and inspector Maruma is standing before him with barely concealed pity in her eyes.

“Why did they even drag you with us,” she sighs in annoyance. “We’re done here. Wait for your uncle, he said he'd drive you home.”

“H-he’s not going to the department?” Shuichi barely manages to speak, voice hoarse and painful as if he’s been screaming for hours. The detective, somehow hearing his pathetically sounding question, shakes her head.

“No, only assigned homicide detectives and assistant commissioners will stay for today. He’ll attend the interrogations tomorrow.”

Shuichi sniffles and nods. He notices Nozu-san on her phone near a lamppost, chewing on her nails and tapping her foot faster than a professional tap dancer on a 3x video speed. He knows he should just leave her to be, for both of their mental health sakes most likely, but the small thought of her being the closest person to be his friend among dozens of officers urges him to stand up on wobbly legs and creep toward her.

“Yo, Saihara. Nice weather out here?” her voice is only slightly less groggy than his own.

“K-kinda didn’t even notice,” he shrugs. It is nice, unfortunately. “So, how, uhm, w-was it?”

“Eh, less impressive than that Zac Efron movie I watched the other day.”

“About Ted Bundy? Evil, Wicked and Vile?”

“Yeah...  Something like that.” she turns her phone off and closes her eyes, leaning back on the lamppost. “No, but really, the bodies aren’t... gruesome or something. I'd be disappointed if I wasn't so relieved. Clean gun wounds, about... 16 to 20 caliber, one of them most likely an instant death, the other tried to make a run from the attacker. Everyone was cleared from the area right before the murders, so no witnesses of the actual crime. People on the top floor heard gunshots and called the police. One victim is a bouncer, the other is the owner of the casino.”

“T-top floor?”

“Ahh, right, there is a ground floor, an full-blown Vegas-style illegal casino. The top floor is a basic pachinko place.”

“O-okay. Anything else?” Shuichi curses his morbid curiosity, but the only way to detach himself from the horror of the situation is to act as if he is questioning Nozu on an episode of Law & Order. 

“W-well, there’s... Uh.” Nozu opens her eyes and stares at him. “You know the Phantom Thief always leaves a funky lil note on his crime scenes, right?” She doesn’t need to tell him that, he could recite like half of them and tell which one is from which case. “So. That’s. Um.”

Something in Shuichi’s stomach drops.

“B-but, they... They never... Wait..”

“That’s what I’m saying! The Phantom Thief never physically harms anyone, that’s not his thing! And apparently one of the victims’ personal documents were stolen, so that’s new. His crimes are never that targeted and personalized! That’s gotta be an impersonator. It’s not the first time, right?”

He doesn’t know, if she actually believes in what she’s saying, or if she’s just trying to calm them both down. The uncertainty in her voice makes it clear she doesn’t know either.

“I... I talked with them. I, I.. No, that’s wrong, they... Him...”

“You... what?!” Nozu grabs him by his shoulders. “You talked with the Phantom Thief? No! Shut. Up. Really?!”

“Please not so loud, Nozu-san!” Shuichi hisses. “At the gallery, I was in a restroom, and there was that suspicious person I talked about. He didn’t say anything of importance or out of the ordinary, so I dismissed it!”

“What did he say?”

“Um...” that’s awkward. “T-that my hat is dumb.”

“I mean, can’t argue with that.” she chuckles, but the smile quickly fades, her face growing more serious and determined than he has ever seen. “You know, this whole thing is incredibly fishy. From the kissing off yesterday’s case to these murders out of nowhere, literally nothing makes sense. The fucking Tokyo? Where'd that come from!”

“I’m sorry, Nozu-san. I-it must be so hard and horrible, and...”

“You know, they’ll assign me to this case, unless it also goes to Tokyo. Despite me not being a homicide detective.” she interrupts him, staring intensely somewhere in the distance. Shuichi keeps silent, letting her spill her heart out.

“Death isn’t something I’m comfortable with, contrary to my movie and documentary taste. It’s nasty and I’ll definitely get absolutely fucking hammered once I get home, just to forget it for a night. But,” she looks at him with some indescribable emotion glistening in her eyes. ”Solving crimes is my job.”

“Nozu-san, t-that...”

“I don’t like the thought that the guy I’ve been stanning for being a entertaining petty thief who'd fairy comment me on Twitter is actually a cold hearted murderer. But as I detective, I can’t run away from the truth. Besides,” she lowers her voice. “On the off chance it wasn’t him, I’d really rather not put an innocent person behind the bars, in best case scenario. Hey, criminal law major. What percentage of double murder cases end up in the culprit getting the capital punishment?”

“Around 59%”, he blurts out without thinking, an automated response from all the tests and exams. He can definitely understand the sentiment: it's almost like seeing a celebrity you adore and fervently follow every step of getting outed as a horrible person. And the added "what if.." Caught between a rock and hard place. A more than 1:2 chance that a person would get death penalty, but the chance that the person would actually be guilty is much less. The morbid reality of law: it's not always about truth.

“Exactly. All we can do is solve the crimes after it's all over. But more lives are on the line. Saihara-kun, I can't ask you to help me deal with this case, that'd be vile. But, if you could, please don't drop the gallery theft at best. Those pricks at Tokyo would just fuck shit up, they're bureaucrats first and servers of justice tenth. You have a good head on your shoulders, poke around, you'd get something. That could help us. Although... I'd personally probably drop it all and watch sad dog movies for weeks. Whatever you decide, it's completely understandable. Just don't tell your uncle I asked you of that."

Shuichi stares at her blankly. He'd never deny a request, either from being a genuinely helpful person or just being a pushover, but. Isn't that too far out of his capabilities? Shuichi isn’t delusional: he is an incredibly flawed person. He is anxious, cowardly even, embarrassingly shy and awkward and tends to form unhealthy attachments, but the main thing is: he isn't a real detective. His only strong pursuits are his memory and his weird logic, that somehow hasn't failed him yet . He should just dip, that's not his place to dig further and inevitably mess up everything. He's not a video game or an anime protagonist, where a meek nobody gets an amazing out of nowhere character ark, pushes through any obstacle, defeats the big bad and uncover all truth. If that was even remotely realistic, this kind of role would suit someone like Akamatsu-san or Momota-kun.

"I'll try my best, Nozu-san!" he quickly exclaims before the disappointment at his silence settles into the inspector's eyes and bows. For a supposed future detective, being realistic surprisingly isn't his strongest pursuit.

 

Shuichi frankly expects that this sudden outburst of hopefulness and bravery would die out by the time he and his uncle arrive home in mutual silence, but, as Seicho quietly parks at the apartment building, the intern detective surprisingly finds himself still riding out the high of inspiration and determination. He's not sure, if it'll still be here tomorrow morning, so he springs into action. On the way home he texts Akamatsu-san to ask if the artist would be available tomorrow, preferably in the first portion of the day and googles to see if the gallery is open tomorrow, to look around himself. Kaede answers pretty quickly, saying that they can meet with the artist around six or seven in the morning, the earlier the better. In his room, he makes a general timetable for tomorrow. Visit the artist and get the sketch done, go to the gallery at around lunchtime and then swing by the police station to ask Nozu-san if the witnesses said anything of value and share his findings. Then go home, compile everything and try and analyse it. Then spend time on some university assignments, or he'll definitely fall behind and in that case even his internship won't help the grade much.

Shuichi looks at his clinically neat writing with tired eyes, the adrenaline pumping in him steadily, making him unable to focus. There's one moment in this whole situation that bothers him, but he can't even imagine how to begin to approach it. The main source of information, the main suspect, the main witness and everything in between. There's a myriad possibilities with this person, from them having the one definite key to this whole mess to having the most important scattered clues to uncovering this case. The whistleblower. A plan of action blooms in that smart head of his.

He creeps to the kitchen to grab his keys that he threw on the counter when they got back. Seicho is pouring whiskey in espresso, which generally means that he'll be knocked out in half an hour tops, being an occasional and light drinker.

"Going for a walk?" Seicho mumbles understandingly.

"Uh, yeah. Need a bit of fresh air. I can stop by a convenience store, if you need anything?"

"Nah, thanks, I'll go to bed in a minute. Got a long day ahead tomorrow."

Shuichi nods, grabs his keys and storms out of the flat. The best thing about his uncle is how doesn't ask questions and trusts him. The worst thing about Shuichi is that he's about to breach his uncle's trust.

About a year ago his uncle told him about a case which posed a very miniscule sort of difficulty only because the criminals used burner phones. In Seicho's own words, "with the amount and kind of slip-ups they made, it's surprising they had enough braincells not to use their real phones." So, naturally, when something potentially dangerous and "not right" arises in Shuichi's plan, he heads straight to Daiso to buy a burner phone with a prepaid SIM. 

By the time he's home, his uncle is out cold, his phone abandoned near the open bottle of whiskey. 

While a generally smart person, Seicho should really step up his tech game, because setting up your password to be your birthdate and not deleting call history is pretty reckless for a detective. Shuichi scrolls all the way to the early morning of the day of the gallery theft.

 

Akamatsu warned him that her artist friend is "quirky", which, remembering how eccentric some of their classmates were, made him slightly worried at first. If someone can seem weird for Akamatsu after all these years with people like Iruma or Shinguii, then this artist must be something else.

However, when around 6:10 they arrive to a studio apartment in Maebashi (an hour bus ride from Isesaki. Shuichi desperately tried to catch some sleep but alas), the artist, Yonaga Angie, seems... relatively normal? She's surprisingly energetic for such an early hour and radiates positive vibes like a ray of sunshine, and her speech is slightly off (though she speaks with an accent, apparently she has lived somewhere in Oceania most of her life), but nothing else really stands out. Well, she herself would definitely stand out, very visibly a foreigner, especially with the deeper tone of skin, but she honestly just seems like a sweet but overzealous girl. 

"Ah, may God be with you on this fine day!" Yonaga greets them with a wide toothy smile. She is wearing a flowery sundress with an apron on top of it, and her silvery hair is intricately braided - what ungodly (ha!) hours of the morning does she wake up to be ready by such an early visit? "You're right on time! Angie has just finished her morning prayers and started preparing the workplace!"

Shuichi glances questioningly at Akamatsu, when Yonaga turns around to let them in. She just smiles and shrugs.

"So, what exactly brings you here for Angie's services?"

"Ah, I see, Akamatsu-san didn't tell you... I need a picture of someone, and I can only describe them from memory, so..."

"That Angie knows of," the artist nods. "God is telling me that there's something else. Are you looking for this person? It's not a missing person situation." she states rather than questions, which is odd.

"I'm looking for a crime suspect."

"Understood. Angie didn't know what exactly to make of her premonitions. Crime was on the list of possibilities, truly." she pulls out a drawing tablet and explains, seeing his curious stare. "If Angie needs to tweak face features, digital is easier."

"Ah, of course!" Saihara shakes his head, embarrassed that he might've offended her. "I just haven't really seen anyone use one in person!"

Yonaga smiles vacantly and seats at the workplace, motioning Saihara to seat across the table.

"Angie is ready when you're ready. May God bless you with memory clear as lagoon water and words that flow with its waves."

"A-ah, thanks?" Shuichi stumbles, unsure of how to answer. No one around him was really religious, if anything, his family was pretty secular and preferred western lifestyle, so this whole thing is awkward to him and he doesn't know how to talk without being unknowingly offensive. Kaede takes a big art history book and seats herself near the window to give them space and occupy herself. "A-alright. So..."

He tries his best to remember all the details of the supposed thief's appearance. Starting with more general descriptions, like round youngish face and traditionally japanese facial features. The quiet sounds of Yonaga's stilus sliding and tapping on the screen soothes him and lures into a secure elevated feeling, helping the steel bands of worry to loosen up and allow more memories, more specific features come up without resorting to the anxious feeling of yesterday. Shuichi hums, deep in thought, and closes his eyes, mentally scanning the image that mind offers him. Big upturned purple eyes that seemed dark navy in the dim lights of the gallery restroom. Ghostly white skin with barely there blush on babyish cheeks, almost like an ichimatsu doll. A hint of undereye circles, a mauve color blossoming under short thick lashes. High subtle cheekbones. Gentle curve of a faintly defined jaw. Pronounced Adam's apple, occasionally visible from under the high collar of school uniform. Wide mouth, small pearly teeth. Short nose that crinkles when he utters the remark, trying to contain the laughter, oh, how he fooled everyone, had everyone wrapped around his finger, police and delusional crime lovers alike. "Ditch the hat". That's so ordinary, so unfair. Almost as unfair, as how the thief is almost a head shorter than him and how delicate wrists were slipping out of the uniform's sleeves when he was washing his hands, all mundane and almost childlike in presumed (and fake) innocence. Unfair in how it was all fake, and he knows it, but it still feels like a deep wound that hadn’t had a chance to close yet was getting salt rubbed into it. Nothing his brain offers is even remotely as disturbing as the feeling of almost personal betrayal that Saihara harbours since yesterday's evening, and he hates it, but the floodgates of mental images don't stop, spilling into careful explanations for the impromptu sketch artist. Straight thin eyebrows, soft rounded forehead. A barely visible beauty mark on the right earlobe, peeking from under the choppy thick locks. Thin cracked lips. The mischievous glint in the eyes, irises speckled with lilac, mere minutes before stealing the pieces of art. Did he already think about murdering someone back then?

Finally his "memory like a lagoon water" dries down and he falls silent. A couple of minutes, and Angie makes a come hither motion and shows him layers upon layers of different variations of noses, face shapes, eyes, you name it, based on his description, all extremely similar but vaguely different. They spend a while choosing the closest ones and adjusting their position on the face. Kaede comes up to them and watches Yonaga clean up the sketch and colour it.

"You remember... a lot. Are you sure you saw him only once?" Akamatsu asks, following the artist's hands starry eyed.

"Y-yeah... I think I just have good visual memory. Or maybe I have actually been granted better memory for this encounter, like Yonaga-san said," Shuichi tries to joke, but Angie looks up at him with wide eyes.

"Oh, but God doesn't 'grant' anything, he only helps you use what you already possess!" she exclaims, eyebrows furrowed. "It's not some fictional magic!"

"S-sorry!" Saihara squeaks and tries to change the subject. "So, I guess, my descriptions were alright?"

"Angie has never seen that person, so only you and God can be the judge of the result! The God avows the verity of your account though!"

"Well, I'd say your description was at the very least extremely throughout. Maybe you should try yourself in writing?" Kaede assures him with a smile.

"Of romance kind?" Angie proposes in jest, earning a chuckle from Akamatsu, and then looks Shuichi in the eyes, passing him the drawing. "God and his intricate gaze only aid Angie in such a profound way when it's something Angie either loves or fears . Does this person occupy you a lot, Saihara-san?"

"Occupy" is to put it very mildly. Shuichi ignores the "romance" joke, staring at the portrait, taking in every digital penstroke almost reverently. He and Yonaga-san did an amazing job, mostly Yonaga, of course. Just a sketch, but it's so life-like, the resemblance uncanny, like the person on the screen is about to shake his head of springy hair and grin widely, upturned eyes squinting in a taunting piecing stare, like an apex predator eyeing his prey. When it's something one loves or fears, huh? Same difference. Shuichi reluctantly peels his stare away from the portrait and gives the tablet back.

"You could say so."

"You should find him sooner then."

"I... hope so. He is a criminal. Possibly a very dangerous one."

"I'm not talking about that." Shuichi couldn't help but notice the single drop of the third-person speech pattern. "God says to be wary of dangers to one's spiritual prosperity, especially when they're persistent ."

Unsure of what the artist means, Saihara nods. They hang around for a bit, Yonaga and Akamatsu chattering about all sorts of stuff, while the artist makes some finishing touches and prints the sketch.

"Alrighty!" she sing-songs. "God told Angie to make two copies just in case!"

"Your God is very thoughtful," Saihara nods, having several copies really is a good idea. He checks time: it's 7:26. "Thank you so much, Yonaga-san."

 

On the way home, snuggled on the back seat in a crowded bus of white collars, Kaede tells him about Angie and how she was originally Shinguji's acquaintance, Shuichi nods and occasionally asks questions. His eyes unwillingly travel down to where their thighs are pressed together and his hand rests almost on her bare knee. Normally his face would grow red and he would start acting all bashful and timid, averting gaze and apologising. But this feels natural and vapid in the best way possible. Calm and platonic.

Akamatsu, bless her heart, mistakes his thoughtfullness for tiredness and offers to lay his head on her round shoulder. It's bordering on too close for comfort, but Shuichi agrees nonetheless. Kaede smiles the way only she can smile, fond and with a warm glow, reaching her plum eyes, the corners gently crinkling as a testament to how genuine the expression is. This smile is the last thing he sees before closing his eyes and tucking his face into the silky fabric of her shirt.

Shinguji Korekiyo, their ex-classmate and self-proclaimed "humanity (and everything it entails, like languages, art, etc) enthusiast" (and apparently someone they have to thank for introducing Kaede to Yonaga-san), once told him about how some cultures have more words and distinctions for certain concepts than other. For example, in Japanese, they have two words for "love": one meaning a romantic, sensual kind of love, the other - a selfless, profound and eternal kind of feeling. In English, he knows, the word "love" can be utilized for a number of meanings, platonic, romantic and divine all the same. Ancient Greeks are, for a lack of better word, the most advanced in that regard: they had eros, passionate physical love; philia, fervent comradery; storge, sweet familial love; philautia, care and appreciation for one's self; agape, the unconditional and ethereal kind of love... Shuichi doesn't kid himself to think he's in any way, shape or form good with love, both giving and accepting, or even just recognising it. It'd certainly help to have clear definitions and guidelines for love, a sort of a penal code for feelings. Where it's clear that he feels what one might call storge for his uncle, and what one might call philia for Momota-kun, what does he feel for Akamatsu-san? Eros, the intense romantic desire, or philia, the harmonious amity? Or agape? But agape is what Shunguji-kun feels for human cultures, what Yonaga-san feels for her God or for her art, what Akamatsu-san probably feels for music and what Momota-kun feels for space, and what Shuichi himself feels for... For what? Does he harbour any strong feelings towards anything, are any of the things he occupies himself with on a daily basis more than just a fleeting interest, a concoction of curiosity and societal pressures? Does anyone, really, feel anything close to the so-called "highest form of love", the kind of love people supposedly feel for God, or the love that God feels for their followers? Or maybe it's just overestimated and mystified, and his weird engrossment with crimes and mystery is just as much of an abstract attraction and appreciation as this deepest, most praised agape kind of love. Shuichi laughs at himself. Then his past otaku obsession with a detective visual novel video game could be called agape too, but that's dumb. Or maybe not. Some people would definitely say that religions are just glorified fandoms or subcultures.

About twenty minutes from their destination Kaede asks to look at the sketch once more. She stares at the portrait, eyes narrowed in focus and deep thought. She covers some parts of the drawing with her hands, to take in the features separately.

"It's interesting, if it's really how he looks, not like a... disguise or something," she notes. "In its entirety, the appearance is really remarkable. But take away certain parts - and it's completely unrecognisable."

"Versatile features," he nods. Everything about the face and hair of the thief is contrasting, pale and gentle against dark and wild, and taking away - or concealing - one thing makes the whole "composition" fall apart. It's honestly impressive. Is that how the criminal has spent years masterfully hiding in plain sight, playing cat and mouse with the law? A momentary thought passes through Shuichi's head - is what he feels, felt towards the Phantom Thief, or, more precisely, the concept of a real life phantom thief, is this it - agape? Abstract, transcendental dedication to the idea of an elusive vigilante criminal, charming in their mockery of the police force, targeting arts and the rich, having a strict code of honour... Yikes, the fantasy that should've never been entertained, for it just ends up in a heartbreak. That's what one gets for reading novellas about Arséne Lupin instead of doing school assignments.

"Really hard to believe that someone that looks like that can be a criminal, though," Kaede cocks her head to the side, her face growing into a warm but somehow sad smile. "A friend of mine has younger sisters, this guy looks about some of their ages."

"Maybe t-that's why he's successful: no one... suspects a teen," Shuichi mumbles. 

"It certainly gives a whiplash of sorts, doesn't it?" she snickers. "At least he isn't a violent criminal or anything, that'd be a bad tv drama!"

"He is."

Kaede looks at him with wide eyes. Talk about whiplash, Saihara sorrowfully chuckles.

 

They get off at the Isesaki station around 8 am in grim silence. It's obvious Akamatsu doesn't like their little detective game anymore. But just backing off would not be an Akamatsu thing (even if it was safe and rational), and, frankly, it didn't cut it for Shuichi anymore. We only deal with a crime after it had already happened, but we could do more and prevent another tragedy - that's what Nozu-san said. And that's definitely something along the lines of what Akamatsu herself would say. He feels kinda bad for emotionally piggybacking off of such strong altruistic people - but the only thing he can do is do the right thing and help others.

"So, uh... You still went for it, despite... that ." Kaede can't find the right words, which is new. She's not usually the one to dance around words and meanings, but you can't really blame her for feeling icky and concerned in this situation.

"Yeah." he simply says. Maybe she doesn't need to know that he's spent half the night arranging a meeting with the police's criminal info dealer in secret from his uncle. 

"I care about you, Saihara-kun, I care about you a lot. So naturally I'd ask you to, you know, at the very least consider staying away from danger." Kaede has recovered herself and now hold that familiar look of determination. "But, as a friend who loves you dearly and also knows you well enough, I'm saying that you can count me in, whatever mess you're getting into. You got that?"

Shuichi doesn't say a word, dumbfounded, and simply pulls her into a hug.

 

It's 8:45, he checks his phone once and his wristwatch twice, so he's definitely fifteen minutes too early, even after walking Akamatsu-san home from the station. Shuichi hopes he doesn't seem unprofessional or desperate by coming not at 9:00 precisely - although maybe showing up early is a sign of respect and courtesy. He just hopes it's the latter, in the eyes of the insider.

Shuichi forgets how to breath, as he enters the small café that doubles as a hookah bar in the evenings, and makes his way to the furthest table at the back, where a woman in a three-piece suit with brunette marcel wave bob is already seated on a soft cushioned chair, her back turned to him. She has a half-empty cup and a small teapot in front of her (is she having breakfast? was it rude to show up so early and interrupt her meal? would it be rude to order food for himself, since he hadn't eaten yet? god is this stressful). Manicured fingers are tapping on her phone irritatedly - waiting for a call from someone?

"E-excuse me?" Saihara meekly raises his voice. "Celestia Ludenberg, I presume?"

The woman doesn't turn to him, she doesn't even flinch.

"Your deduction skills are unmatched, for it truly is I," her voice is unnervingly calm and sweet, with a weird thick accent he's unsure of the origin of. Based on the name, most likely German? Or maybe French? She motions for him to sit in front of her, which he does reluctantly. He belatedly realizes the sarcasm in her reply and flushes beet red.

"A-ahm, so, thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Uh.." damn, he should've prepared more for this conversation! "I-I can assure you, our conversation will stay between the two of us. I'm not here for the p-police o-or..."

"I know who you are, how you got my number, and why you asked to meet me," she is wearing huge retro-styled red shades. Inside. But he can still feel her gaze, intense and studying him as if he was a small herbivore. "And only for the reason that I don't have a habit of bullying kids I won't tell your uncle about this rendez-vous."

He breathes in sharply, to which she smiles and puts her chin on her hands in a cutesy and clearly theatrical manner.

"I am not antagonising you, Shuichi Saihara. I apologize for the snark, I really do wish that our conversation is fruitful and pleasant. You want to talk about the so-called "Phantom Thief", yes? Please do not hesitate to ask me any questions. I might not answer all of them, but I will try."

Shuichi smiles weakly and takes a notebook out of his backpack.

"O-okay, thank you, Ms Ludenberg."

"Just Celestia."

"Ah? Alright, C-Celestia. So," he looks at the notes he made for this encounter. "If I am correct, you supply information on the Phantom Thief and their future heists."

"That is correct."

"Is your source... The Thief themselves?"

"The answer is negative."

"So, it's someone close to the Thief? I, uh, I'm not asking for names, that'll probably compromise you, I just want to know the general..."

"It is not someone close to the person in question. They - the Thief and my source - almost never meet," Celestia makes a show even out of adjusting her hair, hand movements deliberately prominent and dancer-like, craning her neck in an attractive manner to turn her head a bit. It seems completely natural, but Shuichi senses a certain theatricality even in the slightest of her movements.

So, there's apparently a chain of pretty reliable people, he quickly deducts, since the whistleblower's intel is always correct, evident from numerous cases in his uncle's work. 

"Do you think the Phantom Thief works.. not alone?"

"I do not think so." Celestia cocks her head to the side. Something about the way her eyes squint and her tone slightly rises makes him prod further.

"You don't think so, because you know for a fact?"

"You're a bright young man. Let me just say, he performs his robberies on his own, from start to finish."

He brings a trembling hand to his forehead, damp with anxious sweat. So he does the heists alone, but he isn't purely a solo player. There's a possibility of an existence of a network of sorts... No, that's too much into the conspiracy territory. Not like organised crime doesn't exist, it's just that it probably shouldn't be his first guess, given the the thief's behaviour and style, if you could call it as such. A mercenary situation is plausible, though.

"Does anyone... Hire the Thief? I-is that a right word, I-"

"Yes."

Well, that's short and concise. So Ludenberg's source, if it isn't the thief or someone close to him, must be someone connected to the clientele.

"Is the "client" always the same person or different people? O-or an entity, like a company or an organisation?"

"I am afraid I cannot answer this question."

"Okay, thank you. Can I ask a couple more questions?"

"But of course."

"Alright. Uh. Have you heard of the casino situation already?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Right... Did you know about that beforehand, as with other heists?"

"Yes."

"Did you know... that there would be victims?"

"To a degree."

"C-could you elaborate?"

"No."

"Okay. Phew, okay, um." time for the big guns. "I have a sketch of a person that, I assume, is the Thief. Would you be so kind as to confirm whether it's them or not?"

Silence. Shuichi clears his throat and pulls out one of the copies and slides it to her. Celestia carefully studies the sketch.

The change in her expression is momentary, fleeting, but he catches it all the same. Surprise, recognition, confusion? 

"I'll be honest with you, Saihara Shuichi," she finally speaks up, giving back the sketch copy. He can't help but notice her accent being kinda weird in that sentence, like she's... dropping it a bit? "Whether I say this is or this isn't the Thief would put me in a compromising situation. I cannot specify who this person is, but I do know them."

Ludenberg's backtracking, but she doesn't look nervous or anything. Either she has the best permanent poker face in the world, or she's genuinely unshaken. Hard to say, if she is lying, if this is actually the Thief or not or if she knows that in the first place, not a muscle twitched, not an extra blink or a furrowed brow, nothing.

"Before you ask, I have, in fact, seen the Phantom Thief personally. That would not aid you, though, that's not exclusive to me. Do you have any other questions?"

Shuichi grits his teeth, bile rising to the back of his throat. He's afraid and he's hurt, and Celestia's answer can either save him or crush him entirely.

"Did the Phantom Thief themselves kill those people in the casino?"

"I thought the police already has a definite answer."

"Please, just answer. If you know the real thing. Please ." 

"You sound desperate," Celestia sips on her tea, to take a dramatic pause. "No, he did not." she takes off her shades, and looks at him with her piercing red eyes. Kinda reminds him of Harukawa, but Celestia's are a very intense, almost artificial colour. Could they be coloured contacts? "It doesn't change anything, the two of us and even more people knowing. As far as the police is concerned, he is the culprit, and the law enforcement has it down, all the evidence was purposefully crafted that way. They won't pursue other possibilities out of sheer convenience. You are aware of that. Why do you want to know the truth?"

"T-that's a weird question," Shuichi tries to hide under his cap and sink deeper into the chair.

"Just wondering. Do you wish to tell that to the police, on the impossible chance it'd change anything? Is that your personal sense of justice? Or morbid curiosity?"

"I, uh..." he can't just say that a long time of obsessively looking through records of the criminal in question made him feel a sort of a personal attachment to the Thief, a sort of parasocial relationship that makes him genuinely wish for the person he so intently studied with almost more emotional than professional fervour, to end up not a murderer?

"Don't answer that, I'm just teasing you. I don't really care." Celestia stands up. "I see it as you don't have any further questions. I thus shall bid you farewell."

"W-wait! Last one! How did you even come in contact with my uncle?"

She raises one eyebrow in surprise, and puts on her sunglasses.

"Let's just say, Seicho has more secrets than he cares to admit." the whistleblower fixes her hair and turns away from him. "You know, Saihara Shuichi, I am an exceptionally skillful liar. But I treasure my reputation as an information broker, so I haven't lied a single time in our conversation."

"You did avoid answering some questions.."

"Omission isn't exactly lying."

"It's still deceitful..." Shuichi murmurs. She smirks.

"That's one way to look at it. I will contact you, if I deem it necessary. So, this is between us, correct?"

"Y-yeah, of course!" he jumps up and bows. "Thank you for your time, Ms Lu- Celestia!"

Celestia laughs, elegantly covering her mouth, and mockingly curtsies to him, before waltzing her way out of the café, leaving him alone. Only then, after they have already had their conversation, the weight of it all falls on him, the room starts to close in around him. The tension in his body finally subdues, leaving him limp and helpless. She will contact him? Why though, is she planning to throw him under the bus? He's not even from the police or a private investigator. He's not a danger, but then again, it's not like he can bring anything useful to the table. What did he get himself into... Shuichi looks down at the sketch. It bears that Gioconda smile, taunting him. It's making his skin itch.

 

Celestia stops at the traffic light, fingers tapping an oldish tune on the steering wheel, and makes a call that goes straight to voicemail.

"Once you're done being a petty child, call me. Someone's onto you."

 

When Shuichi, much, much later, in the evening, comes back home, he finds an unusual thing in the mailbox.

Notes:

Daiso - Japanese “dollar store”
Arsene Lupin - a literature character, the proto-Phantom Thief. Stories about him are very popular in Japan.
———
it was supposed a one big chapter but it was over 10k because I went on a tangent about fandoms and love and i was like 👁👄👁 That’s why it kinda jumps straight to the end of the day so weirdly at the end haha. Next chapter will be so gay and dumb though im anticipating.

cancel culture is dead but I’d cancel English v3 release. “Atua” my arse.

Chapter 4: Filler episode

Summary:

Shuichi investigates and then spends some time with his friends. Definitely nothing plot-relevant happens, haha.

Notes:

CW for alcohol in the latter part. A gentle reminder that all the characters here are 20+, so they're of legal drinking age in Japan.
it kinda picks up where prev chapter left off, sans the last sentence.

The short talk with Celestia left Shuichi with a nauseated cotton-y feeling in his lungs and throat. The information she gave him is a lot, truly. However, the very nature of Celestia's position, as well as other clues like her inconsistent accent and carefully rehearsed body language, presents the potential for a fallacy - that she was truthful at least once in that whole conversation. Even her name - most likely German, Shuichi thinks to the linguistics, - might be deceitful, for she looks ethnically Asian. Not that she couldn't be an immigrant or something along those lines...

The detective in training leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. His head hurts, and any thoughts of getting breakfast evaporate.

No one asked him to contact a literal criminal informant. If this comes back to blow up in his face, he's got no one to fault but himself.

 

At 9:59 Shuichi shoots his uncle a message that he’s fine and is taking a walk around the city. Seicho replies with a cheery “stay safe!”. The boy recalls how yesterday he lied, without a second thought or a stutter, and then went on and talked to the whistleblower without telling anyone. What’s gotten into him? He never knew how to lie well and generally despised liars, even something small like cheating on a test seemed unsavoury and reprehensible. Yet here he was. Anything to push forward the investigation to find the culprit and uncover the truth, right?

He shoves the phone into his jeans pocket. It buzzes with the reply almost immediately. Shuichi doesn't check it and steps inside the Gotenyama art gallery.

 

Everything looks the same as a few days ago, sans the crowd of cops. There's only one security guard, at the entrance. It's not like there's anything else super important to steal, Saihara thinks bitterly. He takes a deep breath, checks his watch and turns to the guard.

Talking to people has never been his strongest suit, especially strangers. He'd stutter or speak too fast, which would make him feel embarrassed and he'll stutter even more and start shooting out words at ungodly speeds just to be over with and go. Talking with Yonaga-san was sort of easy, for she was Kaede's friend and he mostly monologued with closed eyes. Talking with Ludenberg was dominated by fear and caution, so it was a purely different type of emotionally taxing. Still, now he has to talk to even more people, so he's pretty sure the next day he's going to spend holing up in his room with muted notifications.

"E-excuse me, sir! Good morning!" Shuichi squeaks and it comes out humiliatingly high pitched. The guard, a sturdy man in his forties, cocks his head.

"What can I help you with?"

"I'm Saihara S-Shuichi. I'm an intern detective. I-I was a part of the police..." he stumbles, thinking of how to name it. "Stakeout" doesn't actually describe it well. "O-operation regarding the bonseki theft."

"Ah." the guard nods in understanding, his face darkening. He's one of the guards, working that day, Shuichi realises. "I thought we already were questioned, but..." the guard looks around, in case anything else requires his attention, and then look back at the young detective. "I can't really leave my shift, so..."

"I a-actually wanted to talk to your janitorial services, if that's okay? There have been new developments, and I was tasked with..." liar, liar, pants on fire. Tasked by himself.

"Oh!" the guard brightens and points to the security booth door, beside the ticket office. Shuichi recalls his uncle and Maruma-san going in there to check on the security cameras. "I think our janitor's in there right now, but the maintenance manager will be here..  in twenty minutes or something? I'll ask them to wait for you."

"Thank you!" Shuichi beams. "I'll take a look around the gallery, in the meantime."

 

There are a lot more people in the gallery, than usual. The news of the crime really upped the interest for the gallery, so, whatever points lost in reputation, it'll get back in cash. An equivalent exchange? Either way, it's crowded to the point of claustrophobia, especially in the hall where the stolen art was displayed. 

Shuichi looks over the crowd. Back when his parents still acted like they gave two shits about him, they once flew him out to Paris, to spend some quality family time (because for them it's somehow normal to have family time once a year for weekends). He really anticipated the Louvre, because he had just watched his first ever "grown up" western movie, the Da Vinci Code. And how disappointed he was, when the Mona Lisa room was crowded and they couldn't take a close look at the famous painting. It wasn't the biggest disappointment of that trip, which is a given with his parents, but the Mona Lisa fiasco really stuck with him.

He turns away, realizing he's not going to get the opportunity to look at the stand, so he decides to aimlessly wander and do some mental gymnastics. It's not even close to the TV mind palace or whatever, but still.

In the second year of university they had a mandatory infosec course. While mostly the course focused on legal liability and risk evaluation, they had occasional "fun" activities, like real life case studies, trying to hack a fake social media account, and learning how to properly place surveillance cameras. He'll try to ask for the surveillance plan and see whether there were some miscalculations the Thief could've explored.

Shuichi stops in his tracks and freezes in front of a big painting in the Edo period hall. He glances around and notices cheap plastic clock on the wall. 10:17. His eyes turn back to the painting.

The art isn't anything particular, a big sakura tree and a bunch of people in Dutch clothing of that time period. Shuichi isn't big on history, but he's pretty sure back in mid 18th century little to no one in Japan wore corsets and petticoats. It's distracting him, a kind of petty mild infuriation. The Phantom Thief probably also thought about this, while tagging along with the students group. Maybe he was standing right here and there, where he now stands. Shuichi tears his eyes away from the painting - the Thief was looking at the same brush strokes, gentle white petals and intricate details of dresses, with his own damn eyes - and bores his gaze into the floor, but it doesn't help much. Everything around him turns dark and loud, heart pounding in his chest so hard it's threatening to breach his bones and skin and muscle and falls on the floor, a disgusting bloodied convulsing blob. This beating, squirming chunk of meat is the only thing that proves he's alive. Those two people in the casino were alive once as well, their hearts were beating inside of their ribcages, rotten, vile, criminal hearts that nonetheless were alive and

Shuichi forgets how to breath and turns on his heels, ready to make a run for the bathroom and puke his brain out just for them to stop hurting and

and he bumps into someone, because of course he would, the awkward mess of a human being.

"O-oh my god, I'm so sorry!" he helps the victim of the collision to stand up, the edges of his vision still dark. He holds small pale hands of a shorter girl with long messy black hair. She doesn't look up at him, face down and obscured by fringe, and once he lets go of her hands, she starts tugging at her hair, wrapping it around her face to hide herself even more, awkwardly shuffling in place.

Shuichi guiltily squeaks out another "sorry" and rushes past her back to the entrance. 

Two purple eyes curiously watch the stumbling detective, as the "the victim of the collision" fondly snickers behind the dark wig locks.

 

"Hmm... No, I don't think so... Or maybe? They were much older though... Nah, the similarities definitely are there, but..."

Shuichi is ready to bash his skull open on the nearest wall. Both the janitor and the maintenance manager, lovely old ladies, have been at it for half an hour already.

"The eyes are the same!" the cleaning lady exclaims, tapping at the portrait he offered them.

"How would you know, you're colourblind," the manager sighs.

"O-okay, thank you for your cooperation. Your help already was a-a lot, so I'm sorry for taking your time." Shuichi bows and quickly starts to collect his things. It's already 12:23 when he wobbles out of the gallery, tired as if he was unloading trucks for hours. He's got a lot of info, though. He asked them for the floorplan and the camera placement maps, asked them for anything weird or different happening, asked about the state of affairs with the Tokyo police taking the matter in their own hands. They even let him compare the camera placement plan and the actual view on cameras (where he actually found a minor discrepancy). But, most importantly, he learned about a janitor they have employed about two weeks ago, who only worked for about a week and then called in sick and cut all contact with them about a day or two before the news of the bonseki being placed in the gallery. If this person is who he thinks he is, then the Thief had known about the bonseki and their legal state and even their placement before the police or the general public knew. This cements what Celestia implied about there being some sort of a network: it could extend all the way to governing officials, right?

 

He begrudgingly walks to the nearest ramen shop. Usually he'd prefer a Starbucks or something, where it's quiet and most of the patrons are students and salarymen idly typing on their laptops, but his stomach is starting to eat itself away.

He orders some cilantro ramen and sits down at the nearest table. It's dim and warm in here, and smells comfortingly of broth and barbequed meat. Shuichi lets his eyes fall closed, eyelids hot and heavy like he's having a fever. He only slept for a couple hours that night, and he's sure after such an eventful morning and a good meal the warm embrace of sleep would be tempting as ever. He may or may not be falling asleep while waiting for his order, his mind filled with small pale hands grasping at a gun handle, wrists twisting from underneath the black school uniform. A loud exclaim pierces his ears, and then he, still slightly out of it, is pulled up and crushed in someone's arms.

"Sidekick! Long time no see, bro!"

"Nice to see you too, Momota-kun." Shuichi mumbles into his friend's broad chest, mentally praying for his ribs to stay whole and intact after such a power hug. Kaito finally lets go of him.

"What brings you here? I thought you stay holed up in that police station all the time!" he laughs, loud enough to make the other customers flinch and grimace.

"Eh, f-field work?" Shuichi shrugs.

"Woah, for real?" Kaito's eyes grow wide and he pats his friend on the back. Said friend barely manages to stay on his own two legs from the sheer strength of the "pat". "About time they realised your potential and let you on a case!"

Shuichi's ramen is finally ready. Kaito orders some friend rice and chashu and both sit down.

"I think the question is more of what you're doing here," Shuichi finally starts eating and god is it delightful, he feels life forces coming back to his mortal body. "Didn't you want to stay the whole summer with your grandparents?"

"Ah, this..." Kaito's eyes trail off and he laughs awkwardly. "Harumaki's staying in the city working, and I felt bad leaving her by herself, I guess."

"Harumaki..? You mean Harukawa-san?"

"Oh!" Kaito flinches in shock of realisation and his face grows beet red. "Don't tell her I called her that!"

"It's kinda cute..." Saihara stares at his friend, not even bothering to hide his amusement.

"Yeah... She doesn't like cute stuff though. Even though she herself is mega cute!" the space enthusiast blurts out before thinking and promptly clasps a hand over his mouth.

"Damn, that's a lot of blackmail material you're giving me."

"Don't you dare!"

Shuichi chuckles and they quickly finish their food mostly in silence, occasionally chatting about nothing.

"By the way, are you busy today, Shuichi?" Momota asks, when they step outside. He takes off his colourful windbreaker. "Damn it's hot."

"Free, I guess?" now full, Shuichi kinda thinks of ditching the police station and just going home to sleep. Maybe it would've been better if he wore a t-shirt instead of a button up, but it was kinda chilly in the morning. Besides, he had a meeting with the whistleblower, he had to look somewhat professional... He sighs and rolls up his sleeves. The wristwatch beeps at 13:00.

"Cool! I'm actually meeting Harumaki in a while, wanna hang out with us?"

"Want me to thirdwheel your date?" 

"It's not a date!"

"Do you want it to be?"

Momota stops in his tracks and helplessly opens and closes his mouth, like a fish out of water, unable to really counter. He finally gives up.

"Aw, man. Is it really that obvious?"

"I m-mean, you think she's cute and you went back just for her. I think it's safe to say you at least like her... a b-bit."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't forget how you didn't realise Akamatsu liked you until she literally pushed you to the wall at a party. I'm not the only moron here," Kaito lightly punches him and Shuichi almost falls. "Damn, you've really let yourself go. You did so good at our trainings back at school!"

"I-I'm usually too tired to work out..."

"Or maybe you're tired because you're not working out? Say, Harumaki and I are thinking of doing some daily dozen, wanna join?"

"And thirdwheel your date?" Saihara jabs once again.

"You'll be my emotional support and groomsman!"

 

Spending time with Harukawa-san was surprisingly nice, even if it was mostly due to Kaito serving as a buffer between the two of them. They met up in a park only a short walk from the ramen shop, supposedly also not so far away from the day care center where Harukawa works in the summertime. The girl was already waiting for them, standing in the cool shadow of trees at the entrance, a plastic bag with cold bottles in hands. Kaito instantly started to apologize profusely for making her wait - although Shuichi knows for a fact Momota-kun is almost never late, so she must've gotten off work earlier.

They walk across the park, loud and lively with kids and their moms, to the much quieter baseball stadium and sit on the bleachers.

"I got only two," Harukawa-san informs as she fishes out two sweating bottles of coke, glaring at Shuichi with her murderous stare. If that's her resting face for just telling small mundane things, then he surely doesn't want to see her mad. Or maybe Shuichi is thirdwheeling, so she is mad? Hard to tell with a person who has only two facial expressions, and one is just the grumpier version of another.

"Ah, no problem! Me and sidekick can share, right, sidekick?" Kaito quickly chimes in, smile wide as always.

"U-uh, I'm not r-really thirsty, thanks."

 

They just sit there for a while, just enjoying the warm weather. Kaito is rapid firing stuff about his studies and his grandparents, with both Harukawa and Shuichi mostly humming in acknowledgement. There are a few athletes running around the stadium, and some dad is teaching his kids how to swing a baseball bat, but overall it's mostly students, chatting to each others in groups, so their voices all fuse into a murmur alike to the rustle of leaves. A group of kids two rows down is listening to some old foreign reggae.

If Shuichi had to describe the general vibe, then he'd say he feels like in an indie coming of age movie. Or like he's playing some free time event in a game, where characters tend to suffer a lot. It's nice and he's warming up to Harukawa-san, but he'd inevitably have to get back to the investigation, where it feels like a prolific criminal is taunting him almost personally, and there are two bodies looming over his shoulders.

"...So, I was thinking, if I get more into programming, I could get some gig with drones? One of the guys in my study group once worked in a team in Terra Drone, he says they hire students a lot!" Kaito talks fast, really fast, and his face is kinda flushed. Maybe because of the hot weather. Or because Harukawa-san has ever so slightly leaned into his side sometime during his mostly-monologue.

"That'd be really cool! Although I think you can already just go in the hardware department or something..." Shuichi offers his input. "I m-mean, I think? I don't know much about how stuff's made, so..."

"No, you're right, yeah, I can work on the body and mechanics and all this stuff. Just wanted to branch out a bit I guess. IT sounds cool, wish I hadn't slacked on it in highschool!"

"Yeah... I'm still amazed how you got into university, considering how bad your grades and attendance were! N-no offense."

"None taken, I was the shittiest student in school I think!" Kaito laughs and "discreetly" shifts closer to Harukawa. "I'm also surprised at where you're studying, but like, in a different way, you could definitely go somewhere in Tokyo or Kyoto."

"Eh..." Shuichi looks down. That's what he tells himself too. He was so scared of failure at the time, he didn't bother applying to more prestigious universities, although, in hindsight, he could very well get into one. Maybe, now he would've been studying in Tokyo's police academy and visiting the department, where his all-time idol Kirigiri Kyoko works, maybe even assisting her one day... And maybe he would've been not involved in a murder case with an untouchable criminal mastermind. He decides to change the subject. "Well, I guess. No t-turning back now though. By the way, H-Harukawa-san, I believe I still don't know where you're studying?"

"Good, keep it that way," she deadpans and pointedly takes a swing of soda. Shuichi shuts up and looks back to the ground. God, she's so difficult. The two of them would never spend more than five minutes in the same room if it wasn't for Momota.

"Oh, Harumaki's actually in your university, Shuichi! She's majoring in childcare!"

"Do you want to die?" Maki glares daggers at Kaito and frowns even more than usually (which shouldn't seem possible), and it still is a much softer expression than the one she offers Saihara just for existing.

"R-really? That's cool! I don't think I've seen you on campus though..." Shuichi smiles through clenched teeth. Harukawa seems like someone who's threats of killing he wouldn't laugh at, even if it's irrational and she's just a normal but grumpy girl. Well, duh, most killers seem very normal and even attractive and charismatic. Damn, the Phantom Thief looked like an unsuspecting middle schooler, and look where this unsuspicion lead everyone. Okay, that's too paranoid. She's a child caregiver, not an assassin or some bull like that, that's a thing of movies and games. 

"I'm a part-time student. Had to work during my first year, and then it was kinda late to switch," she explains with a sigh. That's probably the most Shuichi has heard her say at once, so he nods, amused. 

"I always wanted to visit her after studies, but she just doesn't tell me the exact block to pick her up at! How do you have so many though?!"

"Not telling. Exercise your hunch, your friend is a detective." Harukawa almost leans her head on Kaito's shoulder, and the space engineer in training almost whimpers.

"W-well, guess that's what I'll have to do!" he shakily proclaims.

"You'd just get lost on the campus," Shuichi quietly laughs. Momota shrugs. He studies in a branch of an American university, so they only have one building, not much to get lost in.

"He's too stupid to get lost. He'll be fine." Maki says flatly, and Momota feigns offence but breaks out in laughter a moment later. Shuichi blinks and belatedly realizes it was a joke. Harukawa made a joke. He doesn't have time to react, though, as his phone rings.

Nozu-san.

He excuses himself and walks away from the people. Harukawa and Momota glance at each other.

"Heeyy, how's my favourite brave little detective doing?" she sounds much better than yesterday, as lively as ever.

"Good..." he checks time. it's 15:45. Whew time flies. "...afternoon, Nozu-san. I am fine. How are you?"

"Just greeeat. Listen, Seicho wanted to tell you himself, but I couldn't wait! He wants you to help us with the interrogation. Actually more like do it yourself."

"I-interrogation? Me?"

"Yup, yup! There's a witness, she's the mom of your ex-classmate, Gokuhara. Seicho thinks you'll succeed most in interrogating her, because she'd trust you, like a familiar face. Otherwise she's...a tad hysterical."

"T-that's odd... What if I fail? C.. Can't uncle do it himself? He's great at e-establi-"

"I'm sure you'll do great! Besides..." her voice grows lower. "I think he has someone specific he'll be interrogating tomorrow, plus he's meeting with someone from Tokyo."

"I s-see."

"Welp, that's all I wanted to tell you! So, please, come tomorrow in the morning as usual! Bye!"

"G-goodbye, Nozu-san."

That was... Unexpected. A tight knot settles in his chest.

 

"Who was that?" Momota cocks his head to the side. "You're paler than usual."

"A-ah, from the police station. They have... w-work for me. For tomorrow."

"Really," Harukawa suddenly seems really interested and only slightly less antagonistic. "What kind of work?" 

"In.. Interrogation."

"Woah, dude!" yet another bear hug. "You'll eat that up, Shuichi!"

"Y-yeah... I hope so." Saihara awkwardly returns the hug.

"So hey, how about we celebrate? You did say you're free, right?" Kaito grins suspiciously wide. Shuichi and Harukawa-san sigh in unison.

"A bar?"

"A bar!"

 

Okay, so maaaybe Shuichi had a bit too much to drink. Okay, so maybe he had way too much. He lost count after the third hard seltzer, and when Kaito proposed doing shots of something Shuichi's never heard of, his drunk brain supplied that declining would be an un-bro thing to do.

Needless to say, he is wasted. Absolutely. His brain is running in power saving mode for sure. He checks his watch, and he can't tell the time, because the numbers bleed together. It's a wonder he got enough presence of mind to call the taxi for himself and for his friends (now that he thinks back to it, they left together? that's sweet).

At home his uncle, his wonderful understanding uncle gives him pills and water, ruffles his hair and laughs - not at him, but with him.

"I don't believe I've seen you drink since your graduation, Shuichi! It's good to unwind, it's been.. Hectic lately, huh, little buddy?" Seicho grins, and then notices something in his nephew's hands. "Is that from your girlfriend? Akamatsu, right? You're back together?"

Shuichi looks down at his hands, confused. It's a plushie of a cartoon character, he thinks. Where'd he get that? Ah, from the mailbox, that he mechanically checked even as inebriated as he was. He absentmindedly took it and didn't even register it in his head.

"N-no, it's... uh..." Shuichi slurrs, unable to collect his thoughts. "I-- I'll go to my room. S-sorry, I'm..."

"I'll leave the medicine on the counter. Go sleep, you have a hard day ahead, Mr interrogator. I'll wake you up in the morning."

 

Shuichi slips into his room on unsteady legs, fumbling with the toy anxiously. It's a Kuromi toy, he knows that because Kaede had a short-lived obsession with Sanrio characters in 8th grade.

There's something solid and thin inside of it. He's heard about stalkers putting razor blades in food that their target was going to ear. It's not the case, but close enough. He feels at least 30% more sobered up.

He sits at his desk and carefully cuts open the plush animal's stomach with a paper scalpel. His mind races back to the latest thriller he watched, where the voyeuristic camera work indulged in the slow languid sight of the knife cutting open flesh. It grounds him in reality better than any intoxication relief medicine ever could.

The hard thing poking from the inside is a card. Shuichi pulls it out of the stuffing using a compass as forceps.

A student ID card.

His brain is pounding and screaming and trashing as he shakily strokes his fingers over the smooth plastic. Over the photo. It's his photo. Pale marble skin. Wild mess of hair. Purple eyes glistening with mischief.

Right in the middle of the photo, where the nose would be, the card is scratched of all lamination and print underneath. The bridge of a nose is one of the most distinctive features of one's appearance, Shuichi recalls. Facial recognition software heavily relies on it.

The name of the "student" reads as "Kuroba Kaito". Saihara snaps his laptop open, somehow already pretty sure of what he'll encounter.

"Kaito Kuroba is a fictional character appearing in the manga... the true identity of the gentleman thief..." He chose an anime phantom thief character as his pseudonym. That's a fucking joke.

He didn't expect any less of his favourite criminal though.

Shuichi doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry, so he chooses sleep, to bury all of his worry and fear under the heavy blanket.

As soon as his head hits the pillow, his phone buzzes. Shuichi ignores it and falls into a dreamless intoxicated sleep.

 

He's awaken just short of an hour later by horrid nauseating thirst. His throat is scratchy and parched like he hasn't drunk any water in 20 years. There's cotton in his limbs and his lungs, rendering him unable to move or breathe. His phone buzzes once more and lights up with notification, irritating his tired eyes through the eyelids. Shuichi begrudgingly cracks an eye open. Maybe it's Akamatsu-san. Hopefully it's Akamatsu-san.

It wasn't Akamatsu-san.

"Good evening, Saihara. Did you like my present?" sent at 23:39. Then, precisely an hour later, just now, another:

"Take your time. You can respond any decade now."  

The sender waited for an hour, not a minute less or more. Desperately needed a reaction, but didn't want to seem desperate. A narcissist.

Shuichi isn't good at profiling, he's always had trouble in psych and behavioural sciences, but there are a lot of telltale signs anyone can notice with minimal training. The whole thing with reaching out to him and sending something physical is just screaming of narcissism, needing to be noticed and distinguished – that's the same reason certain criminals have their "style", the little quirks and details they purposefully leave to be discovered and linked back to them. Like cheeky notes to the police after robberies.

He needs to reply.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, you're finally awake or whatever!"

"Wouldn't you like to know, detective ;)"

"I have many names and titles. The supreme leader of evil is a good one, pretty accurate if you ask me. The Phantom Thief is much more known though and familiar to you."

So it is him. Not that there was much room for options. Shuichi swallows and winces at the pain in his throat. He notes that the Thief replies very quickly, though "very" might be an understatement. Either he is the world's ultimate typist, or - the realistic answer - he has already prepared his messages and is just copypasting them. Then, all the messages the Thief sends him would be heavily vetted, to rid of any discernible real personality. Professional approach, modern day magazine cutout letters.

Shuichi can barely hold the phone from how much his hands are shaking, either from alcohol still poisoning his system or from dread. His uncle is just behind a wall, in his own room. He could stand up and tell him about it. They could curate their responses and get something out of the criminal, be very professional and procedural. Be safer. But then Shuichi's meeting with Ludenberg might come to light, his unwarranted investigation, his lies...

He types out a response. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.

"Why are you contacting me?"

"To proclaim my neverending love to you."

"That's a lie! You do intrigue me, quite a bit actually. Saihara Shuichi. You study Criminal law at Social Welfare University, and are an intern at your uncle's police department. You've lived your whole life in Isesaki, live with your uncle, and haven't had any significant achievements or failures. You even drink soy milk despite not being vegan or lactose intolerant. Bland, unsweetened soy milk. In other words, there's nothing to call you even remotely interesting or outstanding."

"And yet you are somehow doing a better job at catching me than the entirety of Japan's law enforcement.A scarily good job."

"It's been a while since I landed into trouble like this."

Shuichi doesn't reply. The Thief already knows everything about him. His address, his phone number, his occupation, who he lives with, everything. He feels dread coil inside of him, hot and heavy and moving, writhing, rough and agonizing like a ball of snakes.

It's not too late to wake his uncle up. Or message Nozu-san to make sure at least someone knows.

"You have my pretty little face on you all the time, which is probably the most anyone has of my identity. That's very impressive, Mister Detective."

There's a pause between rapid fire of messages, about five minutes.

"It's exciting, even. Don't you think so?"

Shuichi swallows and finally types a reply.

"I'm afraid I don't share the sentiment."

"So you're actually talking to me, huh? You must be pretty reckless, Saihara!"

"It would've been rude not to, correct?" he doesn't get a reply for a couple of minutes, so he takes in a deep breath and types a much more valorous reply than what he actually feels like. The dryness in his mouth is back, and his skin is flushed and feverish, hot and fizzling.

"So may I inquire why you researched me, send me the "present" and are now messaging me? If this is an intimidation tactic, it won't work to cease my investigation."

"Bold."

"Unfortunately for you, I've seen you irl. Two times. And both times you were on the brink of a panic attack, so I'm not sure if I even need any "intimidation tactic" to get you to break and drop it."

Shuichi instantly deflates. Two times?! When was the other one? How could he miss, that's... The Thief's been stalking him?

He licks his lips, eyes glued to the screen, awaiting the next message. Fear seeps into his bloodstream, better than caffeine, better than endorphins or alcohol. Hands ball into fists, claw into the sheets.

"I am not going to do that though. If anything, feel free to continue to pursue me, it's the best entertainment. As for now, I am contacting you to make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" any sort of arrangements with a criminal is a sinister perspective. But he's already crossed that line with Ludenberg.

"A meeting."

"I want you to come to a certain location I picked and ask questions I will send you later. Nothing physical or illegal. In return, you get information. Very exclusive and insidious."

"What's the catch?" muscles in the entire body are so tense he's slightly trembling. His breath hitches, and he wishes that none of this petrification slips into the letters and words on the screen.

"There is no catch, dearest Saihara-chan. You get to play detective and get information for your little investigation, and I get my own perks from someone knowing it."

"It's just a civil conversation. No one else can come or know about it, but it'll be in a safe public space."

Stress coils somewhere deep in his vocal cords. The anxiety, clawing at his chest and throbbing at his abdomen, finally reaches its peak and releases, leaving him with white noise. Shuichi lightheadedly notes the condescending manner of addressing, thinking over the proposition. For some reason the Thief wants to meet and give out information. For someone so intent on keeping their identity hidden, it's certainly an unusual step. Maybe that information being out would threaten someone else entirely, which makes it worth it even at the cost of revealing himself? Maybe he's not going to talk about himself even. Like an exposé on someone, so he needs to get the word out? Like a client...

"That works for me. I assume you're going to send time and place?"

"But of course. It's a date then. Thanks for being cooperative."

He can finally breath and relax his muscles. Nightshirt now coolly clings to his damp back.

All these messages seem so... empty. Corporate and cold. Devoid of the characteristic snark of the notes the Thief leaves behind. Unnatural. Like he's written and rewritten them a couple of times, to fit the character better.

But his character was different. Shuichi knows it, knows best of everyone. Late nights carefully going through the freshly printed (still warm from the printer) files on the criminal, eyes lovingly taking in every single details of heists, neatly written notes, attempts at profiling, — all of that and it's not enough and too much at the same time. The Thief is singling him out, putting up walls or actually stepping over them, no one knows — and Shuichi is mad. It's scary, when someone who (unconfirmed) is capable of killing is singling you out. It's also bitter, for a childish reason. Like when a beloved character on a TV show turns out to be a traitor. It's pathetic: he's jealous of a character, while the actual person behind that has committed countless felonies and has possibly killed two people (maybe more).

"Now that that's out of the way, may I ask why you're still wearing that emo hat? It's quite atrocious, makes you look like you're a meth crackhead waiting for his dealer in a public restroom"

Why would he bring up his hat again? It's weird. It's also an opportunity to strike a conversation though. Try and steer away to more unexpected topics, to force the Thief to think over his responses in real time, making him more prone to slip ups, breaking the character.

"Sorry, I guess? I like it."

"No, 'sorry' doesn't cut it. Beg for your life."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course. I'm the leader of an incredibly vast and powerful organisation, where we value style and class. You're practically committing a federal offense."

"You have an organisation? It's pretty surprising to hear, from a Phantom Thief who famously works alone." he already mentioned being a leader of something. "The supreme leader of evil". But that was a joke, right? Maybe he's phrasing it to be a too-long joke, in order to hide the truth. Or maybe he's completely serious. 

"Bet. My organization controls the entire world. But of course, it's behind the scenes.

All the world's mafia syndicates are under my command."

"My apologies for committing a fashion offense then."

"It's more correct to say 'fashion faux pas'."

"It's okay, Saihara-chan, we can have our next date at the mall and get you a nice-looking hat, even though you definitely don't need it."

"That's French, right? I'll keep that in mind."

"Good boy."

"Also,, Next date? Mall?"

"Would you rather not we meet again? You know, a lot of people would kill to work with me, Saihara-chan."

Shuichi purses his lips. He doesn't like the "buddy-buddy" way the criminal addresses him and the alcohol is making him more easily agitated, so he decides to firmly establish his position.

"I think you misconstrued my intentions. I'm not 'working' with you, we are on vastly different sides of law. This is more like a," Shuichi tries to think of the most neutral word, "one-off transaction for mutual benefit. I apologize, but if we were to meet again, I'd rather have it with you in the hands of the police."

"You're talking of sides, as if the very concept of 'law' wasn't ruined worse than the Berlin wall."

"I'm glad you said that though. A firm moral compass and clear loyalties are hard to find nowadays. I wouldn't expect any less of you, Saihara-chan."

"You talk weirdly highly of me."

"You've already caught my interest and you've also caught some information on me. Given how great of a criminal mastermind I am, you're bound to be at least somewhat worthy."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The thief doesn't respond to him for almost half an hour. Maybe he was being too defensive and harsh? Didn't detect and thus didn't respond to the playful undertones of the Thief's texts they way he was expected to? Narcissists don't like apprehension and they don't like when things go off the rails that they've built according to their vision.

Finally, the notification pops up. Saihara feels like he hasn't been breathing all those half and hour, and this is the first gulp of air for his burning lungs.

"Sakura Saku, 2 Chome-491-1 Imaizumicho. The one with the pink décor. It's a western restaurant, I think? Reviews are good."

"Reservation for 17:00"

Sakura Saku... Shuichi knows this place. A bit fancy, but somehow he thinks it fits the aesthetic that the Phantom Thief is going for. Aesthetic? Shuichi scrolls through the chat log. The Thief is definitely going all out for that gentlemanly character. Different from his police notes, which he adorns with childish drawings and sarcasm. Shuichi feels that ugly bitterness once again, where he should feel fear and apprehension.

"You can be fashionably late, but don't be too late, or you'll break my fragile maiden heart."

"Thanks. I'll be on time." he impulsively adds "Your maiden heart shall be safe with me"

Another long pause, for about ten minutes. Out of line? He tried to be on the same page as the Thief, urging him back into the comforting character of a funny taunting trickster.

"Are you trying to seduce me? How scandalous!"

"Sorry"

"?"

"Stop apologizing, it's unfit for a detective."

Shuichi wants to type another sorry, but stops himself midway.

"Okay. so is it working?" he attempts another lame joke. "Seduction, I mean"

"You get an A <3 for Absolutely not"

Suuichi hums. Here come the memes. So that guy can speak like a normal young adult or teen, not just like an NBC character, he just needed to establish that mutual teasing.

"Alright, that wasn't my best shot"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I don't know, can you?"

"Just kidding, no, you can't. I know you're about to try and profile me using my text messages, Will Graham wannabe. Don't try it. I'm yet to see how trustworthy you are."

"I'll send the questionnaire tomorrow."

"Au revoir, mr Detective."

"Sorry for pushing the boundaries. Until tomorrow then."

Shuichi's hand, holding the phone, falls down like a puppet's with cut strings. He's so agitated he seems calm, body cold and solid.

He stares at the plushie toy on his desk, barely lit by the outside lampposts, cut open, stuffing grotesquely pulled out and scattered. A childish horror scene mockery.

His room, clean and orderly and lacking that lived-in feel about it, is comfortingly cool and secure in the midnight murk. Unfamiliar lucidity and tranquility reign in his mind after such an adrenaline spike. He's disheveled in the best way possible.

 

"By the way, thanks for the present. I'll take care of it."

Notes:

Kaito Kuroba is a character from Magic Kaito and Detective Conan.
Kuromi is a Sanrio character, a very mischievous foil character to My Melody.
Will Graham is a character from Hannibal franchise (both books and TV Show)
____
I binge watched nbc hannibal and I have very mixed feelings. I will try my best to avoid any similarities, but it's hard while shuichi thinks ouma is a killer. i highkey disliked hannigram relationship, i swear it won't be that toxic
i rewritten the text messages part about 5 times and i still hate it. also deleted the whole bar scene because it was getting too long (but had such good kaimaki nnnhghgh)
also tfw no ouma's pov second chapter in a row :/

🅱️lease leave feedback on this chapter, it was really weird and unsatisfactory to me

Chapter 5: A table for two

Summary:

Shuichi has to maneuvre between his pursuit of truth and his own lies, as he is pushed to the frontlines of the investigation, and the metaphorical nooze around his neck is growing tighter and tighter.
Ouma is just a little shit as usual.

Shuichi hates interrogation rooms. They're always dimly lit, dark and often have either the cold threatening metallic or sickly yellow colour to its interior. But the worst thing is being watched, studied, recorded. The one-way mirror, the cameras. The absence of his trusty hat to hide himself. The feeling as if there were thousands of eyes, wet slimy unblinking eyeballs following his every move, every word and every frown, blood vessels popping from the intensity of their stares.

Scopophobia at its finest. And he's not even scopophobic.

How can the witness feel comfortable enough to be interviewed calmly and thoroughly, when even the interviewer feels stressed out?

Shuichi looks at Gokuhara-san, his ex-classmate's mother, through the mirror, as she is seated and instructed by another officer.

"She's calmer than yesterday," Nozu-san notes, downing her shot of espresso. They sit in the comfortingly claustrophobic observation section for now, trying to mentally prepare Saihara for the work.

"Mmhm."

"Is everything okay? You've been kinda weird today. That nervous? You should do breathing exercises."

"T-to be honest, I'm terribly hungover..."

Not just that, of course: the stress of his yesterday's late night "conversation" left him quite disturbed: he's walking into the jaws of beast, and, worst of all, he can't tell anyone to stop him before he reaches it's sharp canines.

"Oh. That's rough, buddy. Okay, your grand entrance."

Saihara sighs, finishes his (third) coffee and goes into the interrogation room, clutching the files to his chest. It's mostly the information on the subjects, evidence receipts, some photos. Nothing out of the ordinary. Ordinary is good, safe and comfortable. That's why he drinks coffee multiple times every day, despite building up a tolerance at this point - it's ordinary, it's an everyday safe things That's also why he had such a small but old and stable circle of friends consisting of Akamatsu, Momota and arguably Nozu-san - new people would bring too much discord and distress into his life. And that's why he doesn't normally chase elusive famous criminals and definitely doesn't strike a friendly conversation with them, resulting in then meeting up: it's not normal and it's not safe.

He ungracefully plops down in his seat, unable to stand on his wobbly legs, and looks up to the witness meekly. 

"G-good morning, Gokuhara-san."

"Nice to see you, Saihara-kun," the woman greets him, smiling widely. She is nothing like her son, Gonta - the quintessential portrayal of a gentle giant trope, tall, broad and scarily muscular, but ultimately friendly, caring and highkey naive. His mother is short and plump and carries that air of unpleasant snobby elegance. But their smiles are the same - wide, sweet and disarming. That does little to help his anxiety.

Shuichi takes a deep breath of mortuary-cold air and nervously shuffles and stacks the papers with cold clammy hands.

"I will be questioning you on the events of what transpired on 23rd, approximately from 18:30 to 19:30 at the D'Station casino. Have you been informed of the procedures and your rights?" he says as flatly as possible, repeating the words from the protocols, as if this was merely a university exam.

"Ah.. yes?"

"Have you signed the acknowledgment documents?"

"Yes."

"Have you been informed that this conversation will be recorded?" Shuichi's finger hovers over the record button. 

"Of course."

"Thank you," the recording starts. The interrogation starts. "It is presently 09:26 hours on July 25th, 2020, IPD Assistant interrogation officer Saihara Shuichi, currently at Isesaki police station to interview Gokuhara Kachu, for the homicide case number 2020-37. Gokuhara-san, I'd like you to confirm the spelling of your name in the report card. Your first name is "hana" kanji and "armour", correct?

"Yes, like 'blue blood'." she laughs. 

"Thank you. Alright, a little bit on your background..."

 

It was a fairly quick interview, even if for Shuichi it felt like it lasted for hours. At 11:08 he bids Gokuhara-san goodbye and stumbles back into the observation room to Nozu-san, absentmindedly folding the files.

"Woah, Shu, that was awesome! You were, like, this cool detective, you didn't stutter once!" his senior officer congratulates him.

"T-thanks," he smiles weakly. God he needs a vacation, and he's just an intern. "Did I get any new info?"

"Well, one thing," he instantly deflates, so she quickly corrects herself. "I mean, it's a huge one! So, remember she said about that suspicious Mitarai guy, right? Who was a patron or whatever? So! We had him as a witness! Aaand," she turns to the desk, where a pile of transcripts and evidence receipts rests messily, and pulls out a file. "Just read and compare!"

Saihara holds up the print of another interview. The background info on the interviewee. Mitarai Ryota, 23, recruiter at the Gunma General Insurance service. Lives in the "bed town" part of the city. The extent of his offences is a speeding ticket he got a few months back. 

"That's exactly what Gokuhara-san said about his work place," Shuichi mumbles. "So she was talking about this guy? I don't see anything suspicious, everything matches."

"Almost everything!" there's that enthusiastic fire in her eyes, as whenever she talked about her favourite cases or criminals or movies. "But! Gokuhara said she met Mitarai at the lower floor - but, according to Mitarai himself, he's never heard of the lower floor casino!"

"Oh?"

"And another witness, the top floor security guy, said that Mitarai had left the building before the gunshots, he was at the bookstore in the same building!"

"Uh-huh. So that was a fake lead. The culprit wanted us to look into Mitarai. L-like, I too found it weird she knows his name and occupation, let alone remembers it so vividly. Who goes into an illegal casino just... casually announcing their workplace?"

"Exactly."

Shuichi skims over the text of Mitarai's interview. A lightbulb goes off in his head.

"Mitarai seems like a very u-unsuspecting and inconsequential kind of person, it doesn't seem like there's literally any connection. I... I think the culprit just went in, saw someone approachable. Then... w-went down to the actual casino and just, uhh... Retold what Mitarai told him? So Mitarai just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess. We could question him on people he was approached by. If he wanted to be an artist..."

"Animator. Same difference."

"Y-yeah. He must have pretty good face memory?"

Nozu-san thinks for a minute, silent.

"Saihara-kun, you're a fucking genius, you know that?"

"Nozu-san?"

"An ultimate detective, galaxy brain, your mind is so powerful. We'll call in Mitarai again while his memory is fresh, and compare to the fake Mitarai's portrayal by Gokuhara! God, why didn't I think about going back to previous interviewees!" she groans, but it's a theatrical kind of groan. She seems genuinely joyous.

"Well, her portrayal wasn't very descriptive..." Shuichi mumbles, looking down at his notes. "She only remembered he was short, japanese and had heterochromia."

"Does that match the Thief you met?" she turns to look at him. He almost chokes on his breath, forgetting he told her about that. He has to learn to keep his story straight, since he apparently now lies as frequently as breathes.

"Well... he was short too I guess."

"Huh."

"I t-think the heterochromia thing is so distracting, she didn't really pay any attention to anything else. Coloured contacts."

"Smart. Why blend in, when you can wear something so distracting, no one will remember anything else about you?" Nozu-san collects her files and walks to the door. "C'mon, Francois Vidocq, let's go to the office and chillax. You did great."

They exit the observation room and almost crash into his uncle in the midst of having an intense and animated conversation. He turns at them, instantly lighting up, despite the large dark undereye circles. Where he gets his energy is a neverending mystery to Shuichi.

"Oh, Shuichi, you're already done? How'd it go?" Seicho grins widely. Shuichi shrugs, half-coy and half-more interested in who his uncle was talking to, and Nozu gives enthusiastic thumbs up, beaming at his uncle.

"Great! I'll look over the transcript later," he glances back to his companion. "Should I introduce you all?"

"Ah, yes, I believe we've never met before. Let me introduce myself: Celestia Ludenberg." she extends her hand and slightly bows her head. Shuichi looks Ludenberg up and down. She's different from the business-like lady he saw previous morning, now dressed up rather extravagantly, in an elaborate lolita fashion dress. Her hair is different, also, with two long "drill" ponytails - a wig? Extensions? It's obvious she's not exactly covering her identity, she still is recognizable. He'll need to look into her sudden fashion turnaround a bit.

"Inspector Nozu Tetsuya!" Nozu blurts out and shakes her hand with a bit too much force, leaving Celestia with a visibly strained smile and tensely raised eyebrows. The whistleblower winces ever so slightly when she lets go, and then turns to Shuichi.

"And you, I believe, are Seicho's nephew? I've heard a lot about you."

She reaches out and grips his hand before he can even react, her eyes studying him beneath the sweet squint. Shuichi numbly returns the gesture of the handshake, the first-name addressing to his uncle not escaping him. 

"S-Saihara Shuichi."

" Entzückt ."

"Celestia's an old acquaintance of mine, but she's a key witness in the case," Seicho explains. "Same as Gokuhara."

"Uh-huh."

"Were you at the lower floor casino too?" Nozu asks. "We just found quite the piece of the puzzle of the culprit's identity!"

"Oh?" Ludenberg cocks her head to the side, a picture of innocence and calmness. Somehow, Shuichi expected her to be at least a bit tense. Why would she? She doesn't have any stakes in the culprit's - the Thief's - reveal, right? "And what would that be?"

"Mitarai Ryota!"

"It's an unconfirmed lead," Shuichi quickly chimes in. He's not sure he wants Celestia to be well updated on the state of the investigation.

"The insurance boy?" 

"Yeah, the insurance boy that the jolly criminal pretended to be, and to whom he presumably talked to," Nozu continued, not getting the hint. "Do you remember him? Saihara-san, I think you should be aware of that aspect!"

"Ah, yeah..." his uncle scratches his neck. "Thanks, I'll look into it. I'll be sure to tell Kirigiri too."

"Kirigiri?" Ludenberg looks at him with a cordial but confused smile. Shuichi shares her look.

"As in Kirigiri Kyoko?" Shuichi asks, breathless.

"Yeah, she's working on this case as well." Nozu confirms.

Before Shuichi can become overjoyed with the thought of one of his idols working on the same case as him, he has the delightful opportunity to watch Celestia's composure crumble of for a bit. Her smile twitches and she breathes out shakily.

"Kirigiri, huh..." she looks down, fidgeting with her knuckle rings. "Haven't heard from her in ages."

"Yeah. She's a private detective now, do you know? Didn't clash too well with the establishment at Tokyo's PD." Seicho shrugs. It's hard to tell whether he's positive to the fact of Kirigiri being involved.

"Surprising to hear, such a tugendhafte besserwisserin ." Celestia says quietly. Shuichi almost curses under his breath: he knew of course that a whistleblower would be involved with a lot of people in the police force, but that's a tad too much. Is there anyone she doesn't know? 

"Alright, we'll get to talking then," Seicho derails the topic with an exaggerated sigh, feeling the awkwardness and tension. "Nozu-san, after I'm done, can I expect a profile by tomorrow?"

"Roger that!" Nozu playfully salutes and looks at Shuichi. "Saihara-kun, wanna help me out on that? We'll have the coroner's report by lunch, so after that, if I can get Mitarai, we'll have literally everything we need?"

"We'll, uh..." he closes his eyes, in order for his eyeballs to not reveal his nervousness or lying. "I have a d-date today at 5, I'd like to get ready for that thing..."

"A date? Like a date date?" 

"Woah, sport, who's the lucky lady? Is it serious or?" his uncle asks, back to his pleasant smiles now that the topic is much more lightheaded. Shuichi winces. That overjoyed reaction was exactly the same as one both Akamatsu and Momota gave him when he cited it as the reason for being unavailable in the evening. Ugh, is he that much of a lonely loser that everyone is dying for him to go out with someone? (Well, you could say that someone did die and indirectly caused him to score a meeting with the Thief...)

"Uh... I g-guess I could say she's been, uhh, on my mind a lot lately? I hope the date can resolve that a bit."

We'll, he didn't exactly lie: the Phantom Thief has been living in head rent free even before the art gallery situation. And their meeting hopefully will resolve at least something.

Celestia slightly leans closer to him, something poisonous to her perfect smile.

"Have fun and be safe on your rendez-vous d'amour ."

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you the Phantom Thief, who, contrary to his established erratic sleeping pattern, did not actually just wake up at the fine hours of post-lunchtime. As a matter of fact, he didn't sleep at all ever since he crashed back in his hotel room over 24 hours, now empty and unlived-in without his impulsively bought merchandise and with all his travel-light belongings already packed.

He's laying on the floor, still in those goddamn fancy pants and white button up, and low-key wishes his head was as empty as the room at the moment. That's not the case, alas.

His head buzzes with fucked up thoughts thousand miles per hour because he was betrayed and, arguably worse, humiliated. Of literally all the morally bankrupt things, why did it have to be double murder. He was a thief, not a killer, violence was never something he "represented", so to speak. 

He pushes up and prompts himself on elbows, deciding that sad pantofolaio hours are over. It's quarter to five, enough time to get ready and set his masterful plan of being a petty bitch in motion.

He picks a random burner phone out of his bag and adds Saihara's contact. Once today's scheme is over, this phone would be thoroughly cleaned of all fingerprints, put into a separate ziplock and stored away as a get out of jail free card, if such danger arises that he'll have to throw the poor crime student under the bus to save himself - no, not himself, but those he cares about. His family, his friends. Everyone is safe while he remains the mysterious faceless Phantom Thief, a cartoon villain incarnate, and Saihara has come too close to being a genuine threat to his anonymity.

Ouma looks at his laptop, with all of Saihara's socials on the screen - which, by the way, he should vet, they're too revealing for a detective in the making. Shuichu stares at him from his profile picture, awkward and unphotogenic, pale, like he holes himself up in his mother's basement, and lanky, like he lives off of exclusively white monster drinks and doritos. His eyes are nicely almond-shaped and have almost fake looking long lashes, but they are an ugly boring indistinguishable greyish-greenish-yellowish colour. But those gasoline eyes look at the camera with such pure innocence. Ouma can barely tear his eyes away from them, something tugging on a string that threads between his ribs uncomfortably. He's not an emotional or a compassionate person, quite the opposite, he's quite the menefreghista when it comes to people around him, except a few close to him. Yet, he thinks, hopefully there won't be a reason to put the poor guy through too much trouble.

"Please don't fuck shit up for both of us, Saihara-chan," he whispers.

Saihara stands outside the Sakura Saku restaurant, nervously pacing. He'd rather be "fashionably late" than be square on time or earlier and seem even more anxious than he'd rather want to appear. He wants that nonchalance that people like his uncle or Momota-kun carry with them, where they can be half an hour late and just laugh it off and convince the other party that their meeting wasn't even that urgent in the first place. He wasn't blessed with that unfortunately, and nervousness is pulling on his neck like a noose.

He has looked at his watch around three times in five minutes, and fixed his tie (that Kaede helped pick out) two times. It's finally 17:07, so he looks at himself in the reflection on the tinted windows of the restaurant exterior one last time. He wore a goddamn suit. He tried to brush down his cowlick (which didn't work, alas). He didn't wear his hat. He did lie about it being a date, but the preparations sure felt like for one.

It'd be utter clownery if the Thief shows up wearing a tracksuit or something like that. Although he's pretty sure Thief would remain in character, a Mazurkiewicz kind of gentlemanly criminal, in suit and with perfect etiquette and sassy attitude.

He finally enters the restaurant. It's a bit over the top in its interior design, sensual dark purples, velvets and cushions, yellow dim lamps and decorative stucco cornices.

The host at the entrance, in a royal purple dining suit and bowtie, greets him with blindingly white smile.

"Good evening, sir! Would you like a table, or you have a reservation?"

"Uh, a r-reservation?"

"Great! What's your name, sir?"

Shuichi freezes. He doesn't know the Thief's name. Did the Thief make the reservation under his own name, or Shuichi's? What should he say? There were no further instructions.

"S-Saihara Shuichi. Reservation for 17:00"

"A-ha, all right, sir! Your date is already here! I'll help you to your seat."

The host walks him across the dining hall to the closed booths. Safe public space, my ass. It's still a claustrophobically small enclosed space that he'll have to share with the criminal, completely at his mercy.

"Here you go! Have a nice evening, sir," the host gestures to the booth and walks away.

Shuichi sighs, tries to convince himself he's meeting a petty thief, not the Red Ripper, for gods' sake, counts to ten and opens the door.

He steps in, and in a flash of too-fast movement is pinned to the soft velvet seat of the bench. His vision is dark from hitting the back of his head on the seat, so he only hears the booth door close and feels the arm pinned under his body dangerously twist. He feels something cold press to his throat.

His vision clears and he looks up at none other than Harukawa Maki.

Ouma can't help but glance back and forth between the huge wall clock at the station and the screen of his phone. It's 17:14, he still has a couple minutes till his train arrives, and six minutes before he finally does his move. 

Other people on the platform look at him sideways and politely cough, as if he was a hyperactive mildly annoying child (that's probably what they think he is anyway). He couldn't care less about that, honestly, can barely hide his childish excitement, bubbling in his throat as an unrealised laugh and pumping adrenaline in his veins. For the first time in two days he's in such a great mood. It's going to be hilarious — Harukawa and Saihara, peacefully dining together, as if one isn't about the slit the other's throat at the mere annoyance, and the other isn't about to get a heart attack even before that.

He honest to god giggles to himself, and someone coughs obnoxiously loudly to his right. Jeez, he's not even that galling, he just laughed! Ouma turns his head to tell that - most likely old "those kids" kinda man - off, but they're not even looking in his direction, earbuds on, covering their mouth with a handkerchief.

He amusedly recognises them as Saihara's friend, who actually helped link the detective to Harukawa as their common acquaintance. Moron Kaito, right? Momoron? Motmot? Moto Moto, big and chunky? He's certainly quite big. An athlete? He had his university listed on Facebook, a tech one. An athlete and a STEM major? Oh god, now Ouma, a proud and fiery humanities major, has to annoy the shit out of him, or at least push under the approaching at full speed train. Or try and establish a contact with him - 

"Heey," he waves enthusiastically, trying to get the guys attention. "Hey! Hey, hey, hey!" he moves in front of him, as the train arrives and opens its doors.

Momoron looks at him in confusion and irritation, unable to maneuver into the train past the small but surprisingly filling up the space boy.

"Are you talking to me?" he scowls.

"Yes, I am. Didn't your mommy told you to wear a mask when you're sick and go around spreading your bacilli?"

"Uh..." Momoron scratches his neck. They finally step into the train, but Ouma isn't keen on letting him off the hook, glaring daggers at the man who dared cough in his proximity AND be Saihara's acquaintance at the same time. Is this the kind of people you befriend, Saihara-chan? The bar is on the floor.

"So?? You're just gonna stare at me, knucklehead?" 

"Hey, you little..!" Momoron balls his fists, but doesn't really move or tense up. "Alright, sorry, dude. Didn't think of that, really. Happy?"

To his surprise and horror, the weird messy haired annoying kid stares sniffing.

"Sorry doesn't cut it! I am deadly immunocompromised! I was born with glass bones and paper skin! Every morning I break my legs!" he wails. Other passengers glance to each other.

"W-woah, sorry!" Kaito quickly deflates, guilt washing over his features, until his brain finally catches up. "Wait. It's from SpongeBob."

"Duh," tears dry up instantly and Ouma grins at him. "No, but really, invest in a cool mask. You don't want to start a global pandemic and quarantine half the world's population, do you now?"

"N-no. Uh,you don't have to say 'global', it's already in the word 'pandemic'," the guy says dumbly, still quite frankly flabbergasted from the whiplash of rapid emotion change.

"I thought you were a STEM jock, not a medicine or linguistics jock," Kokichi says absentmindedly, shooting his darling Saihara a text.

"How do you know I'm in STEM field?"

Oh-oh, spaghetti-os.

"Oh, I'm Harukawa-chan's friend!" he doesn't even blink as he lies. Well, he does know her, so that's like, a half-lie? "I'm Pantsu Fayer."

"That sounds like 'pants on fire' ," Momoron laughs, and it's like nails in chalkboard. It actually isn't, but Ouma is dramatic like that.

"Are you seriously gonna criticize my name? A set of words by which a person or thing is known, addressed, or referred to, that I didn't choose? That my darling late mother gave me? Really?"

"Okay, okay. I'm Momota Kaito," they exchange a handshake.

"..And?"

"And?" Momota looks at him in confusion.

"I expected something dumb after your name. Something like 'the Luminary of the STEM joke memes'," he shrugs, more preoccupied texting Saihara.

"Erm... Did... Did Harukawa-san talk about me, or...?"

"Oh, all the time, dearest Momota-chan!"

Momoron (that suits him better) lights up.

"So, uh..." Shuichi rubs his hurt hand soothingly, eyes awkwardly glued to the table. 

"What are you doing here?" Harukawa, now seated across the table, snaps before he could even muster up the courage to speak, her open-grave eyes glaring holes into his skull.

"I, uhh... Have a meeting?" he answers dumbly. He is scared to look up at her. Where the fuck is the Thief? Why did she just slam him down, like they're in a physical fight?

"With whom?"

"T-that's probably not your business?" he feels like he's being reprimanded by an angry teacher, who is now asking him the details of a prank she probably already knows of, but wants to hear him say it for her own sadistic satisfaction.

"That thief, right? Did he contact you?" 

"Listen, you a-already know the answer," he finally pleads. "What you're doing here is the question though. How--"

He doesn't get to finish as his phone buzzes in his back pocket. Shuichi hastily snatches it and reads the message.

"Good evening, Saihara-chan! Did you and Harukawa meet? Get nice and comfortable for your unforgettable date?" 

"Him?" Harukawa-san asks, fumbling with a spoon. Her face might be stoic, but she's probably as confused and nervous as he. 

"Him." Saihara frowns and types a reply to the Thief, noting that he's texting from a different number than the night before. 

""We did. Why aren't you here?""

"I never said I'll be here, did I? I promised you a meeting and information, never did I promis moi même."

Shuichi sadly realises that, true, never did the Thief mention himself being there. That should've been implied, but, apparently not.

"My darling Miss Murderer will answer all your questions for me!"

Miss... Murderer?

"What did he say?" Harukawa asks, narrowing her eyes. Shuichi wordlessly holds out the phone for her. Maki's eyes skim over the text messages and she bends the metal spoon in half in one swift motion, gritting her teeth.

"That little..." she all but whispers. 

"What... d-does he mean by... uh..."

"What he said." she sighs and leaves the damaged spoon aside. Before she can say something else, Shuichi's phone buzzes again.

"Okay, she'll have time to explain herself along the ride. I actually heard you're a good interrogator, so maybe you'll figure out what to ask yourself?"

Saihara shakes his head. This is... such bullshit. 

"O-okay, listen. Me and the Thief, we, ah, agreed on meeting and me asking questions. I guess, he meant asking... you." his voice grows even more meek than usual (if that's even possible) by the end.

"You should leave and forget this whole thing," if stares could kill, he'd be dead on the spot, with how intensely and murderously Harukawa is glaring at him. He feels small.

"N-no." he quietly but firmly states, trying to look her into the eyes with matching intensity and determination. "I'm even more concerned with getting my answers now. I-If only for Momota-kun's safety."

At the mention of their mutual friend Harukawa's expression instantly softens and she looks away.

"Alright. Ask your questions." she says flatly.

"F-fine. So he asked you to come here?"

She nods.

"How do you and t-the Thief know each other?"

"Met at work."

At work. If she's a "murderer", according to the Thief, and the latter is, well, a thief (and possibly a murderer as well) then (Shuichi's brain tracks back to his talk with Celestia) they work with or for the same people. 

"You work.. together? For the same people?"

"Used to work." 

"Who exactly did you work as?"

"You already know the answer."

"I n-need to hear it."

Harukawa leans in over the table.

"I was a hired assassin. Happy now?"

"We'll, I wouldn't say 'happy', of all the words... So, uh... "

"This isn't about me. You're so concerned with the thief, just ask questions only about him. You seemed pretty good staying on topic at the bar.."

"I d-did?" 

"You don't remember?" Harukawa raises one eyebrow. "He's all you've been talking about once you got drunk enough."

That's... embarrassing. But, to be fair, it's not like he's investigating potentially dangerous criminals all the time, you can cut him some slack for being a bit... stuck on the Thief. 

Before Shuichi can form the next question in his head, someone knocks on the booth door rendering them both silent. A waiter comes in with two plates of gnudi and caprese salad. Shuichi and Maki look at each other questioningly.

Another buzz.

"Bon appetit! I ordered beforehand at my own discretion, so that nothing would distract you from your pleasant date. Ironically, Assassin-chan doesn't eat dead animals, so feel free to order something meaty for yourself later, Saihara-chan!"

"Would you like some wine with that?"

"White, dry," Harukawa answers to the waiter for both of them before Shuichi could even process the question, dumbly staring at his phone. The audacity of the Thief...

Once the waiter bows and leaves, Harukawa gets to her meal, exasperated.

"A-are you sure it's not poisoned?" Shuichi asks before he can realise how dumb that question is. Of course it wouldn't be poisoned, they're in a restaurant. Although, on second thought, isn't that where most poisoning assassinations happen?

"I despise the little pest, but I have to admit that he wouldn't knowingly harm anyone. Also he's a show-off, so it's ought to be good."

"What about killing?" Shuichi carefully eats a forkful of his dumplings. Oh, they're really good.

"That's not even a question. He hates me for my... line of work."

"He might have killed someone."

"Two people at the casino? I've heard."

The waiter comes back with the wine. The bottle looks expensive. Maki continues, once he's gone.

"He doesn't know how to shoot."

They eat in silence for a bit.

"How long have you been... out of work?"

"A year and a half."

"That was enough time for him to learn how to."

Harukawa shrugs and sips on her wine.

"Hey, ask her about our mutual friends!"

"Wait, can you be friends with your employers??"

"'Employers' isn't the best term. There are just people our work comes from. So we don't have to talk to our clients." Harukawa answers after reading the texts. 

"You mean, like... mafia?"

"It can be mafia, yes," she states matter-of-factly, as if it was a very mundane thing. "Let's call it an 'agency', and us - freelance workers."

Shuichu hums thoughtfully. The Thief doesn't text anything for a while, and, while Harukawa was surprisingly cooperative so far, the young detective just can't get what he needs to ask to get the answers he needs. The Thief's identity? He doubts she knows, he'd be busted long time ago if he went around tellin everyone his re full name.

"Hey, um... Do you know anyone named Celestia Ludenberg?"

Ouma gets off the train at the last stop, still delirious with the amazing (only for him) conversation, by the end of which Momoron was barely holding himself back from just punching him in the face, and immediately his phone rings.

"Greetings. I suppose you are in Tokyo, or at least on the way there." familiar voice flatly comes through the speakers.

"Oh, backstabber-senpai, good afternoon. Where'd you get this number?"

There's silence on the other end. Won't she just hang up or something? He has a gullible detective boy and a gullible assassin girl to mess with!

"Nah, I'm still in Isesaki." the thief snickers, adjusting his backpack. A part of him wishes he was with a big suitcase, packed with boring suits and plain shirts, like every other person on a work trip. Or maybe he would be like some of the full of themselves white collars, carrying a laptop bag everywhere with a sense of self importance. He does have a laptop, but it's small and light, with animal stickers all over it. "Or is me being in Isesaki a lie?" he gasps theatrically. "For all you know, I could be in Saitama! Nah, that's too far, I pride myself as a liar too much for such an obvious lie."

"So you are in Saitama. May I inquire, why?"

"What do you care, want to kill someone else?" he snaps back. "Ugh. I'm hanging up, missy."

"Either way," she speaks up in German, ignoring him. "Listen. I know you're free to do anything you want as long as it doesn't compromise us , but be as quick with... whatever you're doing as possible, and go back to Tokyo."

"Of course, us . Of co-o-ourse. And here I thought you just missed me that much. I'll have to relocate the "Miss Murderer" title to you, you know." Ouma cooes back, too in German, while outstretching his hand to catch a taxi. "A second." he lowers to look at the driver and fakes a european accent, as he's seen his "beloved" ( very heavy and huge quotation marks) senpai do all the time. "Hey, big guy, what's the dopest hotel around?... Huh? Yeah, that works for me. Let's go." the thief hops into the cab and goes back to the phone call. "So, something happening, der liebling, that you called? Something bad? Or interesting? Is this about the pachinko g--"

"Things've come up. None of your business."

"How rude, Celes-senpai! I thought we were friends!"

"We're not friends, I'm your handler. And occasionally the only adult to smack some sense into you. Unfortunately for my nervous system."

"Well, duh, it was sarcasm. We're not friends, never were, definitely not after... That fucked up shit."

He can't see her, but can clearly imagine the way she purses her lips in annoyance.

"I am not joking around. Go to Tokyo and lay low for a while."

"Oh, is that about the cute detective boy on my tail?" Ouma cooes.

"About the cute-- What? You mean intern Saihara?"

"Du-uh!"

"No, it's not."

"Not with that attitude."

"Ugh. I'm hanging up. Also your German is terrible. Take care."

The call cuts off, and Ouma is left staring at his phone. They even talk the same way, use the same phrases. Before he'd find it endearing, like they're rubbing off of each other. The "take care" bit? Since when does she care. She's a bitch, and most definitely doesn't care or want him to care. She calls him a compulsive liar (well, everyone kinda does, it's a fact), but she's been deceiving him all this time. "Oh, no killing? That can be done, you're a thief, not an assassin," she said. Bullshit. Utter bullshit.

At least he has DICE, right? He'll be back to Tokyo in a few days and will go chill out with them. Go to the Scramble Square, get some mirror glaze cakes, buy dumb shaped sunglasses for the whole squad. Like weed ones. The girls can get heart shaped ones. Actually, scratch that, he'll get the heart shaped ones himself.

"I don't know who that is... That's a white name, right?.." Harukawa-san hums.

"I'll try and describe her to you. She's average height, I'd say around 165 centimetres. Dark black hair, red eyes, most likely contacts. Speaks with a heavy accent."

The accent part seems to ring the bells, judging from her eyes widening.

"Does she wear her hair in..." Maki swirls her fingers in the air. Oh, the large drill twintails?

"Yeah."

"I've seen her around. Whenever I saw the 'man of the hour'," Maki gestures around, implying the Thief. "She's either his agent or something similar. I'm not sure, I never talked to her. I think she's pretty high in the hierarchy among... Our employers."

It... makes sense. They speak in rte same manner. He's not sure why he just accepted Celestia's words that she's not directly involved with the criminal.

Shuichi closes his eyes, hands balled into fists out of stress so hard he feels nails breaking the skin of his palms. He's in deep shit. Deep and extremely dangerous. Even more so than he thought before. So not only did he talk to the whistleblower behind his uncle's back, said whistleblower is actually a prominent part of a criminal structure.

"I... thanks, Harukawa-san. You really didn't have to, after all."

"You're in deep shit, Saihara," she shakes her head, voicing what he just thought. There's something akin to pity in her eyes and voice. "I have a clue, why that maggot wanted us to meet - but the best course of action would be to drop it."

"I know. I know, but I can't."

"Is that your unhealthy sense of justice talking, or you're an adrenaline junkie?"

"B-both?"

The Phantom Thief bounces on the queen sized bed in the luxurious New Sunpia Saitama Ogose spa hotel that he may or may not have technically conned his way in. Even if he has enough money to pay for such a boujee stay, that doesn't mean he necessarily has to do that, right? He didn't become a famous thief by paying for stuff!

He's put the gears of his amazing plan in motion, and his first step has most likely been successful - most likely, not certain, because Saihara doesn't answer to his texts. Way to get ghosted by someone who can't string a few words together without stuttering and having a panic attack. It's funny, in a way.

He hugs the blanket, which looks and feels disgustingly expensive, and laughs his heart out, in an alien city he's never been to, in a newlyweds hotel room he doesn't pay for, in his self-contained delirious space of elaborate scheming and stolen goods and vile smiles and soap bubble castles, and he's never been more alone yet somehow doesn't feel lonely at all.

Notes:

Pantofolaio - an untranslatable equivalent of "couch potato" (it.)
Menefreghista - someone who couldn't care less (it.)
Entzuckt - charmed (ger.)
Tugendhafte besserwisserin - virtuous know-it-all (ger.)
Rendez-vous d'amout - date (of romantic kind) (ft.)
Moi meme - me, myself (fr.)
Der liebling - darling (ger.)

Scopophobia - fear of stares, being watched.
Francois Vidocq - a famous real life detective, one of the earliest criminologists, founder of the first private detective agency, lived in late 18th century to 19th century.
Mazurkiewicz Władysław - a polish serial killer from the early 20th century, nicknamed "the Gentleman killer" for his manners and status.
Red Ripper - one of the nicknames of Andrei Chikatilo, a USSR serial killer and cannibal, who was active in the 80s and confessed to 56 murders.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The only reason why there's Gonta's mom and not him himself is because I would be forced to make Ouma manipulate the pure bug boi into some shit, and I don't want it. Like... at all. blease no.
Also blease forgive the constant inclusion of foreign words, Celes and Ouma are both dummy dramatic and need to flex their linguistics all the time.

Saishu and Ouma will meet someday, i swear.
me: okay so they have a nice dinner filled with sexual tension and anxiety
ouma: no <3

Chapter 6: No cops but robbers

Summary:

Ouma robs a bank. Except he doesn't.

He also definitely isn't a bit too focused on a certain detective.

"You can tell a lot about one's culture judging just from their language. Sometimes one language has more words for the concept that other languages have only one definitive word for. It defines how people, who use those languages, see the world."

"Oh my fucking god, not this again..." Iruma groans and slumps on the table.

"That's actually really interesting, Shinguji-kun! Can you elaborate?" Akamatsu lightly jabs Iruma, and looks interestedly at Shinguji with her smart bright eyes.

"But of course," culture enthusiast slightly tugs on his facemask. "For example, colours. Some northern tribes have dozens of names for the shades of the snow, and can easily distinguish them. While us, only having the word 'white', will see all snow as, well, white. Or..." Korekiyo skims his classmates' faces and settles on Shuichi, who instantly leans back into his seat and lowers head to shield himself with his cap. "Love."

"Love?" Kaede gains even more enthusiasm and clasps her hands together, eagerly awaiting the rest of Shinguji's lecture.

"Yes. For example, we have two words for 'love': the romantic and sensual 'koi' and the broad and selfless "ai". Same thing in Italian - they say 'ti amo' to their lovers and 'ti voglio bene' to their friends and family. Us and Italians would have the same range of emotions and recognition of the feeling of love."

Kaede and Miu (even if she tries to pretend to be uninterested) listen to him holding their breaths. Shuichi, as uncomfortable as he literally always is, can't help but slightly wander off in his thoughts himself. It's actually really poetic, when you think about it, all the different kinds and shapes of a singular concept of love.

"The ones to take the differentiation of 'love' the furthest are, probably, Greeks. They have, reportedly, from 4 to 7 words for it," Korekiyo fidgets with the soda can on his desk, probably uncomfortable with drinking and taking off his mask in front of everyone, for some weird reason.

"To seven?!" Momota exclaims, even he, the quintessential dudebro, now interested.

"Why yes, my offensively loud friend. For example, eros: that's the passionate physical love between two lovers. Then there's philia, deep love between friends, comrades. For familial love they used storge, and..."

Shuichi, genuinely entranced in the information he was getting, soaking it up like a sponge, even raised his head and now stares at Shinguji in awe, forgetting to hide behind his hat.

"Last, but not least, agape. The highest form of love. It's universal: for art, for God, for nature," Shinguji sighs. "For humanity."

"Could it be love for something you enjoy doing?" Akamatsu asks, leaning towards him, her eyes wide and almost glistening with joy and wonder. "Like..."

"Like playing the piano?" future anthropologist chuckles, and Kaede blushes a bit. "Indeed, knowing your love for your craft, it'd be a crime to call it anything but the highest love."

"And what if some love doesn't fit into these categories?" Shuichi asks quietly, mostly to himself. He quickly realised everyone is staring at him and goes beet red. "L-like, to a person you c-c-can't call your lover, o-or your friend, or, or, uh, your family?"

"That's an interesting question, Saihara-kun," Korekiyo hums. "I'm not an expert on love, only in cultures, and even then I am but a humble enthusiast. That being said, who's to say you can't coin your own terms? New words appear every day, every second."

"Nerds," Momota mumbles. Kaede offers him a sympathetic smile, and then her eyes find Shuichi's, enveloping his very being in warmth and fondness.

"W-what about fictional characters, then?" Shuichi asks, just to fill the silence, or he would melt under Akamatsu's look.

"Of course you'd fucking ask that, you loser weeb", Miu laughs oug loud.

"Iruma-san! He can't be a weeb if he's Japanese!" Akamatsu corrects her and then, once her brain catches up, hastily adds, "A-also Saihara-kun isn't a loser weeb, it's a good question!"

"Well, I've heard that our brains can't really understand whether a person comes from reality or from fiction," Korekiyo supplies after a bit of thought. "That's why we feel so heartbroken when a character we like dies, or when we are genuinely comforted by a friendly host on TV. It's even worse now that we have internet celebrities."

"Ah, parasocial relationships? I've just read a sociology article on that!" Shuichi exclaims and receives a synchronized "nerd!" from Momota and Iruma. The boy slumps in his chair and pulls down his cap to hide his burning face, while his brain is recycling and putting all the stuff he just heard into neat little jars on the shelves in his mind realm, like the hopeless romantic that all teenage boys secretly are, who cling onto this little trivia about love and loving matters.

Even though it's not like the knowledge of love words would ever come to be relevant in his life.

 

 

 

The sun is scorching hot, and everyone, who isn't already trapped inside of their offices, hides in conditioned buildings or under tents and overhangs. The Thief looks around him, eyes squinted from the overbearing light, and finally puts away his softcover copy of The Greeks and Greek love, unable to focus on the text in the midst of his racing thoughts.

It's 11am, and the Phantom Thief, also known as Ouma Kokichi, also anecdotally known as Mitarai Ryota, Kuroba Kaito, Pantsu Fayer and a few dozens of other fake names, is sitting at an outside table at a small family diner across the street from one of Japan's largest banks, MUFG, in the center of Saitama, quite a populous bigger than average city. It's still pretty free and cozy, quite chamber theatre-like to him, after the small and overcrowded buzzing Isesaki or the huge megalopolis that is Tokyo. Where most of the city looks modern and tasteless, grey tall office buildings and ant nest skyscrapers indistinguishable from other cities, there also are a lot of smaller, quieter streets, with pre-war buildings and tiny coffee shops and bars consuming the first floors. Ouma has never been to Europe (yet), but from what he gathered from movies (yay) and Celestia's (ugh) stories, that's the sort of vibe he imagines. Almost homely. 

He sighs and sips on espresso he was just brought and barely hides the grimace of disgust, and nods to the elderly waitress with the nicest sweetest smile he could manage with gritted teeth.. He... did not expect coffee to taste so bad. To call it bitter would be an understatement, it's like an ex-girlfriend that just learned that not only were you gay all along, you thought she was too and you were bearding for each other. 

That's why he'll stick to soft caffeinated drinks, unlike a certain detective, who, judging from his and his friends' socials, regards coffee as the sole liquid necessary for human bodies.

The Thief's morning passed in shopping for the things required for his nefarious villainous plans worthy of dr Evil himself (they really aren't, but hey), the planning itself, browsing through memes while dyeing his hair and checking out all of Shuichi Saihara's social media profiles just in case. Now, big carton bags with fancy logos pile around his chair without a care, veiling their contents from curious oblivious passersby. Stuff that he actually bought, like any law-abiding citizen, came up to the counter with expensive clothing and devices and paid with crisp and legal cash (the source of that cash may not be that legal, but nobody's perfect). It felt kinda nice, he hums, lightly kicking one of the bags. Maybe he should ditch his line of work, become a bank sales assistant or a fast-food worker or whatever kids these days do. That’d be quite a different life, right? 

Ouma zones out in thought, unfocused eyes wandering around the sunny serene scenery of the quietly buzzing street. They stop in the direction of a girl at the next table, looking through her. She shifts in her seat uncomfortably under his dreamy gaze.

What would his life realistically be, if he just ditched it all right now? Well, first of all he’d most likely go to jail, without Celestia and her ”friends” protecting him. Second of all - at the off chance he’d stay outside the bars - his social life would change a lot. Would he then become friends with people like Saihara, the very definition of an upstanding bland citizen? Being friends with Saihara... Sounds like dealing with three panic attacks per hour and then having to listen to him ramble about Criminal minds or whatever. 

His lips tug into a small smile unconsciously, and the girl blushes a bit and bats her eyelashes, feeling bashful at the unexpected ”attention“.

Yeah, who would enjoy being friends with that ball of insecurities and questionable interests. Definitely not him.

Saihara-chan is much more interesting as an enemy, too. Well, he’s not an enemy - yet.

Ouma grins widely and finally notices the girl and waves at her. She has short, neatly combed dark hair, with light foxy eyes. Kinda cute. Kinda eh.

She waves back and puts down the book she was reading.

“Heeey, you free this evening?” he leans forward, because, hey, why not?

“Well...” she looks away with her light-goldenrod eyes and ungodly long eyelashes. “I’m... free right now?”

“Sorry, senõrita, I’m afraid I’m busy for the day, I need to commit mortgage fraud,” he points across the street at the tall imposing building. She awkwardly giggles, not really getting the joke or finding it funny. That’s sad. Bet Saihara would’ve found it at least mildly amusing.

“Fine then, Criminal-san. Number exchange?”

Ouma eyes her quietly for a bit. Despite her overall neat and prim hair and makeup, there’s a bit of hair sticking up at the top of her head. Okay, that’s maybe endearing. She also has a book in her hands, Jeremy Hutchinson’s Case Histories - a law student or something similar? Well, beauty and brains is right up his alley then.

“Yeah, of course.”

 

After such a lovely exchange and a promise of a sweet evening after work, Kokichi languidly walks into the bank building in his oversized jeans, black hoodie and a beanie. Definitely looking like someone who can and will commit a robbery and pull out a gun out of his baggy clothing. Lady at the front desk eyes his clothes suspiciously, and even the bags from expensive boutiques don’t calm her even a bit.

“Greetings, sir, how could I help you?”

“Oh, I have a meeting with Shotu-san. About... raising capital,” he disinterestedly checks out his nails, not caring to look up at her. He may or may not have eavesdropped on the aforementioned Shotu-san talking on the phone with someone about that, while chilling at the diner.

“Raising capital?” the lady looks at him with mild confusion. Oh, right, he isn’t really dressed up to the occasion of a business representative, huh? Or maybe he just said something that doesn’t make sense, because he doesn’t know anything about banks and money, except how to spend it. He looks her right into the eyes, putting on his most nonchalant and trustworthy expression.

“Yeah! My business deals with offshore transactions, and we’re kinda expanding in the tech market... You know how high the competition and liquidity there are, right? We’re thinking of making a pretty sweet deal with your bank! Anyways, please do check his schedule or something, I’m Yamada.”

She stands, dumbfounded, unsure of whether he is bullshitting her (which he is). With satisfaction, he sees her eyes soften, as she believes his acting. He can spend hours talking about stuff he doesn’t understand, and she’d believe every word he says and be drawn into his orbit, drinking up every lie that leaves his lips like it’s the most sacred truth out there.

“Uh...” she readily clicks on the computer and guilt paints her features. “Shotu-san does have a meeting arranged today with you, but it’s at five... I s-suppose there’s been a misscheduling, Yamada-san.”

“Oh, yeah. He called me like forty minutes ago, when he was having a coffee break, and said he can see me earlier,” he cocks his head to the side and smiles vacantly, seeing recognition blossom in the desk lady’s eyes. She does remember that Shotu guy going out on a break, huh? All the credibility he needs in her eyes, mixing one factual truth for believability, and one can actually see the last of her common sense and professional disbelief crumbling in her gaze. Successful deception doesn’t even give him a pang of nervous pride - so used and spent his pathological-lying-problem-turned-skill of his is.

“I see! Sorry for the mishap, sir!” she chirps, her whole attitude changing unbelievably. “Please wait in the lobby area, Shotu-san will come get you or ask his secretary to!”

“Thank you, sweetheart!” Ouma - wait, no, the “offshore mogul Yamada” giggles and waves at her childishly, snatching a sucker from the candy bowl at her desk. He unwraps it and pops into his mouth, navigating around the lobby to listen to people discussing their banking matters and eyes already searching for the next target. 

Ah, the hall attendant.

“‘Scuzes-moi, sir! Where are the restrooms?” 

“Oh, it’s on the second floor! You can take the elevator, it’s round the corner right there and down the corridor!”

“Thanks!”

 

The best part about banks in the middle of a work day is how empty they are, even busy banks like that: everyone's too busy wage-slaving away too drop by and take a loan or too.

The ride on the elevator is exactly two minutes, which is more than enough for him to wiggle out of his clothing, staying in a boring dark grey two-piece (and god was he starting to sweat in two layers of clothes), and stuff his things into a Stuart and Lau briefcase he got on his morning shopping spree, leaving empty bags and outer clothing on the floor of the elevator. Last things, he ties his hair and brushes back his bangs, puts on cheap non-prescription glasses and looks both ways before stepping out of the elevator, seeing no one on the floor who’d start asking questions.

Now he, as the most basic-ass looking white collar, makes his way to the restroom, keeping his head low to avoid cameras. Finally, at the restroom, he puts in coloured contacts and can finally sigh in relief and mentally checks out a portion of a list.

Part 1 of his plan: complete. 

Now, for a while, he is some noname nobody, working in the bank as the coffee-bringer, or maybe as the “go ask Whateverhernameis from the third floor office to sign these documents” kinda person. What would his name be? He should come up with something dumb. ”Momota Kaito” sounds like a good choice for dumb. He’ll go with that.

“Kaito” looks up at his reflection in the mirror. He is wearing the same contacts he wore at the casino, except now both of them. They’re a boring dull buttercup colour in the bad restroom light. A gross colour. Really, the worst, this washed out not-exactly-yellow and not-exactly-grey colour.

Saihara has kind of a similar eye colour, doesn’t he? 

Okay, maybe it’s not such a gross and annoying colour then. That’s a lie! It’s even worse now.

 

No distractions now. He needs to get to the vault, for the second portion of his plan.

He needs a keycard to proceed in the building.

Voices outside pull him into reality out of his beautiful smart brain that has already made up around five schemes to get a card and a building plan, but that all comes to a single point, where the sequence of actions starts and ends with the people chatting and talking.

He grabs his briefcase, fixes his hair a bit, and steps outside, to be met with a couple. Him, tall and slim, in a black striped suit and a smell of tobacco around like a heavy blanket - apparently doesn't work with customers. Her, with long hair, waving at the ends, and a permanent fake smile plastered like a gypsum mask - customer service at it's finest, she probably shills loans.

"Kaito" nods at them as a greeting, crinkled smiley eyes earnestly staring into their, waiting for either of them to hook onto it. The lady dives in first, probably out of the habit of starting up conversations with the clients. They exchange a couple pleasantries, like "scorching heat, huh?" and "kinda slow day today, dontcha think?", and then the man joins them, and, in a matter of minutes, the both fall hook, line and sinker, as he tells an absurd tale of his vacation in Siberia and the sick leave he had to take after it, due to the extremely cold temperatures and tea poisoning, because he was mistaken for an opposition politician. 

He quickly gets into his role, charisma and trustworthiness oozing out of every word he says and every smile and every gesture, and both of them reverently follow each stretch of his lips and each movement of his chest. Oh, they like him, that risibly appealing clerk Momota Kaito, who works under Shotu-san, and is just weird enough to catch them like a venus flytrap, but still fitting his role as to not be too outstanding and suspicious. They like him, no, they want him, within a few minutes of knowing him. He giggles at the man's joke about stock markets, but in his lungs there's a dark and poisonous stinging. Saihara-chan didn't fall for him in their text dialogue, despite the meticulously crafted persona, could definitely see through the careful wording and phantom thief character. He could create the most perfectly fit character of all, better than any of his friends of police colleagues, better than all of his exes and futures, but Saihara would see through that foil and leave Ouma in a filthy ditch for those mediocrities. It was rejection at it's finest, he realises, and masks the nasty dripping feeling with a louder laugh.

He laughs peculiarly, a neigh-like sound he experimentally adopted a few years back as a part of his persona that stuck, and his companions smirk fondly at that, finding it all the more attractive in its weirdness. The woman, who looks offensively similar to the blond that hangs out with his designated anxious detective (he's pretty sure Saihara and that girl dated before, judging from their body language even on photos), subconsciously moves closer to him, while the man puts a warm and firm hand on his shoulder and squeezes it gently. 

"Momota-kun, if you're not busy, we'd love you to accompany us to the bar tonight. You know, bond outside of the workplace," the man laughs and winks at him, and the imposter-clerk barely contains the snarky remark that it's definitely less "bond" and more "bone" and grins apologetically at them both.

"Sorry, Shotu-san has a meeting at five and I'll have to sort all the documentation afterwards... and that is only if that Yamada guy shows up on time, you know those businessmen!" he groans in fake exasperation, earning another sympathetic squeeze on his shoulder. 

"Oh, I get it," the lady rolls her eyes and tells some workplace story that's supposed to be relatable - "Momota" doesn't quite catch it, because the man's hand inches dangerously close to his neck. Not like he usually minds something being around his neck and definitely not like he didn't imagine a certain too-hot-to-be-so-shy future law enforcer pinning him to the wall before while reading him his Miranda rights... It's just the fact that he most certainly minds it being this random guy, who he just needs the keycard from. Or from this lady, who seems to be at least as equally interested in their faux colleague. 

He veils the growing irritation behind another honey-warm smile and a suggestion, to which his companions lit up and lose the very last bits of wariness, if there even were any in the beginning.

"How about we talk for a bit somewhere that's not a corridor?"

 

Getting the keycard was offensively easy, entry level pickpocketing, The Thief muses half an hour later as he navigates his way to the vault using the building plan he took the pictures of in the lady's office. There's a lingering taste of coffee (once again, he hates it) and cigarettes from another person's lips (not as hateful as coffee, but still), his tie isn't tightened properly, and the trace of the woman's lip balm persists on his earlobes with a cooling feel. He really overdid it on the attractiveness, but maybe bank workers are just that horny in general. He can't complain, because it definitely worked, though - and he can't help but thank Saihara-chan, who involuntarily gave him the idea of using sex appeal in his work, by writing that essay on the Love and Lust as two of the four murder motives and posting it in the university's journal. What a smart, smart boy, too smart for his own good.

At the third floor, which is supposed to be the exact replica of the basement floor down to the camera placement, he stops and takes in the surroundings. The camera placement is remarkably good: there are a few, very strategically located, surveying the entire corridor leading up to the vault. He can’t just waltz up there, even still in his clerk disguise. 

 

He checks the time: 12:24. Safety monitors switch shifts around 1pm, so he has half an hour to change and get to the basement floor, and then he has a window of a few minutes to get to the vault floor and break in.

The Thief's never had to plan so much on the spot. His crime designs are usually so detailed and elaborate and involve more preparation than actual as a matter-of-fact action, that he can just chill and let the event unfurl around him until he has just to reach out and grab the target possession. These new circumstances make him actually shivery with anticipation, adrenaline pumping in his veins, which is a long-forgotten feel for the criminal.

The last time he'd felt this excitement twisting his features into a feverish smile was when Ludenberg told him that Saihara has his very accurate sketch and knows how to track him down from there.

 

Saihara, Saihara, Saihara. He would be mad at his brain for always cycling back to the intern detective, if the timid guy wasn't at the very heart of his today's scheme.

At this point Saihara-chan, being the much needed gulp of fresh air in the Thief's life, with how scarily well he is doing with the investigation in such a short amount of time, has a fully furnished apartment in the criminal's head and lives there rent free.

 

Saihara is a gentle and tranquil beast with teeth that have the potential to tear and crush and gnaw on his fragile flesh and leave him to bleed like a broken doll, and the very thought of that sends a chill down his spine, as he changes into a more appropriate outfit for the Phantom Thief, a quietly expensive white tuxedo (deliberately polar to the detective's usual black clothing) and a clown-esque mask he commissioned (more like whined until his request was accepted) from a crafty cosplayer friend, because otherwise he'd be too boring. 

 

The walk to the vault door and the cracking of the dual combination lock are automated by his body, even down to his mannerisms, as his head is buzzing deliriously of the thoughts of how the police would react to this little mischievous act, how Saihara would react.

 

The Thief finally slips into the vault: he estimates he has anywhere from 20 seconds to 10 minutes until security and police show up. He leans towards the former, given how he purposefully jumped up to each and every camera and waved at the surveillance security, bringing in attention.

At last, he fishes out the very thing he came here for out of his inner pocket: the Phantom Thief’s signature note, with a twist this time. It’s even in an envelope with a royal purple wax seal, classy.

Ouma stumbles for a moment.

Saihara-chan would definitely freak out when he hears about it. Go cry to Momoron and miss Murderer about the big bad Thief who dared put him on the spot. 

Start hating him even before he gets to know him - which he wouldn't get, ever.

 

Pff, like the Thief cares about what some lousy intern thinks of him! 

 

There’s no time to think, precious seconds slipping away, as he vaguely hears the speakers on the top floor alert the visitors to leave the building. He impulsively presses a ginger kiss to the envelope and lets it fall on the floor as he takes a run for it.

 

 

 

Now, a day after the Phantom Thief had shown the police a middle finger both figuratively and literally, back in Isesaki, Shuichi is called in to the police station to take a look at the evidence from the Saitama bank not-exactly-robbery, both his uncle and Nozu-san unusually concerned.

Shuichi holds a cup of coffee in his hands, knuckles white from tension, but still firmly nods and quietly answers questions to his uncle, the superintendent and the cop from the Saitama department.

Outside, the unfortunate intern shoots a few incoherent messages to the squad group chat and anxiously retells the situation in a long voice message. Akamatsu-san, the wonderful and levelheaded Akamatsu-san, promptly asks them all to gather at her place and discuss the issue at hand.

“I’m fucked,” Shuichi announces as he enters Kaede’s room and falls face down on the bed. Momota-kun pats his back in an attempt to comfort his friend. Akamatsu and Harukawa, sitting at the desk and standing near the door respectively, sigh in unison.

“How does he even know about you?” Kaito questions, eyebrows furrowed. Shuichi raises his head for a bit, just to catch a sardonic glare from Maki. He tries to come up with something on the spot, but gives up almost immediately and lets his head drop back, groaning into the sheets.

“Well, if Saihara-kun was present in the art gallery back then, the Thief could’ve seen him. And he’s the chief inspector’s nephew, so. Okay. But why target you specifically?” Kaede tries to rationalize. She then gasps. “Maybe he knows we have his sketch? But we haven’t told anyone! Have you, Saihara-kun?”

Shuichi shakes his head, as much as he can while still laying down. Not even Harukawa here knows he’s messed up and talked too much and Celestia knows. Not to mention that Kaede and Kaito don’t know that the Thief contacted him directly.

“Imma beat the shit of the guy, if I see him. He’s basically ruining your life right now, man, and for what?!” Kaito balls his fists, barely containing his anger.

And for what? For sticking his nose where it doesn’t concern him, a literal dumb university kid, who watched too much Scooby-Doo or whatever. “Detective” my ass.

“Because Saihara is an easy target,” Harukawa flatly gives her input. “He’s not really in the law enforcement, so this deal’s going to be kissed off and forgotten, and even Saihara won’t be affected, at least from this alone. It’s risk-free, no consequences.”

“Then why would he do that?” Kaede looks at her. The room falls silent.

“Entertainment,” Shuichi finally says. He sits down. “It’s... funny to him.”

They sit for a bit, no one, even Kaito, daring to say a word, the tension thick as jelly.

“Can I... read it?” Kaede finally says quietly. Saihara sighs and opens the photo of the note on his phone.

 

“Notice how I didn’t even steal anything this time?

Because it’s gotten boring! You’re all too dumb to catch me, no matter how many clues and slip-ups I leave behind, you incompetent and corrupt morons. I’m thinking of ditching this whole thing — and then you would have literally zero chance of retrieving previously stolen goods, and less than zero chance of jailing me. I’ll vanish into thin air, like the “phantom” that you call me.

The only thing that keeps me going is waiting for my beloved detective Saihara to finally graduate from mere internship and catch me himself <3 Haha jk... Unless? Pursuing and running away are universal human responses, and a chase, shared with love, can be an agape.

 

— Ph. T. (duh)

 

P.S. the cafe across the street from here is kinda good, check it out after you’re done wrecking this place for evidence"

 

“Agape?” Harukawa questions, having gone up to them to read over Kaede’s shoulder.

"It's Greek for love," the pianist notes as she gives the phone back. “I'm sure it's a quote, I’ll google it, wait a second.”

"What does it matter? He could write about Doraemon for all we care," Momota groans.

"What if it does matter? He mentioned it for a reason, don't you think?" Akamatsu counters.

Shuichi hums, putting a hand to his chin. It’s most likely here for a reason, she's right. A purposefully left clue, a part of a weird game.

“Guys, are you just ignoring the part where he said he’s waiting for Shuichi to become a cop and catch him!? Bro? Akamatsu?”

"Agape is the highest form of love, it's usually unconditional and truthful, and used in religious texts and literature," the pianist readily explains.

“And that means... exactly what?” Momota seems more and more lost and exasperated by each second.

"I think he's baiting Saihara-kun into a game of cat and mouse, while comparing it to this deep profound love," Akamatsu furrows her brows. 

"So it's like... a provocation disguised as a love letter?" Kaito scratches his neck in confusion. "That's a weird way to mess with someone, bro."

"It is," Shuichi rubs his temples, trying to soothe the coming migraine. "What should I do?"

"Saihara, let me give you advice, as a..." Harukawa frowns a bit and says the next word as if it was laced with venom. "Friend. Just ignore it. He's a childish bully who thrives on attention."

"Friend?" Shuichi's lips curl upwards a bit involuntarily, and she just huffs. Sure, maybe Maki just says it cause now she's not only stuck here because of Momota, but also because her and Saihara have mutual blackmail on each other - but it still sounds nice.

He might just follow her advice.

 

 

Ouma gently blows on a bubble on his nose, with no success in removing it. He's chilling in the bathroom of his offensively expensive hotel room and filling up the disgustingly big luxurious jacuzzi, despite it only being lunchtime, while the yesterday's café girl is dressing up in another room.

Celestia's voice, cold and sweet at the same time, streams from the phone speaker in perfect German, recounting how, according to her "friend in the police", Shuichi didn't, in fact, freak out after seeing the note, and carried himself with the calmness and dignity of a seasoned professional.

"He's so cool..." Kokichi sighs in awe, barely above a whisper. Almost as cool of a detective as Ouma is of a Thief.

"Entschuldigen sie, I didn't catch that?" Celestia asks politely on the other side of the call. He absentmindedly hangs up and drops the phone somewhere on the floor without a care in the world.

"The taxi will be here in seven minutes," the girl kisses the top of his head, not realising he's mentally and spiritually definitely not here with her.

"Uh-huh, call me when you're home safely," he mumbles automatically yet affectionately, eyes grazing over her lanky boyish figure, slicked down hair and yellowish gasoline eyes. She does look like a certain detective in training, huh?

The Thief thinks back to their very first encounter, back at the gallery restroom. Who knew that anxious sweaty mess of a man could be so smart, and so capable, and righteous, and daring, when faced with the real deal? There are a lot more layers to Saihara then he originally anticipated. Such a cool and interesting character. The thought causes some sort of a sickly sweet warm feeling in his chest, flushing his face and scorching his insides and forcing the dumbest smile onto his face.

 

Detective Saihara Shuichi would make a great narrative foil to his Phantom Thief.

 

Notes:

The Greeks and Greek love - a real book, about the relationship between Greek culture and the phenomenon of love, their undersea of it. Yes, if does mention agape and other words for love, yes, it's also deals with homosexuality.
Jeremy Hutchinson’s Case Histories - also a real book, which is recommended to all law students. It's only here to further the agenda that Ouma has a canon law kink.
The poisoned tea in Siberia is a reference to a Russian opposition politician Alexei Navalny, who was recently poisoned, allegedly by the Russian political elite. Yay politics in fanfiction
Entschuldigen sie (ger.) - Excuse me

yes, Ouma made out with those ppl in the bank, yes, he fawked that cafe girl, no, he's not into anyone but hot and shy dicktectives. a gentle reminder that all characters here are above 18, so they can and will fawk (off-screen).

originally the note was supposed to include a quote from Antony and Cleopatra, but I remembered I mentioned Greek words not once but twice already, and I need to lead that somewhere, besides I do classify Ouma's canon feeling for Saihara as something above both philia and eros. expect a lot of literary references though.
(the quote is "I will give thee bloody teeth if you with Caesar paragon my Man of men", basically "my dicktective is better than any of y'all")

Chapter 7: “You used me... for plot development!” - Spongebob, probably

Summary:

What do you mean sending your narrative foil suspiciously romantic gifts and vaguely threatening letters with hints to his investigation and then trying out each other’s problem-solving methods isn’t relationship goals?

Notes:

it’s slightly bigger and a bit dialogue-heavy.

Has some unpleasant topic mentioned(only mentioned!) in the part where Kokichi is in the computer club, so beware. also the spoilers for games are strong with this one.

Just ignore it, he's a childish bully who thrives on attention.

Easier said than done.

Of course, Shuichi’s uncle and Nozu found a perfectly fine explanation as to why the criminal targeted Shuichi in his latest note to the police, and the side glances from other officers at the station stopped - for the most part at least. And after the Thief was cleared from the casino investigation due to new evidence and witness confessions (Shuichu is pretty sure Ludenberg had something to do with that, so his personal opinion remains largely unchanged) this whole ordeal became nothing but a source of occasional light-hearted jokes.

The Saitama not-robbery situation was used as a push to reconsider the bank's security system, and in general life seemed to bounce back to where it was before, quiet and normal.

 

Seemed is the key word.

 

Shuichi grimaces as he takes the huge flat parcel from the delivery guy. He doesn't want to be rude to a service worker, but the exasperation is clear on his face, making the worker squirm guiltily.

"Another one?" the desk lady asks, thoroughly amused. She's had to witness this exact scene almost every day for over a week already, and it isn't growing old for her yet.

"Is this courtship?" leaning on the desk nearby and sipping on her mandatory coffee, Nozu-san laughs. She's back to enjoying the Phantom Thief's playful character, now that he was cleared from the homicide accusations. The desk lady nods and giggles behind her hand.

"The only 'court' I want to see him be related to is criminal law court," Saihara mumbles through gritted teeth. 

This farce started exactly a week after the Saitama robbery: he and his uncle entered the police station per usual only to be greeted with a confusing sight of a sleep deprived FedEx Japan worker with a rich heavy bouquet of flowers: daffodils, carnations, dahlias, and a big sparkly giftcard "Happy Anniversary!" .

Since that moment, almost every day there was something: a letter or a gift, signed "— Ph.T. <3" , as if there was any doubt who's responsible for it. It's not always addressed to the police station - two times Shuichi has found it in his mail. He takes copies of the letters and dumps them along the gifts onto the department, where it's inevitably stored away, because no one can find anything of value. Letters aren't handwritten, there are no fingerprints, and there are no codes to decipher. It's just mindless taunting for the sake of it. Even the good-natured timid and soft Shuichi is sick to the bone of all of this.

He hasn't made any significant progress on the art gallery case, because on one hand he is swarmed by university assignments and easy but seemingly neverending infidelity cases his uncle supplies him with, and on the other hand — every time he even attempts to sit down purposefully and think about this case and this case only, he ends up digging himself deeper into the pile of questions and further away from any answers. There are no seeming leads: even if he is almost a hundred percent sure that this robbery was a commissioned work, there's no evidence to back it up - he can't just treat Celestia's words as facts.

"What is it?" Nozu-san leans over, poking at the parcel.

"No idea, but it's huge and not so light."

"Let's go to my office and unbox."

The parcel on the table is hastily unboxed: it's accompanied by an already customary note. 

 

"Greetings, my utmost beloved detective! It seems like you're stalling quite a bit, for I have not yet been arrested. (Unless you've forgotten about me?! How cruel!)

I think you need to take a look at the bigger picture. So here's a little something that I myself find helpful for that. You wouldn't think that connecting the evidence and facts is something among my savoir-faire, but I'm a man of many talents! 

You'll figure everything out, there's a reason you're my favourite, after all!

 

— Ph.T. xoxo"

 

"Does he want to be arrested?" the senior inspector laughs at the note and looks at the object itself. A whiteboard. "A surprisingly thoughtful present, don't you think?"

Shuichi hums, tracing fingertips over the plastic wrap. He hates to admit it, but the Thief is right on the money - he does have troubles progressing on the case, and it might as well stem from focusing too much on the details. 

"May I take this home? I m-mean, after the usual check-up."

"Eh, don't bother with checking, I'll just write it down. It's wrapped, straight from the store, there are no fingerprints or whatever. Do you want the letter though?"

"I'll copy it, thanks."

 

Carrying the sizable board home, on top of his bag weighed with both study and work papers, turned out to be a far too tedious task. Shuichi drops it off in his room, sweat rolling down his collar. He finished for the day earlier, so the walk home was accompanied by the still bright and hot sun, burning his dark clothing and hair. Maybe he should introduce some colours other than black to his closet.

He fishes out some markers and small magnets from the desk drawers and sets the boards up.

Shuichi's seen countless investigators, both real and fictional, use a corkboard or any other sort of board to pin down photos of suspects and evidence and use it for better visualization and categorizing. His uncle too uses mind mapping quite a lot. He himself has never found it a good method, sticking to his signature "truth bullets" and relying on his naturally good memory and logic, but maybe this time the mystery is too hard to crack with his own faulty methodology. 

He tries first writing down the more direct evidence he already has concerning the art gallery heist, working up to more circumstantial and downright theorising stuff as he goes on. Pins down some of his papers and copies to the board to illustrate the points he made.

A little something I myself find helpful.

Why does a thief need to use a mind map? To plot his heists better?

You wouldn't think that connecting the evidence and facts is something among my savoir-faire.

Is there a reason for the Thief's sporadic actions? Exposing Harukawa, bringing Shuichi into this mess and namedropping him, contacting him, sending letters and gifts that make zero sense, now a gift that would supposedly help with the investigation...

You'll figure everything out, there's a reason you're my favourite, after all!

Shuichi brings out his notes on the Thief's identity and the copies of the letters for the past week, pinning them on the desk below. Both Harukawa and Ludenberg join the list of involved figures (both nicknamed, in case his uncle comes in to take a look), placed a bit to the side. The casino owner, dead ex-yakuza, goes in there too. 

 

"Ah, Shuichi! Sorry if I woke you u- What are you doing?"

His uncle peers inside the usually pristine room, where now chaos and towers of paper reign, Shuichi and his board in the midst of it all.

"G-good evening!" Shuichi greets him, not looking away from the board even for a second.

"Evening? Shuichi, it's one in the morning."

"Really? Oh... I, uh... I've gotten a bit too into it, I guess," rookie detective shrugs, face heating up in slight embarrassment. He hasn't noticed the time passing, not his own exhaustion. Hours parcing both the internet and the case files already available to him, while visually building connections, gave him some new insights and new names and faces to add to the wild mix. Having a bulletin board actually helped, to his genuine surprise - it could fit a lot more than his desk, obviously, and having the ability to draw connections and move stuff around definitely was an immense plus.

"Yeah, I can tell."

Seicho stands beside him, taking in the writings on the board.

"Mitarai? You think he's not cleared?"

"Not exactly. I've found s-some weird, uh... Some people who don't look related to these cases at all, but are related very closely to each other, almost suspiciously close. Like a..."

"Like a social web around these events," his uncle finishes for him. "Shuichi, this is beyond impressive. You're onto something. Any way I could help?"

Shuichi goes beet red at the praise, somehow feeling less elated and more shameful, like he's undeserving of it. After all, the use of the board wasn't even his idea.

Would the Thief find his progress impressive?

"T-thanks?" he almost squeaks out. "I-it's still a work in progress though... A very early stage. I..." he so desperately wants to accept his uncle's help, but he's still a cop. And Shuichi still has worked with the whistleblower and hid his contact with a criminal, and is friends with a hired assassin. "I'd appreciate it if you could help me contact Kirigiri, though? If it's not much trouble. I, uh, I think she might have some ideas on this, her p-primary area is syndicates after all..."

"Criminal syndicates, huh? You sure gettin' into dangerous territory, kid..." his uncle hums and furrows his eyebrows. Sharp eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, stare at the "whistleblower" written in black ink on the board. "Very well, I'll call her in the morning."

"You're not going to tell me to stay clear of such things?"

"Would you honestly listen to me even if I did?" Seicho laughs tiredly and pats him in the shoulder. "Just don't jump under fire, Maigret."

Shuichi's lips curl into an appreciative smile. Ah, his uncle knows him too well, not even berating for his recklessness.

Would the Thief find him reckless and interesting now?

"Thanks again. I'll stay up for a bit longer."

His uncle nods, ruffles his hair, and goes to the door. Stalls there for a second.

"You know, your parents would be proud of you, how good you are at this. Maybe you should call them?" he says carefully.

Shuichi wants to retort with something bitter, but bites his tongue. 

"T-they never approved of me choosing law in the first place," Shuichi finally croaks out hoarsely.

"I'm not saying they're... necessarily good people. But, if you don't mind, try to give them a chance, okay?" Seicho smiles, but it doesn't reach his sad tired eyes.

The "I've given them enough chances" dies in Shuichi's throat. Unlike his no good parents, his uncle actually cares, tries to make amends, fix this family. He shakily nods and gives a strained smile.

"Good morning, Tokyo!" the Thief a totally unrelated to any crime activities linguistics student all but shouts as he rushes off the train at the Akihabara station. It's that humid stifling late summer afternoon, sun shining a warm sultry orange on the windows of business skyscrapers, turning cold faceless corporate buildings into giant tangerine candy.

As he gets off the platform and dives into the buzzing city, a small group of three people wave at him right about the exit.

"Ah, Totum-chan, Quin-chan!" he grins widely and tackles two of them in a hug, almost sending them flying to the ground, their saving grace being his small stature. He then nods to the third figure, who stands a bit further timidly fidgeting and shuffling. "President Shirogane, ad interim."

"President Ouma," she smiles a bit wider and shakes his hand softly. "Thank goodness you're finally back and well from your sick leave. Right off the bat, I'd really love to resign from the presidential position, I'm way too plain for a debate club." Formal-looking black-and-white jacket dress makes her speech even more comically serious.

"A debate society ," he corrects her with an exaggerated pout. "Don't sell yourself short, Shirogane-chan, you have a lot of hidden potential!"

The others giggle, having had the pleasure of seeing quiet and not heavily opinionated Shirogane try to fill in the role of a leader of the university debating society, which became famous and successful largely due to Ouma being a loud and charismatic contrarian.

Shirogane awkwardly shrugs and clutches the hem of her jacket. 

"With all due respect... No. As to your other clubs..."

"Ugh, why do I run so many clubs again? I need to quit."

"You literally founded like half of them yourself?"

"I know and I hate it!" Kokichi whines, large tears starting to roll down flushed cheeks.

"Boss, we bought some dango, in case you're hungry," Totum-chan, the society's treasurer, jiggles the paper bags in his hand, trying to divert the crisis.

"Oh, sweet! Gimme, gimme!"

Kokichi bites into a dumpling, still warm. It's not the most delicious stuff he's ever had, but it's quite tasty and basic in the best and most homely way possible. His friends start chattering, interrupting and talking over each other, telling about all the stuff he missed in his absence. Some tired passengers, too exiting the platform, glance at them judgementally - maybe for blocking the way, or for being loud. Maybe both.

"T-chan, you promised we'd go buy ice cream after we meet Kokichi!" Quin whines and tugs on the taller boy's sleeve. They start walking, Ouma and Shirogane trail a few steps behind.

"Are you alright? You've been away longer than usual," she asks quietly. 

"Eh, arranged some extracurricular activities for myself. Have you heard of what I did in Saitama?" he grins excitedly, like a child talking about a prank he did on someone.

"Yeah... I'm not sure there's anyone who didn't hear of that, MUFG is in a crisis of sorts. A pretty large chunk of their clientele left, unsure if their security measures are up to standard," Tsumugi retells what the news have been regurgitating for the past few days. 

"What about my note? Has it been revealed to the general public?"

"No? Did... Did you write s-something weird...?" there’s a certain caring quality to her expression and tone of voice, and Ouma turns to her, taking in the genuine concern on her face like it’s something to cherish. Shirogane is far from the most honest person around - which would’ve been weird, considering she’s involved with illegal activities no less than the Thief himself - but she’s never lied about their camaraderie, never lied about worrying about him. 

"Yup! I thought Celes-senpai already talked your ears off about it!"

"Uhh... I'm not sure she knows. She actually told us she's unfortunately been cut off from both you and her police connections," Tsumugi bites her lips nervously. "Why aren't you contacting her? She's responsible for you, you know."

"Sucks to be her, I guess," he shrugs and cackles, concealing his confusion. Cut off from him? She called him the day Saihara got the letter! Why would she lie - well, she lies a lot, but why would she lie in this very instance? Whatever repercussions to follow are his to deal with and his only, for it wasn't a "work" thing. So if she is covering for him, then for what reason? What exactly are her stakes? He'd need to look into it later.

They cross the bridge over the Kanda river, blinding reflections of the sun trembling and swarming like a shoal of goldfish.

Tsumugi gently grabs his forearm and tries to look him into the eyes. He pointedly looks forward, lips pressed together in a firm thin line.

"Well, you better call her soon. She's worried-"

"Actually. Can you talk... to whoever you need to talk to get me a new handler? Or like, can I be without one? I don't want to work with Celestia anymore."

"W-why? You always got along so well!"

"She's a bitch, duh."

"Who's a bitch?" Quin turns to them, tearing her eyes away from the navigator on her phone screen, hunting down the location of the nearest ice cream parlor.

"Just my european criminal handler who hooks me with the clients for committing theft and fraud," Ouma shrugs.

"Ah, I see," she nods. "Shirogane-san, who's a bitch?"

"Hey, you don't believe me?!"

"He's talking about his academic advisor, she's... quite the character."

"Oooh. Thanks, Shirogane-san!"

"Ayo? Does no one here respect their leader?!"

"Sorry, boss," T-chan snickers and slows down to pat the short "leader" on his back.

"Hmph." Kokichi crosses his arms and pouts, contemplating fake crying in the middle of the street. Then his eyes, only starting to form tears, catch onto a flower shop a few buildings down. He blinks the wetness away and stops in his tracks. "There! I need to go there!"

The trio looks between themselves questioningly and then stares Ouma down in a silent "why?".

He ignores them and determinedly sprints to the store sticking out in the electric concrete jungle like the most beautiful sore thumb, green and wild.

By the time the others catch up, Ouma is already giving the florist a rundown on the kind of flowers he wants.

"... No, no, nothing romantic, although, is there something that's like "think of me lots?"... Aww, no, clovers are boring. Okay, maybe admiration, but more like respect?... Daffodils? Great, jot 'em down!"

"What. Are you doing?" Shirogane holds her head. He's been here for like half an hour after being away for almost a month, and she's already exasperated.

"I wanna send a bouquet to a pal," Kokichi doesn't look away from the decor options.

"A pal," she deadpans. "Since when do you send flowers to your pals, Ouma-kun?"

"Since when are you an annoying plain nerd? Yeah, since forever. Same with this," he quips back. "Do you have anniversary giftcards?"

Shuichi is startled awake by the loud sharp slam of the door and Kaito all but shouting "we're back!".

It takes him a moment to come to his senses from the nap. He turns his head a bit and is met with Kaede's vacant smile and eyes, staring at him from above. He fell asleep on her lap. He had been analyzing the Thief’s latest letters until almost four in the morning: he’s pretty sure there were clues to his clients, but couldn’t pinpoint them without further context. Also in one of the lengthier letters he went on a tangent about Saihara’s favourite books he listed on his social media profile, and how Crime and Punishment is definitely better than Les Miserables and he’s ready to fight his opinion tooth and nail. It’s almost endearing (albeit quite creepy) that the criminal took the time to study him to that degree. Their taste in literature is quite similar too... 

"Good morning, Saihara-kun!" she giggles and leans back to let him get up. He mumbles something in embarrassment and sits up beside her, scratching his head.

They're at Harukawa-san's flat (Shuichi doesn't want to know how she got the money for a place of her own) for a movie night, as all normal friends do. Normal, yeah. He actually wanted to bail on them, but he needs to talk to Harukawa, and he doesn't trust her well enough to meet up with her alone.

Momota and Harukawa carry bags of snacks into the kitchen, as Kaede turns on her phone with a list of movies they could watch.

“So I’m thinking of Never Ending Blue, it’s a drama, but...” Akamatsu loudly announces. Harukawa replies from the kitchen that dramas are a no-no because Kaito would cry (to which Kaito feigns offense). Finally, they settle on Hana and Alice: a teen romance movie, with a dash of both drama and comedy. The four of them settle on the living room couch.

“I’ve already seen this one, but I like it a lot,” Kaede whispers to him, leaning her weight on his side. “It’s actually a sequel to the Case of Hana and Alice! The anime we watched together, remember?”

Shuichi nods absentmindedly, not really paying attention to the actions on the screen. He stares blankly at the main characters wandering around the city, cinematographer following them with wide static shots. He glances to Harukawa, who sits at the opposite side of the couch, expression stern and disinterested as always, and back to the screen, where the protagonists share an emotional talk on their situation. The plot revolves about the two girls’ lie, starting off small, devolving into something grandiose that they find hard to control, now left to deal with the consequences of their fictions as they try to keep their friendship up. It’s a nice coming-of-age movie, shame his head isn’t in the right space to enjoy it or at least focus on it. 

He almost drifts off to sleep again by the end of the movie, but anxiety keeps him awake. He has to talk to Harukawa about some of the theories he has. 

Would she even entertain any of this, his suspicions and circumstantial connections? She seems like a woman of cold hard facts.

He recalls one of the Thief's letters: a long, nonsensical jumble of words about his "secret organization that controls all of the world's mafia, governments and stock markets". While a silly fiction, Shuichi has come to the realization that all these mails aren’t just an ego boost for the criminal: it’s a convoluted, cryptic way of giving out information, taking chances that the receiver would be smart enough to decipher it - and hopefully the young detective fits the criteria and isn’t feeding into his own delusions by twisting the Thief’s words to fit his own narrative. But it all makes sense so well: Celestia’s words, his own findings, Thief's hints. If it's the way he communicates, Shuichi is willing to learn how to communicate the same way.

If he can put his trust into the Phantom Thief, surely Harukawa would be willing to listen to him at least.

The credits roll, and, as Akamatsu and Momota set out on finding the next movie, Shuichi lurches to his feet and follows Harukawa who is putting some now empty bowls into the kitchen sink.

“Harukawa-san, w-we need to talk,” he mumbles indignantly, unable to coax the anxiety out of himself.

“Now? Here?” she instantly understands the kind of “a talk” he’s hinting at. Maki leans on the kitchen counter, fumbling with the towel in her hands, twisting and tugging on it harshly, in contrast to her indifferent facial expression.

“Yeah. It might be u-urgent.” Shuichi unlocks his phone with shaking hands and passes onto her. “This document summarizes it all with pictures. A-all these people, uh...” he glances in the direction of the living room quickly. “W-well, you can read it. They all seem to be connected, and, uh... I need to know your opinion on this thing in relation to my case. Y’know. T-the case.”

Saihara sees her eyes widen slightly at certain points and photos as she scrolls through the compilation of reports.

“Harukawa-san, do you recognize any of these people?”

The assassin stays silent, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Harukawa-san. I-if I’m right, then you worked under an extremist group. Were you aware of that?” still no answer. “Harukawa-san, please.”

“I was not aware. I was a ‘freelance’ worker of sorts, never let into the ‘structure’,” she finally says. “I think you are correct in your assumptions. I need to contact someone.”

“Someone?” Shuichi winces. 

“Start the movie without me,” Maki hisses and almost throws his phone back at him.

 

Maki snatches her own phone from the counter and goes into the bathroom in long quick strides, leaving the befuddled “detective” behind. Locks the door behind herself and stares at the mirror reflection. The moody girl in the reflection never changes - why does she expect any change, any hope for herself, when she was denied it from the beginning, when she was taken out of the orphanage and forced into being a murderer? It’s all always coming back, she’s always coming back to it. And now Saihara is dragging her back in with his dumb investigation.

Although... the things that Saihara has digged up - that her ex-“employers” might be an even bigger and worse threat than “just” hooking up mercenaries with their commissioners. It threatens her already established comfortable civil life, threatens little mundane things she cherishes dearly, threatens her friends, Momota-

She fumbles with her pockets, pulls out a pack and a lighter, lights up a cigarette. Quickly smokes it in heavy puffs while scrolling through contacts (she should’ve deleted them long time ago and now tell Shuichi she can’t help with anything-). The smoke swirls and tangles around the dim restroom, the red glowing dot of the filter the only clear and bright thing in the room. She makes the last puff and throws the cig butt into the toilet. Then looks back up into the mirror. Types a message:

“Hey, I’m available for work again. Will collect the biodata at Chiba City and report back as usual if any offer interests me.”

The reply is scarily instant:

“Welcome back.”

"Remember Murderer-chan?" Ouma asks out of nowhere, mindlessly looking through an assortment of shirts, as the third party to their mall outing, engineering science major nicknamed Kiibo, has gone out of the store to answer a phonecall.

"W-what?" Shirogane squeaks, looking around in case anyone can hear them. They're further away from any other customers and consultants. She squeezes the clothing item in her hand so hard her knuckles turn white. "The girl that looks like Enma from Hell Girl?"

"Ew, otaku. Yeah, her. She works at a daycare now! Could you imagine that?" he laughs. 

Shirogane freezes in place, looking at him wide-eyed. In the silence, they can hear Kiibo in the hallway yell "I-Iruma-san, please stop... making those noises!". Ouma giggles to himself: classic Iruma, being fucking gross. Although, maybe he wouldn't find it so gross if it was a certain detective making those obscene, hot, gasping noises from the other side of the phonecall... He stops himself and shakes his head for good measure.

"Before you get your pantaloons in a twist, dearest Shirogane-chan, we didn't meet in civvies. I learned through other means."

"Well thank god for the bare minimum of tradecraft, Ouma-kun," she hisses. "Why'd you even mention her out of nowhere?"

"Well..." his mouth widens in a thin creepy smile. He absolutely revels in her reactions and finally having the upper hand with her. "We kinda met and had a nice little talk in Chiba HQs."

Tsumugi's face grimaces in anxiety.

"W-what did you talk about?"

"Oh, just," Ouma leans on the atelier hanger, demonstratively crossing legs and looking anywhere but at Shirogane with a faux uninterested face. "She asked what I know about a swell group of people called "Remnants"."

"Remnants," she blinks, the last remains of her artificial timid demeanour stripping away, leaving a blank and maybe slightly unhinged expression on her usually soft face.

"Yup. Remnants."

"She asked you about Remnants?"

"Well, she kinda just accused me of being one, tried to choke me in the elevator, and then asked me what I know of them."

"Accused you. And what did you say to that?"

"To quote moi, "yeah, that's me, lol"."

"Were you dropped as a child?"

"The fuck was I supposed to say? It was the first time I've ever heard of 'em!"

"What?! Have you been living under a rock, Ouma-kun? They were the biggest terrorist organisation in, like, the whole world!"

"Uh, I'm not into politics."

"Not into... ugh."

"So I did some research on these Remnants guys." she doesn't say a word, lips trembling and eyes wide in shock, so Kokichi continues, revelling in her panicked gaze. "And you’ll never guess who I saw in wanted persons."

"O-Ouma-kun..."

"That white-haired sword girl, who curated lil' miss Murderer. And her mafia boytoy! And the daughter of the white guy Celestia played with in the Isesaki casino. And-"

"Ouma-kun, I can explain."

"Oh, do explain, Shirogane-chan. Why is half the, uh, agency we work for - ex-terrorists? Specifically the ones presumed dead but also wanted by the Interpol? Don't you think it was something worth disclosing when I got into the job?"

"W-well, you see-" she clasps a shaking hand over her mouth as Kiibo comes back. 

"Sorry! Iruma-san called, she, uhh... wants to work on our mechanics of materials project at her place."

"Work on a project? Is that what you horny kids call it nowadays?" Ouma laughs obnoxiously loud, sending Kiibo into a stuttering and blushing mode. He can kinda see what Iruma sees in him, he's a great foil to her abrasive personality.

Tsumugi deflates and almost doesn't speak to any of them, but still begrudgingly helps Kokichi pick out a dark plaid jacket.

"Didn't know it's in your style," she grumbles, eyes glued to the ground. "It's not your size too."

"Well duh, it's a gift."

“You were right, we met,” Harukawa’s voice says instead of a greeting as soon as Shuichi picks up the phone. 

The last time they spoke, before Harukawa disappeared for the whole end of the week, he speculated that the Thief followed the “weekend killer” trope: his job or education keeps him close to one location, as most robberies have been performed on weekends, leaving him to scheme the heists Monday through Thursday from the comfort of his home. Someone like the Thief, able to blend into the crowd and take on any role, but still quite a showpiece on his own, definitely isn’t a NEET. He is intelligent and well educated at the very least, quite genius on his own at most, so if he is around their age, he must be in college or a university, or already got a degree (incredibly smart and commits crimes in part just to see if could get away with them, a character the likes of Nathan Leopold, Shuichi muses). That left them with a window of the Saturday and Sunday as the only days he’ll be present at the agency’s headquarters.

Now that he thinks about it, why hasn't the Thief written him anything concerning his meeting with Harukawa? He must've guessed Saihara has a hand in it, so what's with the sudden silence? The weird gifts, like a Sherlock Holmes-homage jacket or a collector’s copy of Battle Royale (with a note inside the cover, “ idk why you like reading about teenagers in a killing game but you do you love” ) are both very personal, but also lack the distinct letter full of vague hints of evidence and witty jokes, making them feel empty and obligated. Not like Shuichi misses those letters...

“W-what did you find?”

“Some things. First off, he confirmed it. He’s a part of... them.”

“Huh?” Shuichi flicks his eyes to Akamatsu-san, who patiently waits for him to get off the call, stirring the caramel latte she got for herself. The situation is hilariously bad, something along the lines of James Bulger. “Whitey” had to turn himself in, for the FBI has handled the investigation horribly. Is this what his case would come to, everything being horribly fucked up, until the Thief grows bored and fades into obscurity or turns himself in? Not like he would ever do the latter, though. “No, he must be lying. It doesn’t add up, he wouldn’t just confess to it if it was true.” 

“I’ve looked into it on the way there, and it makes sense. So I pressed it right away.”

“We don’t have the evidence!” he wants to smash his head on the table or the nearest wall. So that's why the Thief stopped his weird communication - he thinks Shuichi's on the wrong track! Akamatsu looks at him with barely hidden concern and confusion as he groans. “L-listen, I... Let’s discuss it later. Okay? Please don't do anything else.”

Harukawa hangs up. Shuichi slumps on the table.

They sit in a cute coffee shop after Kaede’s piano practice. It’s not overly crowded, but full, filling the air with pleasant buzz of chatting people. 

“Something work related?” Akamatsu offers a comforting smile and gently touches her forearm.

“Doing a university p-project, a... a case study,” he mumbles. Lying to Akamatsu, the wonderful and amazing friend and person all around, is incredibly hard. He’s become such a liar lately.

“Oh, I see. I absolutely loathe group projects,” she sighs understandingly.

“Really? But you’re so sociable and a good leader, Akamatsu-san!”

“Oh?” her cheeks grow red. “So that’s how I come off, haha. No, I’m really bad with people, actually. I find it hard to work with anyone. Maybe with another one person, not not a group, definitely...” she trails off, staring at her straw. “It’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not a bad thing, it’s just... You know, how you are? Y-you’re,” he thinks for a bit. Woah, so now he’s the one helping her confidence? How the tables have turned. “You’re self-sustainable.”

“Or have trust issues so I try to do everything myself,” Kaede laughs, but it’s far removed from her usual sunny tinkerbell laughter. Her expression falls. “Actually, I think I messed up big time because of that.”

Shuichi leans closer, moving away his own cup of coffee, and reluctantly takes her soft cool hand.

“I’m listening, Akamatsu-san.”

Her plum eyes look down guiltily. She sniffles.

“Remember Amami-kun?”

Ouma lazily chews on a pen as he looks through the countless tabs he has open on the screen in front of him: police databases, public documentation, a few social media accounts. It was hard working away from his dorm room, with his whiteboard and a powerful work laptop. But he can't use any of the tech in his domain, for the laptop, brought to him by none other than Celestia herself, has some sort of monitor activity tracker or something preinstalled, and he's far from tech-savvy enough to dig around and disable it. Plus using the feebly protected dorm's wi-fi might be the dumbest and as well the last mistake he'd ever make, so he opted for a barely-legal computer club in Kabukicho.

Working without his huge whiteboard also was kinda hard: even if he mostly used it for mundane tasks like evaluating his clubs performances or big study projects, not for investigations or anything. Now, having to keep all of the information in his head, having limited space of his notebook without any pictures or paper cut outs, the task at hand seemed almost impossible. Damn, is that how Saihara-chan works? And still is so good at this detective thing? His mind, god bless.

Ouma has clocked who was the commissioner for his bonseki heist in Isesaki, it laughably easy to be honest, but with the casino he had no clue even how to start approaching it. His first idea was to look into the yakuza's history, which, unsurprisingly, was cleaned up quite well. Just the basics. How does someone quit the yakuza alive and then have a successful illegal business for years and years, still hanging onto some of the criminal group's relics? People are killed for less! There's bound to be some strong, powerful protector - that the commissioner had to employ the Phantom Thief to steal his documents and Ludenberg to kill the guy, essentially turning to a criminal agency that apparently is heavily run by (ex-)terrorists? But there are no leads.

Maybe he needs to change his strategy, he decides. What would his beloved detective do, if he couldn't find someone who hired a mercenary (if someone did hire, his mind supplies: the casino situation was so out of pocket, he's not even sure)? Find the mercenary (like he found him, Ouma's chest feels warm and fuzzy). Study the mercenary? For example, if he takes Ludenberg - what does she even do in the agency? It's the first time he's seen her in action, so where he previously thought her responsibilities ended with being a handler (like a manager?), she apparently is an assassin of her own. Or is she? Was this a one-time thing they couldn't trust anyone else with?

A policeman in riot gear passes by the club's windows. Ouma follows him with his eyes. He's in clear, alright.

He clicks on yet another shady forum in search of names. It seems like an international true crime community website, but it's an .i2p site, which is suspicious on it's own - who makes an eepsite for essentially a fandom forum?

It's a barely active site, with about 5 posts per day. He scrolls throughout the boards, taking in weird post titles. Some are medical related questions, some are asking for police reports, some discuss a current criminal. One catches his interest: "Is there a stigma in the necrophiliac community against having sex with bodies of minors like there is against pedophilia in the general population?" . Kokichi snorts despite his best judgement. This is so horrible it's almost hilarious.

Another one: "Do prisoners of extremists actually rehearse their execution videos? Are there any pics of vids on that??"

Just reading it feels illegal. He exits and goes back to the front page. A post asking for the pdf of the Anarchist cookbook, a database of busted hitmans (he saves it for late research), a "watch people die" megathread... Yuck. What's with these people and their fascination with morbid deaths?

Kokichi feels queazy, the sweaty pale face of the shot casino owner haunting his memory behind his eyelids.

He clicks on another one: "[THEORY] Do you think Enoshima Junko is alive?"

Now that's a catch. Enoshima Junko was the leader of the Remnants, convicted by the International Criminal Court and got a life sentence, then reportedly committed suicide in her solitary confinement. He dives in to reading the thread.

"The trial wasn't broadcasted. It's common knowledge she had/has a twin sister, who could act like a body double, and her closest followers were very organized in their disappearance.

I think her henchman-sister was so brainwashed she acted as Enoshima and then offed herself in prison. So she is hiding with her followers and working undercover, maybe using more subtle control tactics over politics, etc."

"wasn't the common agreement that she didn't kill herself?"

"lmao Epstein Junko"

"it makes sense if it was Mukuro, so she was killed so that she wouldn't spill shit"

"Bruh her sister was in the spec ops, she ain't spilling shit"

"/bump"

"Ok, but what about other Remnants? they could just all flee somewhere outside of Interpol's reach to avoid jail"

"peek the gambling megathread, Komaeda is still here. He was seen with their postergirl Ludenberg in Osaka."

Kokichi discreetly peeks around the computer club. No one's looking at him, good.

He opens the aforementioned thread in another tab. So Celestia is pretty famous in the gambling world? And is apparently friends with one of the most prominent Remnants. Well, fuck him gently with a chainsaw.

He leans back in the cushioned chair. What is he going to do now? He knows the truth of the situation, but he doesn't have any tangible evidence. He's not a detective, for fuck's sake! He can't ask Shirogane for help, she's with them, he definitely can't ask Celestia - and here the list of his "friends" with connections ends. He can't go to the police with this - they'll just arrest him. Not like that's a sacrifice he isn't willing to make, but they won't look further, it'd be in vain.

Oh, but then there’s Saihara-chan. Saihara-chan, who views him as a bad person, nothing more than an annoying criminal, and would not hesitate to jail his ass, ironically is his only hope in this situation. Saihara-chan'll solve this mess with his brilliant detective brains and unwavering thirst for justice and breathtaking observant eyes and Ouma's indirect help, all the while being safe and credible in the eyes of law enforcement. It's not even a shame that, if the assassin girl’s preposterous claim is any indication, Saihara thinks he's a terrorist as well. Maybe it's better if he hates him - all the more motivation to investigate more.

Ouma sighs and gets to writing down notes.

Shuichi's head hurts. According to Akamatsu-san, her friend, Amami Rantaro, a travelling enthusiast he's met only once or twice, has forsaken his hobby because his (twelve?!) sisters went missing, and Akamatsu has been supporting him and helping him in his search. The police has essentially given up on the search, leaving Amami pacing around the country for any lose ends, any hint of his sisters. 

"His parents were involved with the realty market, which is, you know... Heavily under the mafia. So we thought - hey, maybe it’s somehow related to that? And, uh...” Kaede sniffles. “We’ve investigated it a bit. Found out about his dad working for the Kuzuryuus in the past... I...”

“Akamatsu-san...” Shuichi frowns. The Kuzuryuu family - he stumbled upon them when researching the Remnants. Why does everything keep tying back to them?

“Amami-kun told me we should drop it, before it becomes too dangerous, even though the Kuzuryuus officially ceased to exist. And I didn’t listen. Too caught up in playing detective, I guess,” she chuckles sorrowfully. Shuichi gently rubs her hand in an attempt to comfort her. “Then he called me, told me he thinks he found something, and went to Tokyo. And I haven’t heard from him ever since.”

“H-how long has he been gone?”

“Almost a month,” she sighs, blinking away the wetness in her eyes.

“It's, uh..." well, he can't say "it's okay", can he now? Nothing about this situation is okay. "I'm so sorry. Please don't feel bad. If it's the m-mafia, then-"

"But it's my fault! W-what if he's... He's..." Kaede's voice drops to a whisper. "It'd be almost as if I killed him myself. I'm a horrible person, Saihara-kun."

"No, that's wrong! You're an amazing person, Akamatsu-san! Even you misjudged the situation, you had t-the best intentions, and-" he stops to breathe in. Maybe they both need to come out clear. A stack of the Thief’s letters in his backpack almost physically burn his back through the fabric and the chair it’s hanging on, his personal Zodiac killer ciphers. "Akamatsu-san, I've met with the police's whistleblower, who is directly connected to the Phantom Thief. A-and I've talked to the Thief and didn't tell the police. And I think the Thief works for an extremist group. I... I'm putting everyone I care about at risk right now. But it might not be in vain, if I help the conviction of at least a certain amount of people. It might save people in the future. If Amami-kun is dealing with the Kuzuryuus and if he's still alright but just unable to contact you - it might save him."

Kaede looks at him, wide-eyed. He continues, riding on that way of justified determination.

"If you're a bad person, then what does it make me?"

"Two wrongs don't make a right, Shuichi," she smiles weakly. "But you're doing the right thing, so you're definitely a good person."

Shuichi shrugs. He doesn't share the sentiment, but appreciates it nonetheless.

"And so, that Saitama girl sends me nudes right in the middle of my phonetics class..." Ouma only managed to be quiet for ten minutes, scrolling through Isesaki's Welfare University Crime Law Department website for any new essays or research papers written by you know who and glancing up to his friends, working like the diligent students they most definitely aren't and never were. So, naturally, he broke the silence with the worst topic possible.

"A girl?" Iruma, previously hunched over her laptop and yawning every ten seconds, perks up and stares at him wide-eyed.

"From Saitama? When'd you meet her," Shirogane asks, narrowing her eyes in a warning.

"Isn't the nudes part the main part of what I said?" Ouma pointedly ignores Shirogane, leaning towards Iruma with a smirk.

"Fuck off, stop the music. A girl ?" Miu raises her voice, making several other students in the cafeteria turn their way. "You're gay!"

"I'm not gay! I'm just convinced in the inherent homoeroticism of génération perdue literature."

"I didn't understand literally anything you just said."

"He said he's gay but in cursive," Tsumugi unhelpfully supplies.

"Go back to your old-ass samurai flicks, Shirogane," he growls and turns back to Miu. The blonde looks at them suspiciously: did they get into a fight? Offended, Tsumugi purses her lips and dives back in her cinema history textbook, as Ouma dramatically exclaims: "That's a preposterous lie and defamation of my character! I'm the straightest dudebro in entire Tokyo!"

"Yeah, because straight guys always babble on 24/7 about some guy they'll jump the dick of and send them actual fucking romantic letters. Who even sends letters nowadays?! The Internet exists!"

"Hey, I'm a Nick Carraway factkin; I may be fucking Jordan, but sure as hell also simping for that Gatsby ass," he winks at her. Do his letters come off as romantic to the detective himself? 

"...And, once again, I didn't understand jack shit. I hate humanities."

"Go choke, STEM major."

"Choke me yourself , coward. Or are your hands only strong enough to hold your limp dick?"

"Well then I'll just ask someone strong to choke you instead. With toilet paper, cause you're a cumsoaked urinal."

"You cannot choke anyone with toilet paper, you condom failure!"

"Guys, please," Tsumugi finally snaps. "Iruma-san, you have a test tomorrow. Ouma-kun, you've missed over two weeks due to your illness, so you need to catch up with all your classes and club reports. Also, please stop stealing my wax seals for your love letters, I need them for cosplay props."

"Not you telling me, the nationally renowned phantom thief, to stop stealing!" he dramatically gasps. Tsumugi jerks her hands, irritated, and almost rips a paper out of her book. Satisfied, Ouma turns his attention back to stalking his favourite detective's social media. A new post on his Twitter, an hour ago: "P.T., I think there are some things we should sort out respectfully and maturely, no games. Reach out to me privately, I’m open to talk."

He refreshes his browser a few times just to make sure he's seeing it right. And, once he’s certain it’s not a product of his wistful mind, he honest to god giggles .

"What, did your totally not gay crush text you?" Iruma sneakers and immediately chokes on air as Ouma slowly nods.

Shirogane watches her “friend”’s almost manic growing smile and wishes the ceiling would just crash down and end her misery.

Notes:

Maigret Jules - a fictional French police detective from George Simenon’s novels.
T-Totum (teetotum) - a gambling spinning top, a type of dice.
Quincunx - a type of geometric pattern of five units, can be found on one of the sides of a dice.
Crime and Punishment - Dostoyevsky’s novel about a person who commits a horrible crime, guided by his perverse sense of justice, and deals with the consequences of that. Think of this reference as you wish.
Les Miserables - Hugo’s novel about an ex-convict and a police inspector antagonizing each other each in pursuit of their own goals and ideals. Same, the relevancy is up to you.
Nathan Leopold - a wealthy university student from Chicago who along with his friend kidnapped and murdered a teenager just to see if they could get away with it. Had an IQ of 210.
Hana and Alice; The Case of Hana and Alice - a coming-of-age love-action movie and an anime about two girls. Highly recommend.
Battle Royale - Koushun Takami’s novel about, well, teenagers in a killing game.
James “Whitey” Bulger - a mob boss who turned himself in and became an FBI informant.
Kabukicho - a famous Tokyo district filled with adult oriented entertainment and a lot of illegal/shady businesses.
Zodiac killer - an infamous serial killer who was never found and sent cryptic letters to the police.
Génération perdue (fr.) - the lost generation, the social generational cohort that came of age during World War I. The most prominent literature authors of this cohort are F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, T. S. Eliot, etc.
The Great Gatsby - Fitzgerald’s novel about a mysterious wealthy man Jack Gatsby and his accidental friend, the narrator Nick Carraway, who is canonically bisexual (the male photographer hook-up) and is argued to have weird homoerotic obsession with Gatsby. Jordan is Nick’s love interest though.
~~~~~~~~~~~

phew chile that was a long list of references. this chapter was hell to write but I need to progress in plot before diving into the Gay Yearning TM.
if anyone’s interested/needs clarification, Miu and Kiibo are engineering science majors and are classmates (is this the right term or university?). Ouma is a Romance languages major and Shirogane is a cinema major.

what’s a bigger twist, the remnants or the fact that kokichi knows the word “factkin”?

comments are SEVERELY appreciated. blease validate me

Chapter 8: That one tumblr post about art museums

Summary:

Another day, another heist.
Ouma is just vibing living out his 100k enemies to lovers slowburn, good for him.

Notes:

that one tumblr post is the iconic "take me to art museums and make out with me - but they said to not touch the masterpieces - well somebody's gotta pin the artwork to the wall" this post was just on repeat in my head

this chpt is kinda short and sweet and not as eventful

"Heeey, slut," Ouma lazily kicks his friend's butt, as she is laying facedown in the English textbook in the floor.

"Heeey, dickwart," Iruma turns onto her back with a groan, laziness and languidness in her movement matching that of the guy's. She stares down the mock-rifle he had built out of her empty energy drink cans. “I see you’re making good use of the time while I’m slaving away for a passable grade.”

“It’s not my fault you're so dumb you don’t get English,” he snorts, which turns into a yelp as Iruma kicks him, not holding back any strength.

“Could’ve helped me, asshole.”

“After you ditched helping me with compling last year?”

“You’re so petty!” Miu groans. They sit in silence for a bit and she rolls back onto her stomach and opens her textbook again with an exaggerated sigh. Ouma shifts in place uncomfortably. Something's been eating him from the inside out, clawing at his wonderfully messed up mind.

“Hey, guess what.”

“Ugh, what?”

“I’m the Phantom Thief.”

“Not the coming out I expected, but works too.”

That... didn't go exactly the "haha okay watever you fucking liar" way this weird self-sabotage was supposed to go.

“Ah, how are you not surprised? My disguise is immaculate!” he whines, still in the joking manner, while his stomach cramps in anxiety and fingernails stab into his palm as he curls his fists.

“What? I’m not dumb, I can connect the way you mysteriously fall sick or go visit your grandma every time right before that Thief does something. I mean, you don’t even have a grandma, so,” she shrugs, taking it at face value. The last of his hopes that she was joking back crumbles. “Also you’re just as much of a little piece of shit as a thief, as you are normally.”

Kokichi just flips her off with a shaky smile, more to himself than her. How long has she known? Does anyone else know? Oh, he’s royally screwed.

“Funny I’m not arrested yet then! You know, there’s quite an award for my head!” he exclaims theatrically with a mock-cowboy accent, flailing hands, but deflates as Miu just gives him an unusually stern look.

“Who do you take me for, you little cretin? We’re friends,” her voice drips with hurt, and she awkwardly chuckles to lift the mood: “If anything, your biggest offense is not coming out with this earlier and not inviting me out to your lil heists!”

It's so obviously a joke, but, oh dear, he solemnly sighs, if only. If only he could. There's a huge reason why there's only the Phantom Thief , not DICE and their leader and maybe the leader's smart slut friend . That huge, huge reason clad in uniforms, carrying guns and walkie talkies, and now staring at him with its beautifully haunting greyish eyes and long eyelashes where it previously was faceless and dull.

Although... Maybe he should for once utilize the "smart" in the "smart slut". It doesn't have to involve actively putting her under risk, correct?

It gets lonely to be on top of the world by himself.

“Do you want to?” he asks, 

“W-what?”

"The heists. Do you want to?"

"The fuck?!"

“It’s a yes or no question, bitchlet.”

“Of course I do, shortdick!”

It's been a bit over a week since Shuichi posted the invitation to communicate with the Thief on his social media, and at first it had been ignored - or so he thought. A few (overly worried and jumpy and full of anticipation even for him) days later he got a letter, glitter pen on craft paper, with cutesy stickers (how old is the guy, really?!), detailing how positively surprised and elated the criminal is in regards to the detective verbatim "taking the initiative in their relationship" and how he'll be open to meet and chat in the newly opened WAKO store in Toyama, date and time specified. Naturally, Saihara didn't show up, instead this information was relayed to the Toyama Police Department.

And, naturally, the Thief didn't show up as well. He did mail to both Toyama and Isesaki PD about the "utter betrayal" he felt from being "stood up", though Shuichi doubted it.

"He definitely knew I wouldn't show up, it was a bait," he reasons.

"Not to give the bastard too much credit, but you're probably right. He wanted to rail the cops up," Harukawa nods.

The Phantom Thief somehow seemed to be a few steps ahead - granted, that has always been a feature of his, but Shuichi could only bury himself in guessing what exactly is expected of him, especially when the Thief gives him another meeting time and place. He doesn't want to give the Thief an upper hand - because, if he expects Shuichi to hide in the comfort of his little town, he's got the wrong guy. Well, he's technically right, but not this time. But, even if the pesky criminal does expect him to actually come - they'll finally meet eye to eye and hopefully end this whole clownery (oh, but some thrill of the investigation really hopes it would never end).

So, that's how Shucihi finds himself at the Isesaki train station, a ticket to Tokyo in hand, his friends sending him away. Kaito, his loud and gung-ho personality in all of its glory, all but suffocates him in a hug, boystering about how his "cool best bro will catch all the criminals and send 'em all behind the bars". Harukawa and unusually quiet Akamatsu stand, watching the display, until Momota realises that his best bro might not live to get to Tokyo with broken ribs and lets go, awkwardly coughing in his sleeve but still beaming brightly.

“You forgot your hat,” Kaede’s smile is wide and bright as a thousand suns as she gently adjusts his hair out of his eyes.

“Oh? Huh. I guess I h-haven’t been wearing it a lot lately...” Shuichi grins back shyly. He really hasn’t been as fidgety and full of existential dread as of late, rendering his hat essentially obsolete. He mostly wore it to the university, because truly nothing is scarier than peers and their constant judgement (even if maybe, just maybe , this judgment is all in Shuichi’s head).

“It’s good,” the blonde nods. Shuichi hums in agreement.

“I’ve... been told that I look better without it.”

"It's true," she smirks and fidgets with her plaid skirt. "You're like Robert Graysmith, going after him all the way to Tokyo, huh?"

"Y-you know Robert Graysmith?"

"Duh! I was bound to pick up on some crime things, having known you for so long!" Kaede giggles. They look each other in the eyes for a bit, just smiling comfortably. Oh, he's gonna miss her in the few days he'll be away. Akamatsu-san feels like home.

She looks down, her smile just slightly wavering. Oh.

"I'll be back, I promise," Shuichi almost whispers, something tight in his throat. "I'll come back and I'll bring something on Amami-kun, I swear. I'll be fine."

Kaede nods and poses with her fists in the air excitedly.

"Don't you dare break this promise, mister, or I will personally show all your bad middle school pictures to the people in your university."

"Dang it, now I really have to get back here, huh?"

He straightens his jacket (striped, with a standing collar - this suit is probably the only gift from his parents he ever liked) and glances to Harukawa, as grim as ever. Her dark eyes glaze over the train disinterestedly and then stare right back at him, sending shivers down his spine.

“Don’t die, I guess,” she finally says flatly.

“O-of course!”

“And don’t let that prick get under your skin,” Maki grumbles, the unusual solicitude as if against her will.

“Roger that, H-Harukawa-san!”

Harukawa frowns and lightly punches him in the chest.

The manager, a tall young-looking woman in a blue dress, turns to her guests, as they finish their little tour.

“So, what do you think? I am sure our display is on par with the latest-“

She is interrupted by an exaggerated loud, raspy sigh.

“I am many things,” the guest, a short stocky man in his fifties, starts with a thick hissing american accent. “Besides an exhibition designer , I am... An arts dealer, an accomplished fencer, fair shot with most weapons. I am loved and respected by all who know me...” his companion elbows him, “...slightly.”

The museum manager strains to keep her smile as wide as she can, despite the extravagant man making little sense (not that he was easy to understand in the first place), and tries to focus on his attire: an obnoxious bright pink suit and a big spider brooch on his black scarf.

“But I have always felt there's something missing, you see. Some final piece of my personal puzzle. I needed something bold, distinctive. The work of art with which I could declare to the heavens!” he declares, making broad vague gestures in the air. His companion, a tall young woman in a synthetic pink wig (an escort?) stops him:

“Mr Escroc means to say that he would love to redesign some of the exhibits in order to showcase their full potential,” she gives a lopsided smile and curls a pink strand around her fingers.

“Yes, as my sweet cauliflower said,” Escroc takes his companion’s hand tenderly and looks the manager in the eyes, making her squirm uncomfortably. “I am thinking of... Paris.”

“Paris?” the manager asks politely.

“Wide, straight... Light... Like the streets of Paris. The halls should be like wide avenues, urging the visitors to walk, without feeling overcrowded.”

“Mr Escroc means to say that the exhibitions should be spaced out, allowing light and free movement for the visitors," the companion chimes in once more. "Maybe we could..."

"Oh, I see!" the manager nods, finally getting the idea. "That's... actually an amazing idea. I will propose it to our exhibition designers. But, uh... How would that affect our review?"

The guest, an asian-american "jack of all art trades", who writes for a respectable art magazine and came to review the latest Mori Art Museum display, winks at her:

"Oh honey, I would never give less than a stellar review even if you didn't follow my advice!" his expression (as much as it's seen behind his voluptuous moustache and beard) darkens. "Not so sure my colleagues share my sentiment, though... I've heard Hockney wanted to get into contemporary art critique more, and, well, you know how the old geezer gets!"

"Oh!" the manager chews her lips. "Escroc-sama, w-would you mind taking a look over our planning and maybe... giving a few suggestions?"

"Most definitely! And yet..."

"Mr Escroc would need to be able to see the exhibits and the halls while designing. Do you have, like, a security camera room or something?" his surprisingly silver tongued and brash bimbo of a companion demands readily.

"That's, uh..."

"I do require to be able to see the floorplans and the exhibits as I'm working, darling, ma'am," the art dealer and designer cocks his head to the side. "Otherwise it just won't work."

"O-of course! I'll lead the way!" the manager swallows harshly and turns to her heels. The thought of a well-renowned critic verbally destroying their newest exhibitions and it affecting her own reputation is boiling under her skin.

Behind her back, the short exhibit designer and the taller busty lady discreetly high five each other.

"Holy shit, your charade worked," she whispers in awe, leaning down closer to him. "Despite how fucking horrible it was, you acted real good. Is this how you always do it?"

"Never doubt me, I'm a professional at what I do," he replies a bit louder and in that same thick accent, clearly for the manager to hear it too, and then lowers his voice and mouthes in clear japanese: "Calm your mommy milker honkers though, we're only halfway done. Is the camera ready?"

"Yes. Both of them!" Iruma cards her fingers through the wig hairs, a hidden miniature camera secured on a bobby pin.

"Both?" 

She grabs a handful of her breasts in a tight-fitting heavily decorated dress top and winks.

"In case one doesn't catch something. They're angled differently!"

"Oh god. That's so smart. I love you," Ouma gasps loudly, somehow not forgetting to school his voice and accent into the one of the "Mr Escroc".

"Ew, leave it for your totally not gay crush." Miu sticks out her tongue but quickly has to adjust her wig and put on a vacant smile, as they enter the elevator and the manager turns to them, beaming fakely.

The plan is simple: she records the cameras view with the tiny bluetooth cameras purchased off the Amazon, and he takes in the floorplans and the interior while "designing" the exhibits. Maybe involving someone only in the scheming stage isn't that dangerous: Iruma makes a nice and helpful partner in crime after all, and she has kept her mouth shut so far despite deducting his identity. Kokichi smiles to himself, his mouth almost fully obscured by the fake facial hair. Hell, he'd also have to thank Shirogane for the assortment of wigs she left him despite their... falling out. And probably thank her for not busting his ass too. 

Shuichi isn’t sure if he should be concerned that this is the second stakeout he’s participating over the span of a single summer, or that this is the third crime scene he’s personally visiting in the same period of time.

The Mori Art Museum opens at 10 in the morning, however, given how the Thief prefers performing his heists around the closing hours (maybe as not to disturb the casual visitors? how awfully considerate, Saihara sarcastically thinks to himself), Shuichi allowed himself to wake up only around 8, despite his train arriving as early as at 10 pm the previous night, then grabbed some coffee and toast and had breakfast while looking over some of the case files he brought with himself, as well as photos of the Thief’s letters he’d taken in case there are some clues he might’ve missed. Then he spent a few (amazing, productive, blissful) hours with Kirigiri-san and then took the liberty of walking by foot all the way from Kirigiri’s office in Minato city to the Art Museum, admiring the buzzing megalopolis. The walk took him an hour, which in Isesaki would be enough to walk across the entire city.

Finally, at 12:34, he arrives at the grandiose complex of bridges and glass buildings - the Mori Art Museum. It’s definitely something one can only see in Tokyo.

The inside of the Museum is just as, if not more so, marvelous and astonishing: where Shuichi expected a classy corporate hall, maybe something futuristic, he is met with a glorious installation right as he comes up to the entrance: tall glass doors surrounded by constellations and bushes of deep red flowers, like a jagged halo. He takes a few steps back to take in the full picture, and with a surprised shudder recognizes the shape as a realistic human heart. A metallic plate, discreetly tucked a bit to the side, reads as “The way to an artist’s heart, 2020”. As he enters, the red flowers persist, now shaped as long tubes, coming up and getting lost somewhere in the tall ceiling: arteries. The entrance hall on its own looks like a Frankenstein monster, full of different installations and statues, even the walls and the floors a part of the art.

Shuichi doesn’t have much time to gawk at the surroundings, as someone lightly touches his shoulder.

“Saihara Shuichi?” a firm male voice asks. “ Chief investigator Kudo Shinichi, Tokyo Police Department.”

They exchange a handshake.

“I suppose you have gone through all the information we sent out,” the investigator asks, rubbing his thin moustache.

"Yes, sir."

The man nods. He gives Saihara a brief rundown of everything once more, as they walk through several halls: some more traditional, galleries with modern paintings and photography, some having huge freaky installations, performance pieces, using up the space in unconventional ways. One hall is especially dashing - it has a tall podium across the room, surrounded by tanks of water, and mannequins in european royal dress hover atop the water on long metal rods. The two carefully maneuver the narrow-ish podium and exit to the elevators.

"Our headquarters of sorts are in the management office and in the security office. Both on the third floor," the chief inspector explains. "I suggest you go to the management office for now, get a transceiver, a badge to inform the staff. Any questions?"

"N-no, sir."

"M'kay. I think if the bastard does show up, it'll be sooner, since you're here. Pests like that have little patience but an overabundance of annoyance," he humphs.

 

Of course, they largely underestimated the Phantom Thief, for it already is past the closing hours, at 22:13, when Shuichi gets a message mid-yawn, almost dozing off in the management office: “Sorry to keep you waiting <3 But I’m finally here in all my glory for my beloved detective to catch me!”

“Fucker,” the chief inspector mumbles under his breath, an eye twitching, as Saihara shows him the message. “We’ll search up the building.”

Oh, that’s going to be a long search, Shuichi shudders.

“M-may I assist?...” he meekly proposes. A few of the officers look between each other as if silently conversing.

“You got the walkie-talkie on you? Yeah, go on then,” Kudo shrugs and sends him off. It takes Saihara a few moments to realize why they agreed so easily: he’s the bait. He curses under his breath, stepping into an elevator. Then it's another walk around the first two exhibit floors, gravely quiet except for the quiet whirring of air conditioning.

Saihara walks into the picture gallery halls, the less imaginative yet still stellar displays on the walls, rows of huge photographs on the walls only broken up by occasional modernist variations on ivory roman-esque statues, looking especially intriguing and mystical in the dim afterhours lighting. And then, a not any less intriguing and mystical shorter figure catches the detective's eye, and his heart does that funny little flip inside his chest that you usually get either when you're in love or you're staring into the jaws of a beast ready to bite and trash your throat.

The Phantom Thief, clad in pristinely white suit and cape, face hidden underneath a clown-like abstract mask, seems to be too absorbed in one of the photographs in front of him, back turned from him.

Shuichi swallows weakly and slowly tries to creep up to the criminal, hand hovering over the walkie talkie on his hip, like he's approaching a wild animal, like he's Clarice Starling inching closer step by step to the glass wall of dr Lecter's jail cell.

The Thief turns to him, hands disarmingly behind his head, as there's a mere few meters between them.

"Good evening, Mr Detective. I see you've heeded to my advice on your hat." Shuichi doesn't dignify it with a response, so the criminal continues: "You're cute without it."

"N-no flirting during office hours," Shuichi takes another careful step forward. He can't see the thief's face under the mask, but sure he's grinning, pleased with the joke.

"Alright, officer," the criminal puts his hands up in the air, posture completely relaxed. "So? What are you going to do?"

"Eh..." well, he didn't think that one through. He doesn't want to alert the officers just yet, he needs his answers. "Turn around. Keep your hands up."

"Ooh, bossy," the Thief complies, the cape swishing as he turns on his heels, small back turned to Shuichi completely.

"Nice suit," Saihara quips, trying to regain control and match the opponent's sassiness, coming up closer.

"Didn't you say no flirting during office hours?" the criminal's shoulders are shaking a bit - oh, he's trying to laugh silently. The detective is so close he could grab him by his shoulders. "Should I take the cape off? It's grand and hot and all, but..."

"A-alright?" Shuchi says before it registers in his brain. The cape falls to his feet - ah, a shame, it's so pretty and clean, he absentmindedly laments. White fabric drapes over his shoes and, just a second after that somehow too-long moment of stillness and silence filled with the fabric's rustling, everything sets in motion.

The Thief sprints to the nearest exit, and Saihara, almost tripping on the cape, follows suit.

They dash through the halls, past weirdly conveniently spaced out art objects, laboured breathing and choked up giggles, and into the european fashion hall.

One moment Shuichi is focused on getting to the Thief, his white suit a mocking bright eyesore in front of him. The young detective squints, feeling his hair sticking to his face, dampened with sweat, and sharp stabbing pain in his sides uncomfortably throwing him out of focus, forcing him to limp a bit.

The next moment everything turns upside down and freezingly cold water slams him on the head and surrounds him, like a prisoner’s hood, his weight as shackles of heaviest metal. He probably slipped on yet another zigzag of the podium, his legs finally giving out from all the running, and now he’s in the pool, and it’s hard to see top from the bottom to swim up. Before he has the presence of mind to turn around and look for the rodes of the mannequins to cling onto, he feels himself being pulled up and air hits his face. Shuichi gasps and scrambles for purchase, gripping the arms of his savior before he feels his knees hit the floor and firmly plants his hands on the smooth surface of the podium, trying hard to breathe and blink away the water, clouding his vision. His lungs burn from the cold water.

“Easy, easy, cough it all out," a voice softly urges him, along with the small pressure on his back and shoulders. "Wow, you suck at running and swimming? You’re quite the catch, Saihara-chan!” a loud laughter breaks him from the animalistic panic of surviving and into the cold dread of realization of where and with whom he is at the moment. His stomach turns uncomfortably. Shuichi slowly raises his head.

The Thief, his mask pushed up, looks at him with the most shit-eating grin known to mankind, but his round dark eyes lack any malicious glint, and his hand ( so small and warm- ) is on Shuichi’s back, patting and rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

Saihara opens his mouth like a fish out of water (ha!), unable to form a coherent thought. Oh, oh god. Naturally, he wants to flinch away and start screaming to alert the police, send the signal over his transceiver, but then the Thief would just jump to his legs and flee and get lost in the museum's labyrinthine passages like the Phantom that he is.

He'll have to tread lightly.

“Ayo? Earth to Saihara-chan? Did you hit your head? That’s no good! How can you chase big bad criminals if your skull is cracked open?” the Thief cooes.

Shuichi is thoroughly dazed and lost. Isn’t the Thief supposed to run away? The detective can just call other officers here and arrest him.

He’s tired. He’s oh so, so tired, from chasing this goddamn kid. Not just now, physically, but in general. He also feels almost drunk: 

Shuichi reaches out with a shaky hand and bops the other’s nose. The Thief blinks in surprise.

“Gotcha,” he slurs, still unsteady from the unexpected swim, and when he focuses his vision on the shocked Thief, ready to drink his triumph at finally catching the other off-guard, he is stricken.

It's almost surreal finally seeing him in flesh and bone, chest slowly rising, neon highlights of the podium on his dewy skin, illuminating soft curves of his face, the uncharacteristic expression of befuddlement with his small mouth agape, and those big round eyes, previously only foggily mocking him from Yonaga's drawing, are staring at him, only him, so pointedly and curiously... but, if anything, the criminal doesn't look dangerous, or scary, or vile. He has the worst case of a baby-face, unless he is significantly younger that Shuichi, and the only descriptors coming to the detective's mind are young, pretty, maybe cute — nothing matching the cocky criminal vigilante he had constricted in his mind.

God, he used to be his fan of sorts. This is messing with his head.. 

Finally, after a long pause of the two of them just staring into each other's eyes with various degrees of confusion and embarrassment, the Thief closes his stunning violet eyes and bursts out giggling. The sound of his heartfelt laughter bounces off of the tall white walls and still water and Shuichi holds his breath as if it could disrupt the unrestrained ringing sound.

"You never fail to amaze me, Saihara-chan," he finally says, wheezing, and cracks open an eye, tearing up from laughter. "So, what now, detective? You're planning on tying and roughing up my body, aren't you?"

"W-what?!"

"Eh? Isn't that what happens to a phantom thief when he's caught?"

Shuichi stares at him in disbelief. Just what kind of thoughts run through that head of his?

"You know, I could alert the officers, right now," for some reason, it comes out in a whisper.

The thief leans forward to him, his long messy bangs ticking Saihara's face.

"You couldn't, I chucked your walkie talkie into the water when I dragged you out," the criminal whispers back.They inch closer, hot breaths hitting each other's skin. Every sense seemed heightened, and his mind is racing a thousand miles per hour.

"Smart," Shuichi swallows and tries to move away, before the close proximity intoxicates him.

"Why thank you,' the Thief places a hand on his knee, and the detective feels like he's about to combust.

"W-what are you- Listen. We wanted to talk."

" You wanted to talk. I wanted to meet." the hand travels up his thigh. There's something thin and firm in the thief's fingers. A knife? A card?

"What are your intentions? You act like you want to be caught," Shuichi has to grip onto the Thief's arm, as the latter leans his weight over him slightly more.

"Maybe I do. So what?"

Why aren't the officers assigned to watching the security cameras, reacting? Where the hell is everyone?!

"Or r-rather you want someone else to be caught. How much do you know about the Remnants?"

Their faces are so close that hot breaths are mingling and hitting lips. Shucihi is sure the criminal can hear the heart feverishly stammering in the detective's chest.

"As much a Remnant myself would," the Thief's eyelashes flutter as he tries to hold back laughter. He cocks his head to the side and flashes a maniacal grin, pointedly staring at the detective. "Oh, mio amato detective , did you think I could be your informant? That I am somehow not a horrible terrorist?" he giggles and presses the object in his thigh harshly, as if to remind of the threat. "Did you forget so quickly about the double homicide? Or the years of terror that reigned because of the uncatchable, unmatched criminal, undermining the very reputation of police forces?"

Shuichi carefully studies his face, too calmly despite how much he is shaking, both internally and externally. The Thief looks him right in the eyes, face relaxed and smile unwavering. Confident, cool, still.

"You're lying."

"How so?"

"You're acting the exact opposite of how a liar acts. L-like you're following a lie detection hornbook to a tee, but in reserve," Shuichi closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. He hears the criminal make a noncommittal noise and feels him put the thin object into his pant pocket. More feels than hears shifting and breaths of the other person.

Then, a half-huff half-laughter right into his ear, making him shudder:

"You're too good at this, Mr Detective."

"Why thank you," Shuichi mocks him, eyes still closed, and feels a dumb grin involuntarily pulling on his own mouth. If the other wanted to harm him, he would've already done - not that he would've pulled him out of the water in the first place and then stayed to make sure he hacked out all of the water from his lungs.

There's another bit of silence, and the criminal's small hand squeezes his thigh gently and leaves him.

"I'm not just going to spoonfeed you the answers, detective. Let's play a lot more together... some other time."

"Huh?! O-okay?"

Muted yellow eyes snap open and barely catch the sight of the Thief scurrying to his feet with a surprisingly serious face, before another wide smile overtakes it.

"Hey, Saihara-chan? Guess what. I lied." purple eyes gleam with mischievous delight as he takes a few steps back and pulls out the walkie-talkie and waggles it in the air.

"G-give it back!" Saihara stands up too fast and feels dizzy. The Thief, still sporting the most shiteating grin known to mankind, presses the button and, as soon as he hears the voice on the other end, promptly throws it into one of the mannequins, sounding the security alarm. Shuichi lunges forward to catch him. The Thief dodges the still unsteady detective easily with a breathy laugh and sprints towards the exit.

Young detective almost catches up to him, but, just with a minute difference, crashes into another officer.

"H-he just went there," he starts explaining. How is this possible? Must've used some staff passageways or hidden amongst some exhibits.

"Fuck!" the officer slams the nearest wall and mumbles the direction into the transceiver. Then he looks the intern head to toe. "You're wet."

"An astute observation," Shuichi snaps back sarcastically. The object in his pocket burns him through the fabric.

"I see. Do you need medical evaluation?"

"I'm good."

After hastily picking the door locked, the Phantom Thief slides on the wall and presses his face into the retail cleaning machine inside of the maintenance closet, steadying his breath, and pulls out the building plan with escape plans carefully mapped out.

That went... okay. Not according to his original scheme, but close enough to be considered a success.

Ouma nervously - wait, nervously? - touches his nose and sighs shakily. "Gotcha". Damn, he's so screwed.

"That was pretty fun. I'll think of a more exciting game for next time. So make sure you excite me too. See ya, Saihara-chan!"

Shuichi stares at his phone screen and shakes his head, trying to force down a smile. That was pretty fun.

"You're in a surprisingly good mood after what transpired, Saihara-san," Kirigiri sets a mug of hot coffee in front of him.

"A-ah, that... Well..."

"You like the thrill," she concludes for herself with a small dry simper. "I personally don't get it, but it's very common in young investigators."

"Is that your profiling on me, Kirigiri-san?" he wonders, as he types a reply: "Thanks for not letting me drown. May I ask about the thing you left me?"

"No, I don't mess with profiling. I deal with cold hard facts. When I see a knife wound, I see the speed, the force and the angle of the stab, the kind of a knife, I see pieces of DNA. Not the childhood trauma that shaped it, because there might just not be a childhood trauma. Or a mental disorder, or it's a crime of passion of a normally sane individual."

"T-that's the most I've heard you talk, Kirigiri-san, brevity is more your style," Shuichi smiles timidly and sips on his coffee. It’s a bit watered down and the smell is pretty flat and vague, like mediocre capsule coffee - which it is, Kyoko doesn’t have a proper coffee machine with grounds, but at least it’s not the instant kind.

"No problem! I can't let my favourite detective go to waste until he arrests me ;) And no, you may not. Figure it out yourself, that's literally your job!"

"I'm passionate about my work," Kyoko answers as flatly and void of emotion, as she just talked about her so-called "passion". "Can't the same be said about you?"

"I... I don't know anymore. I mean, I like investigating, but..."

"Police is limiting you."

"Is this why you left, Kirigiri-san?"

"In part. Mostly I find it unjust and corrupt and frankly obsolete, and I try to minimize any contact with it," she furrows her brows, and it's probably the most emotion he's ever seen her express. He's not sure if she's just like that naturally or hiding her feelings on purpose.

"Oh," he simply answers.

"Don't take it as an offence against you or your uncle."

"None taken," the cup, simple, white and visibly cheap, probably from a nearby homeware store, is empty now, as he finishes his coffee. Kirigiri evidently is a person who doesn't bother with interior design or brands. Her whole home office lacks any character. Same as his bedroom, he thinks bitterly. "Maybe I should become a private eye."

"That'd be great," Kirigiri nods, face perfectly blank.

Her home office, as already stated, is bland and lacks character: designed (if you could even call it that) in the minimalist scandinavian style, all whites and greys, without any cute accessories or photos or vases. There are only a few plants, cactuses in basic plastic pots and one dry yellowing lucky bamboo, most likely dying from dehydration. There are no papers in sight, all hid in the countless drawers. The main source of light are big windows, although there is a line of led lights across the ceiling and on the perimeter and a few desk lamps - the private investigator must like a lot of light when she works.

Kirigiri finishes her cup and sets it on the coffee table with a loud clank.

“You’re not a big fan of coffee,” he states out of nowhere, after the awkward silence drags on for a little too long.

“What makes you think so?” there’s a vague barely recognizable emotion in her eyes. Curiosity?

“You left it running for a bit too long, so it has too much water,” Shuichi answers and looks down. The investigator didn’t invite him over for him to deduce stuff about her - an incredibly private and closed person. Well, here go their friendly relations.

“I saw you looking around the room,” she starts calmly, and he swallows nervously. Well, shit- “What else can you deduce about me? Just from the interior.”

“W-well... You don’t have anything personal in your home, it doesn’t even look lived in, so I don’t think you spend a lot of time here. Your plants are cactuses or dying, so you don’t really care or know how to take care of them... You spent a suspicious amount of time making coffee, like you’re not familiar with the coffee machine, and, like I said, the coffee is watered down. And your kitchen appliances and furniture are all inexpensive and probably bought in bunk in the same store, like ikea or something...” Saihara shrinks a bit in his seat, but tells about his observations nonetheless. “I’m not entirely convinced you actually live here, Kirigiri-san.”

He’s sure she’s going to be mad at him, but Kyoko actually... smiles. It’s a small and alien smile on her face, but a smile nonetheless.

“You’re absolutely correct, Saihara-san. I use this office to meet with the police or clients,” she leans closer to him. “Good job. You really are a great detective in the making.”

“You’re t-too kind. Besides... I only saw what you wanted me to see, right?” he smiles meekly. Kirigiri nods.

“Correct again. You have an incredible talent. It’d be a shame to see it wasted.” she opens her mouth to say something else, yet her phone rings, buzzing near her cup. A standard ringtone, unsurprisingly. 

Kyoko stares at it in disbelief for a moment, as if her phone never rings - or, most likely, that person never called before.

“Excuse me, Saihara-san,” she abruptly stands up and snatches the phone and leaves the room for the kitchen. The last thing he hears before she closes the door - notably soundproof - is her addressing the caller as “Taeko”, no honorifics. First name basis? That’s a new one. Maybe an old friend, that’s why she got so shocked.

He stares at his own phone. Figure it out yourself.

The object that the Thief had slipped him was, in fact, a folded piece of a printed name change certificate. It doesn't have the given name - damn Japan and its forms and templates! He'll have to somehow convince his uncle to get access to legal records on this matter.

It's a clue - he doubts it's the Thief's name or whatever, and he's pretty sure he can cross Celestia out - if anything, it's her given name that is a mystery. So either it's one of the Remnants (kinda unlikely), another "employee" like him and Harukawa (much more likely) or a client of his (most likely). 

Ugh, it's all such a headache. 

He's barely graduated from his awkward adolescence into his not any less awkward young adulthood, he's not some Robert Graysmith, as Akamatsu-san had wittily remarked, to think about a criminal's cryptic clues 24/7. He hasn't had a genuinely normal conversation with anyone in what seems like ages.

"If you don't mind answering: how old are you?"

Notes:

WAKO - japanese jewelery company
Robert Graysmith - american true crime author who worked on the Zodiac killer case for years.
Mr Escroc's first lines "I am many things...." are the opening lines to Mortdecai, a 2015 criminal comedy about a shady art dealer.
Escroc (fr.) - crook, swindler
Mori Art Museum - a really cool and big modern art museum in Tokyo
Kudo Shinichi - the protagonist of Detective Conan
Clarice Starling - the main protagonist of the SIlence of the Lambs, book and it's movie adaptation, the FBI intern who interviews dr Hannibal Lecter.
Mio amato detective (it.) - my beloved detective

I...am pretty sure that Japanese name change certificates do have the the given name on them, but pls let it slide for the s u s p e n c e
also it was supposed to be angsty but my gf bonked me on the head and demanded at least a small breather before shit hits the fan

Chapter 9: Symphonia I

Summary:

Shifting the focus from the two idiots dancing around each other (metaphorically (for now)). Saihara solves the case, Akamatsu has some insights of her own, and Shirogane is equally concerned and annoyed.

One minute, she is in the dark of her shut eyelids, protecting from blinding stage lights. There's a distant buzz of the audience, their shared breaths and whispers and the rustling of heavy theater curtains. A bit too tight and heavy for comfort concert dress weights on her waist and shoulders, flowy sleeves shuffle quietly as her hands fly over the keyboard. On the outside of the concert hall there's the faintest, impossible sound of the fountains and trolleys, and centuries old royal architecture of Dresden tower over them with its tall bright windows and merciless clocks. Baroque churches gleam at the people on the streets, in their old-timey suits and tophats, unknowing of future wars and grieves, idly shuffling along to the music to attend to their business. The last notes of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto 3 die on her fingertips, and suddenly she's pulled out of the fantasy by lonely claps.

Kaede opens her eyes slowly, allowing herself to indulge in the fairytale, and turns to her precious audience of starry-eyed Shuichi and focused Angie behind an easel.

"That was... Wow," Shuichi almost whispers, pretty greyish eyes glazed over in contemplation and a sort of reverence almost.

"Hearing you play is a divine experience!" Angie nods from her seat, eyes trained on the canvas before her.

"Thanks!" Kaede beams as she finally allows herself to relax her posture and shake her arms to relieve some of the tension. "I usually can't get through even one movement without messing up multiple times, but today's a good day!"

"It seems like a really hard piece," Shuichi hums.

"It is, a lot of pianists dislike it," she nods. "Fortunately, I'm skipping this season's concerts, so I'll get the opportunity to practice lots for the next one!" she stands up and carefully walks to the easel. It's a study in oil paints, Kaede herself sitting at the piano, head slightly tipped back, hands dancing along the keys. The colours and the strokes are so lively it seems like the painting-Akamatsu is about to move, actually start playing.

"Y-you're skipping? Why?"

Kaede shrugs with a smile, too mesmerized with the painting. It's probably quite narcissistic to be so entranced with a painting of herself - but, then again, she always feels a certain emotional tug at each and every piece of Yonaga's.

"There's a time and a place for every art," Angie answers for her, adding finishing touches to the piece. "Including mental space. Just not wanting is enough of a reason to rip the canvas apart."

"Well... yeah, maybe not as radical," Akamatsu giggles and does a come hither motion to Shuichi. "I simply don't feel like performing for an audience? It's hard to explain. Maybe I am not in the right mental space. Don't you sometimes feel the same about your detective work, Saihara-kun?"

"I... I mean, it's d-different from what you and Yonaga-san are doing. You're creating something profound and t.. touching..." his breath almost catches in his throat at Yonaga's painting.

"I don't think it's too different," Akamatsu takes his hand and looks at him in earnest, internally pleased with how he doesn't flinch or get flustered as he used to at simple contacts. "Your work takes creativity and passion just as much as music or art, and in the end you're uncovering truth... which is important and provoking as well."

"Ah, you're romanticising it a bit, it's mostly like solving math problems..." he mumbles, looking down. His hand flinches up to his head, as if to tug at his now nonexistent hat, and awkwardly settles to scratch at the back of his neck. 

"Well, science and trade are the same thing as art," Angie chimes in, tucking a brush behind her ear. "The motivations and goals are the same: to understand and change the ultimately uncaring and alien to us world that God that thrusted upon us. People's actions and feelings, even our own, might be incomprehensible to us, so we need to work around them to understand them. Angie transforms her feelings into paintings and sculptures... Akamatsu-san explores herself and those close to her through music... You, Saihara-san, choose to view the universe around you as a complex puzzle you need to solve."

Akamatsu holds her breath. That's... incredibly on point.

"Being a detective also takes talent, practice and experience, just like any art. And, as with any, it may serve to hail your morality or God's will, or..." the artist sighs dreamily.

"Ah... I see, Yonaga-san," Shuichi looks down, frowning deep in thought.

"The person you're looking for is an artist of his own too," she says out of nowhere and her smile wavers. "God told Angie you still haven't heeded to His advice."

"Um..." his eyes dart around nervously. "T-the advice..."

"To find him sooner. In the premonitions Angie was granted recently, you appear like an ouroboros snake, devouring yourself in your own worries and uncertainties."

"O-oh... I mean, I did find him, he-"

"You didn't find him , you found what you wanted to find, staying in your comfort zone," Angie's gaze is dark and heavy as she seriously looks at the detective in training. "Ouroboros is about duality too. Life and death, black and white, truth and lies, chase and catch. God says there is such duality in your life as well, tearing you apart. You cannot choose just one, but you're not working towards accepting both."

Silence hangs in the auditorium, both friends processing the artist's words, until Yonaga's phone rings. Her face instantly brights up and she smiles cutely:

"Oopsie! Angie has to go now!" she jumps to her feet and collects her art supplies. Her and Kaede smooch each other in the cheek in a farewell and she bids Saihara a "bye-onara!" before leaving, humming some cheery tune.

"She's... weird. N-no offense," Shuichi sighs and plops on the nearest chair.

"She's right though," Kaede sits down beside him. "Just has a cryptic way of saying things. I don't know much about spirituality or ouroboros or whatever, but she's right in, like, a mental health way. You're obsessed with your investigation - which is normally a good thing! - but lately it's almost to an unhealthy degree."

He looks down like a guilty puppy and her heart swells in affection.

"Do you think I should... take a break?" he asks quietly.

"I... don't know," Kaede admits honestly. "It'd be bad too, right? Just don't overwork yourself, okay? We care about your well-being."

She genuinely doesn't know. On one hand, it's been worrying everyone, how much time he spends on the investigation, almost exclusively talking about that one thief, about clues and leads.... On the other - she can't help but notice how he's been honest to god glowing for these past two days since he came back from Tokyo. Like a wellspring of energy and lust for life and truth opened in him.

"I know..." Shuichi looks her in the eyes and smiles coyly. "I-is this a bad time to tell you I wanted to talk about my progress...?"

"You sly dog, you know I can't refuse your puppy eyes!"

She locks the auditorium and they walk to Saihara’s flat, idly chatting along the way. Their conversation slowly turns into the comfortable rambling about all things true crime, mostly Shuichi monologuing. Kaede’s smile grows wider and wider as she hears her friend’s quiet stuttering melt into something louder and more confident and excited.

“...Oh, and also! A few days ago a team of c-cryptographers finally decoded 340... I mean, t-the Zodiac’s letters!”

“ The Zodiac?”

“Yeah! Turns out there were grammatical mistakes in some words that hindered the decoding process!” he gestures a bit too widely and energetically for how he usually acts, earning another adoring chuckle from Akamatsu. 

"Who knew you just needed to be bad at spelling to create an impossible cypher," she remarks gleefully. "Does it say anything important?"

"Not really- m-more like the usual taunting? I just find the idea of such a cold case file getting significant progress, that is...."

"But, and no disrespect to those who work on it, but what's the point of working on cold cases? Like, it's been half a century ago, the killer's dead already!"

"Well..." Shuichi looks up at the sky to collect his thoughts. She follows his example, staring at the endless bright blue. It's nearing the end of the summer. "I think it's still important to know the truth. For example... If, say, a person is found guilty of a crime they didn't commit. For example murder . And said person dies from capital punishment, but everyone who knows them well can't believe they could've done it. Don't you think it'd be at least fair to their close ones to get some sort of closure, if the case was to be r eviewed later on ? The victim's friends and family may also feel much better if an actual criminal was found and punished. It wouldn't bring anyone back, but... Isn't the better scenario where at least the truth is found, and justice is served?"

"Hm... That's a peculiar example, Saihara-kun. But I see where you're coming from," she nods. She feels Shuichi's bag brush against her hip. "Do you think, when a punishment is executed, the falsely convicted may start believing they actually did it?"
"Now you're asking peculiar questions. But, I mean, yes? The person could be gaslit. Or that could be a defense mechanism, to believe that at least it's deserved. Or, in the case of negligent homicide..."

"You're so morbid sometimes, Saihara-kun!" Kaede shakes her head, before weird gruesome thoughts start plaguing it. 

 

As they arrive, Saihara's room, usually clinically tidy and organised, looks, for a lack of a better word, like an utter chaos. Papers, files and photos everywhere, piled on the floor and desk, taped to the walls and drawers, a whiteboard - where’d that come from?

“Ah, s-sorry for the mess...” Shuichi squeaks embarrassed and rushes to clean up some seating space.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” she laughs as she lands on his bed, obviously made up in a hurry. "You haven't seen my house during finals, it's like a tornado went through it!"

Shuchi stumbles through the hordes of papers and books and pulls out a hefty folder.

"So, this is roughly e-everything I have on the main case at the moment," he starts. "I t-think I have the person who commissioned the Gotenyama art gallery theft, his motivations a-and sort of how they came into contact with the Thief. The person in question is Ko Daiki..."

"The patron of my conservatorium?" she gasps. "Sorry, continue."

"U-uh, it's okay! So, Ko Daiki-san. Has several business ventures, all s..semi-successful, but short-lived. His net worth isn't of exception, pretty average, middle class, yet he often makes donations, patrons a few private universities and colleges and almost all local museums and art galleries."

"Really appreciative of art and history, huh...?" she mumbles to herself. It sort of makes sense that he'd want to get his hands on those bonseki, right? It's also weird he financially supports a lot of facilities, but isn't a particularly rich person. Shady money.

"Nothing about him is outstanding or suspicious in relation to this crime - he even made a statement along several city officials, but..." Saihara's eyes dart around the room and his voice grows quieter, like he's telling a secret. "The clue I got was a name change certificate. So I looked through databases, used elimination method in cases of people already deceased or completely unrelated in any capacity, and got left with him. His legal name before was Sakai Mina.

"Sakai... As in the town of Sakai?"

"Yeah. It's related to the Sakai clan, who have pretty much established a lot of towns and cities in the prefecture, and who Ko Daiki - or Mina - is a descendant of. He was disowned by his family after an alleged financial dispute sometime in the 2000s, and the name change occurred in November of  2005. Before his disowning and the name change there was a bit of a public and media fuzz, especially in Maebashi where he lived, because he was a local freak of sorts - really treasured his clan's legacy and wanted to be a new-age samurai or something. Then he disappeared from the public's eye around the beginning of 2004. The next documented activity of his is, once again, the name change. He changed his appearance too and started a small art trade business, so I am assuming he kept some of his family's fortune on him or regained some connections. Probably both."

Shuichi takes a break to find a bottle of Pocari Sweat somewhere in the midst of the mess on his writing desk, takes a few generous gulps and offers it to Kaede, who absentmindedly declines, mesmerized by the amount of clues the young detective has accumulated: each word of his was accompanied by a newspaper cutout or a legal statement copy. 

"Now, the interesting thing. He was the only heir to the family, and incredibly overzealous about it, and then he got disowned. Then, recently, his father dies, and there are no other members to this branch of the family tree. And one of their family relics, a collection of ancient bonseki, ends up in a museum. It promptly gets stolen by you-know-who and then never shows up on the black market or anywhere. Another case," he fishes out one police report from the folder, "A few valuable art pieces were also stolen, from his father's house, and it wasn't solved yet."

"He's making a collection... Like his family had," she whispers. So far, she's been mostly silent, occasionally making hums of acknowledgement or soft noises of surprise.

"I suppose so too. Now, to how I think he could've gotten with the Phantom Thief," more documents come to light. "As Sakai Mina, he had a lot of shady friends. One of them is Watanabe, who was recently killed in his own casino-" a few photos with sticky notes on them, identifying the people on them, "And one of the Kuzuryuus, an uncle of the current boss. Given that Watanabe was an ex-yakuza, I theorize he's been under the Kuzuryuu clan's protection... That's besides the point. The main thing is, he has a record of being involved both with organized crime and with a man, who's murder most likely involved the Phantom Thief or someone purposefully impersonating him, using signature style and clues. The Kuzuryuu's current head was also alleged to be a member of a terrorist group Remnants, and I also find them indirectly involved with certain criminal activities, the Thief's included. So I am alleging he used some of his friend's connections to hire the Thief to steal those bonseki. That's all for this, I think."

"Wow." Kaede says dumbly, speechless. God, her friend is amazing. "You- you've gotten all this yourself, this is... This is incredible. I-"

"Ah..w-well, the answer was directly handed to me, I just had to fill in the blanks..."

"No, stop that. Learn to take a compliment. You've done amazing work, Saihara-kun!" Kaede determinedly reaches to hold his hand, still mindful of his personal space. So it comes as a surprise when beet red Shuichi, after a moment of anxious contemplation, pulls her into a tight hug. She more feels than hears him mumbling a shy "thank you" into her shoulder.

"A-anyway, I also tried to get anything about Amami-kun..." he stands up to search for yet another file amongst his chaos of a room. "I d-didn't find anything conclusive... But here's everything. I t-thought you knew him better than me, so I c..copied it for you. We may look through it to-together, or, if you want... you may t-take it home."

"Thanks, you really didn't have to," words come out a bit choked. She cannot express her gratitude fully. "I'll.. take a look myself first, if you don't mind." Kaede clutches the "Amami" file to her chest. It'll be fine. 

"S-sure. We can discuss it later, when you're ready. I'll work on it too."

Another file, sitting atop Shuichi's bedside table, catches her attention.

"P.T.2?" she wonders, reaching for it.

"Phantom Thief," Shuichi explains and looks to the side, embarrassed somehow. "I have s-several folders on him."

"Figured," she peeks through it curiously. Copies of letters and chat logs, notes of clues and theories in Shuichi's neat handwriting... "This is very recent," she mentions, looking at chat log dates. "You're keeping tabs on him even though he technically helped you?"

"W-well..."

"So you're going to arrest him anyway after all of this," Akamatsu concludes, fidgeting with the latest chat print. "If you don't mind answering: how old are you?" "I am but a handsome, thoroughly clever, perfectly plump man in my prime age of 53." It's such a sweet and mundane joking conversation, it's almost impossible to believe it's between a detective and a criminal he's set on catching and convicting.

"Well, that'd be the right thing to do, isn't it? He's still a criminal."

"You don't sound too sure of it."

"E-either way, I'm not arresting him yet . His client is the first to go," Shuichi answers a bit hastily, like he has already prepared for this conversation. "You know, I always wondered who's more responsible in the case of a contract killing: the client or the assassin..." he starts, but doesn't divulge deeper into the thought, staring off somewhere in the distance, lips silently moving, repeating the last word.

Kaede stares at him for a worrying moment and decides to change the subject, turning back to the thief files.

" Oh, my beloved detective! I am writing to you for I am bored AF and not even the 10,000 of my loyal subordinates are sufficient in entertaining me. Henceforth I am left writing to you; wanna play a game of verbal charades? Charade number one: my name. First part of the word is a type of insect and, plural, the name of an old-ass british band! Second part - a fruit drink. Now guess it and then say my name three times unbroken... " she tries reading out loud dramatically, but breaks out snickering not even halfway through. "This guy is... something. Why is he lying about stuff that's so easily debunked? And what is it about... thousands of subordinates?"

"Just a silly brand of humour, I don't think it means anything," the detective shrugs. 

"I wouldn't have been able to deal with him for a day even," Kaede muses. "So, now that you've solved the case, what's the next step? Telling your uncle and...?"

"I'm meeting with uncle and Nozu-san tomorrow morning to work out all the kinks and present it, get a search warrant... Also paperwork and other stuff. My investigation wasn't exactly, uh... Sanctioned or legal." he doesn't look as guilty as expected. Actually looks proud of himself as he mentions how his investigation wasn't technically allowed. "But, if the search turns up nothing, I'm not sure what to do next."

"I mean, if he hides it well enough..." Kaede hums. It's a tough situation, having to rely on luck and some person's probable carelessness.

"T-then the case's screwed..." he looks down sadly, so Akamatsu squeezes his hand sympathetically. He's startled, realising they're still holding hands, and blushes so hard you can make ketchup out of his face, yet gives a weak squeeze back.

Tsumugi Shirogane usually spends her weekends and days-off working on her university assignments and bingeing anime or doing cosplay, but sometimes sitting in her rented studio apartment all by herself starts suffocating her with anxiety and self-deprecation. So more often than not she finds herself at the not any less small and suffocating cubicle office of a faux-corporate services firm, just like this time, when she’s hunched over the desk as she tries to get off the phone with her parents for fifteen minutes already.

"Yes, mom, the pay is good. No, I don't need big bro to- Mom, it's fine. I'm fine, really. Plainly fantastic. Actually," she squeezes her temples and huffs in annoyance. "If I don't stop talking in my working hours, I might just get fired. Yeah. Yeah. Mhm. Bye, love you."

She sighs and slumps on the table. Her family is... peculiar. And incredibly overbearing. Tsumugi still remembers when, after her mom almost had a heart attack seeing a Dexter poster on her wall, she had to order her Junko print through a friend and then hide it at the bottom of a desk drawer. Oh, good times.

A loud creak of a door pulls her out or the reminiscing. Her immediate boss, a perpetually bored and cynical man codenamed Monosuke whom she quietly highly disrespects, exits his office, tiredly taking off his stupid pretentious round glasses. She immediately springs to her feet and rushes to him, snatching the work laptop from the desk along with her.

"E-excuse me, sir! The report on this quarter’s shell corps administration is ready, like you requested!"

"Huh? Already?" he doesn't spare her a glance, taking out his phone to check new messages. Prick.

"Yes! Also, I wanted to-"

"Email me and leave a paper copy on my desk," Monosuke waves his hand. Offensively expensive golden watch peek out of the striped yellow jacket sleeve. "Also, brew some tea. Bring two cups, I have a meeting."

Shirogane's face drops, so does her slightly raspy high voice. Her brain helpfully supplies a mental image of the annoying man exploding, and she decides she likes that image very much.

"I'm not your personal secretary."

"Eek, you're scary, Tsumugi-kun," he flinches slightly and finally looks up at her, craning his neck embarrassingly hard: he's shorter than even Ouma, it's almost hilarious. "Okay, what did you want? I have a meeting in ten minutes."

"I was wondering if you would assess one person I've researched. He might become a valuable asset!" Shirogane quickly brights up and balances with the laptop in her arms, starting it up. "His name is Hoshi Ryoma, the tennis player who was charged with spree killing. Doesn't currently have any relatives or friends, no career and education prospects, and-"

"Tsumugi-kun, Tsumugi-kun," the man shakes his head.

"Huh?" 

"You're not a recruiter."

"I k-know, but..!"

"Ya workin' with offshores and shells, capice?" Monosuke glares at her nonchalantly. "Ya good at it. Don't take away recruiters' bread."

"But..." she visibly deflates, hugging the opened laptop tightly to her chest, almost as if in a protective gesture. Before she has the opportunity to say something else, she sees Monosuke's eyes widen and feels something cool and heavy-ish on her shoulder.

"Stop bullying the girl, kleiner mann ," Ludenberg lightly squeezes her shoulder from behind and minces around to stand between them. " Honigbiene , you can send your profile on this person you found either to me or to Komaeda directly, he'll definitely find your work enthuthiasm utmost hopeful ," she speaks with a certain lilt, almost mocking in her sweetness and exotic accent.

"Uh! T-thanks!" Shirogane bows. Working directly with Komaeda, Junko Enoshima’s proclaimed Ultimate Luck... She gets so excited at the thought she hiccups as she starts: “A-and I was thin- hic! O-oh my god, sorry!”

Celestia smiles vacantly in a comforting gesture.

“I’ll wait for you in my office,” Monosuke grumbles to Ludenberg and all but flees to the aforementioned room. Both women sigh in relief.

“How do you deal with him, he’s so...”

“Pathetic? Yeah. He’s a money-hungry idiot - the easiest kind of idiots. It’s easy to use him as long as you maintain the appearance that he’s the one using you,” the gambler turns to her, expression unreadable. “What about you? How do you feel about working for a bunch of cretins that is your management?”

“I m-mean...” Tsumugi starts meekly. She doesn't trust sharing even common work frustrations with Ludenberg, an enigma of her own, vague and unreliable. Not to mention her regal matriarchal presence, she doesn't seem like someone who can comfort or is even an okay listener. “It's okay. C-could've been worse."

Celestia's vacant smile twitches, almost unnoticeable.

"LIsten to my advice on contacting Komaeda. I think you aspire to more than tax fraud, honigbiene."

 

Still with Celestia's words on her mind, even a couple of days later, Tsumugi plops a box full of props next to the others on the table with a loud thud.

"Phew, that's a lot," one of the other club members laments. "Where do we put all of this?"

"I plainly have no idea," Tsumugi sighs. The university's drama club has been assigned work on the program for Obon, and they've had a blast with all the new costumes and decorations, but the storage space provided for the club is... insufficient at the very least. Leaving the boxes in the studio is not an option: it's inconvenient and leaves no space for the actors to move. Not to mention it's a fire hazard!

The sound of the door opening attracts all the attention in the studio.

"Oh, Ouma-kun, good evening!"

"Buona sera, everyone! What're you all doing there, is this a cult?" Ouma chuckles and strides to the tower of boxes on and around the table.

"A-ah, hi. Ouma-kun. We're, uh, trying to clear out our storage for new items, b-but..." Tsumugi deflates as her friend (ex-friend?) pointedly ignores her, checking out his nails. He doesn't even dignify her with a hum in response, but, once another club member proposes an idea, quickly livens up and jumps to the conversation.

Tsumugi bites her lip and looks down, fingers gripping onto the hem of her shirt. It just plain hurts, being ignored. It's a normal human reaction, when someone you consider a friend is mean to you, and that's just what she is - a human. She's not even a bad person: sure, she may have certain unconventional interests and hobbies some might find morbid and morally bankrupt (like an obsession with a deceased terrorist mastermind...), and yes, she might be an employee in a very criminal organization... but she's a diligent student, never refuses to help anyone who asks, assists in running several clubs, truthfully pays her taxes (despite helping others avoid them) and has never hurt anyone (at least directly...). She has friends who (she hopes) like her, despite how boring she is, has professors who think she has great potential and has clients and anime enthusiasts who praise her cosplay skills. She cries when watching "10 Promises to My Dog" (in fact, she watched it around 6 times, and yes, she cried each time), she almost had a heart attack when a boy she liked held her hand, she is conscious of her height and she wakes up grumpy and with the worst, most tragic, most despair-inducing case of a bedhead in human history.

In short, she's not someone who you can treat so badly and condemn like someone horrible and unforgivable, for something she isn't even responsible for. She has feelings. And those feelings are very, very hurt.

Tsumugi, as invisible as she is most of the time, slips out of the buzzing crowd of drama students, and heads to the exit, chewing on her lips until they're bruised and swollen. She thinks of just ditching the club for today and going to a bookstore or something, but decides against it and sits at the nearby staircase, letting her skirt get dirty and dusty, and leans on the wall.

Faint chattering of voices in the drama club doesn't waver, and no one notices her departure.

Tsumugi sniffles and brings her knees to her chest. All that is just plain mean.

 

All things considered, one can imagine her pleasant yet nonetheless surprise when, as soon as Iruma left the table to buy snacks during their usual study session in the cafeteria, Ouma snapped his laptop shut and turned to her with his best impression of puppy eyes.

"Shiro-chan, I am so, so, so very sorry for acting like a dick these past few weeks! I was mad, but it was unfair to you. So, peace?" he pouts and extends a pinky with a hopeful expression.

"Uh... You're definitely lying," she frowns.

"Okay, yeah, I'm still mad as hell. But, hey! The mask you made me literally saved my ass from jail, because I almost got myself caught on cameras! And the cape - mamma mia, it's gorgeous! I owe you big time, Shirogane-chan!" he clasps his hands together in a praying position, trying to look his earnest.

"W-what?" concern takes over Tsumugi, despite her still not exactly forgiving him.. yet (she's weak, okay?). She takes his hands and squeezes in what she assumes would convey her worry. "You almost... How?! You're never this reckless! Did something happen?!"

Ouma sighs.

"So, there's this guy..."

Tsumugi's face drops.

"What guy? Your mystery gay crush?" Iruma chimes in, approaching their table, carrying a week's worth of protein bars and somehow balancing two fruit bowls on top of them. Shirogane almost flinches back, scared whether she has heard their previous conversation, and tries to school her expression.

"I mean... Is it a crush?" Ouma slumps on the table and buries his face into his arms. "It's so confusing I can't even lie- Waah, Shirogane-chan, stop making such a scary face!"

"A-ah, I'm sorry! Was it scary?!" she splutters. "I'm just surprised, it's all."

"Okay, you're in luck, dipshit, because the gorgeous girl genius Iruma Miu is here to give you some advice, as a love expert!"

"Just because Kiiboy stuck around for your gross inflated tits doesn't make you a love expert..." this earns him a smack on the head. "Owie! The fuck, you bitchlet?! Okay, okay, share your wisdom!"

Tsumugi giggles at the friends' interaction despite the evergrowing concern. She's not sure how to deal with the situation if Ouma's caution and performance drop because of something seemingly insignificant yet uncontrollable such as a crush or something, if he's not lying. He's a passionate and reckless person in general, she wouldn't put it past him, honestly. Wait, Shirogane, stop being so calm! It's not a BL manga, it's real life!

Iruma dramatically cracks her knuckles and leans on the table.

"So, the advice of the day... fuck it, it's advice of the life: ask this guy out. Make out under the stars or whatever. If you like him romantically, you'll know. If you don't - you'll know too, like, immediately."

"What if I prefer unresolved sexual tension rather than actual kisses..." Kokichi mumbles, eyes glued down at the table like it's the most interesting thing in his life. Both girls stare at him with varying degrees of disbelief and annoyance.

"Okay, listen, edgelord," Miu reaches out and squeezes his cheeks a little too forcefully. "I don't know what sexual fantasy you're trying to live out right now, maybe you enjoy playing a criminal being chased by a cop or whatever, but stop being horny and pull the trigger."

"Maybe you could tell us about him, so we could give more specific advice? N-not that Iruma-san's advice is wrong, the opposite, actually," Tsumugi adds. Why is Iruma's first association about cops and criminals?!

"Well, he's..." Ouma dreamily sighs and stares off in the distance. "Kind of a nerd. Very special interests. Incredibly smart, not like you'd know what it's like-" evident from the indignant noise, Iruma kicks him under the table."-very insightful. Has the prettiest eyes I've ever seen, and feels like he can see right through me with them. He's also very shy. Not, that's an understatement. Literally a sweaty ball of fears and insecurities. Not like that's a tue-l'amour of any kind, just very prominent... Just a lie! He's actually an almost 2 meter tall jock, a fine hunk of a man with a scrumptious butt like two basketballs down his jeans!"

"Didn't know you're into people like that. Huh. Okay, I think I know the kinda person he is. I used to go to school with this guy, he'd always try and hide somehow, just the perfect anxious closet case," Iruma hums and pops an apple slice in her mouth. "He dated my other classmate, quite the bombshell if I say so myself. Well, her and Suckhara got together by basically-"

"Suckhara?" Ouma repeats, face blank and somehow paler than usual.

"Well, Saihara, but, y'know. So, as I was saying-" 

"Saihara as in Saihara Shuichi who wears a dumb hat?"

"Oh, shit, yeah, that fucking hat, it-" she trails off, furrowing her eyebrows, and stares at her friend who looks more and more like he's about to faint. She breaks out cackling. "Ho. Ly. Shit. You've got the hots for Suckhara Shuichi? The crime geek?!"

"Ouma-kun's crush was your classmate?" Shirogane leans over, eyes almost sparkling with delight. Oh, that's a development she's not sure she's seen even in BL!

"What I wouldn't give for a hydraulic press to smash me like the bug that I am right now!" he whines, planting his face into the table. "My beloved Saihara-chan - and he's Whore-chan's past acquaintance!"

"Oh- Oh my god, this is too good," Iruma's laughter slowly dies off. "Wait, isn't he... like... a cop now? So with you being an, uhh..."

Tsumugi perks up at that. Does Iruma-san know that Ouma is a criminal? How long has she known? How much does she know? She glances worriedly at Ouma-kun, and he just nods in return. Oh, shoot.

"This is why it's horrible, Iruma-chan!" he sighs dramatically. "I am cursed with the incurable disease of being horny for my archnemesis!"

All pieces of the puzzle that is Ouma's behaviour lately fall into place.

The cosplayer slams her hands on the table and abruptly stands up, face red from the emotions overwhelming her. Mostly annoyance, anger and pity.

"You've got a fucking cop on your tail because you like him?! Ouma-kun, what in the world is wrong with you!"

"Woah, I thought you're too plain to curse, Tittygane!" Miu claps. until the realisation catches up to her. "Wait, so you also knew about it? And I'm the last to know?! Hey, you two, stop ignoring me!"

"Honey, dinner's ready!"

The sound of her mother's voice from downstairs breaks Akamatsu away from the weird trance she's been in as she was stuck re-reading the same paragraph for twenty minutes already, completely glazing over the words in deep contemplation.

"Uh... Yeah, I'll be in a minute," she answers back, a bit uncertain. Ugh, she's not going to be able to concentrate, is she? She closes her book with a sigh and bounces up from her bed and straightens her home dress a bit.

Near the door, on her small cutely decorated desk, the folder Shuichi gave her resides like a looming reminder. Her hand trembles over the door handle.

Maybe she's making a mistake once more, trying to solve it on her own, when it was already proven she's just running herself into a corner without anyone's help, and she needs to talk about this situation with Shuichi. One thing is certain: the young detective was right in assuming her personally knowing Amami was important. Because. knowing his habits and personality, Kaede now knows for a fact: all the clues Shuichi found point to a person who doesn't want to be found.

Notes:

Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto 3 - a concert by a russian composer Rachmaninoff, famously difficult to play. Was written during his stay in Dresden in 1910 iirc
Ouroboros - an ancient symbol depicting a snake devouring its own tail. Has different interpretations in different cultures and philosophical teachings.
the Zodiac killer letters decyphered - an actual thing that happened like a few days ago irl? Google it, it's mad interesting (if you're into true crime)
Ko Daiki - a name literally meaning a godsend child or something along these lines
Sakai clan - a samurai clan existing from ~14th century. Resided int he general area of this fic taking place (Isesaki, Gunma prefecture)
Sakai - a town in the Gunma prefecture
Pocari Sweat - japanese alternative to Gatorade
Dexter - a famously gruesome american crime TV series about a killer working for the law enforcement
Kleiner mann (ger) - little man
Honigbiene (ger) - honeybee, a term of endearment
Obon - a japanese Buddhist celebration to honor the spirits of ancestors. Usually held for few days in the middle of August, so this gives a sort of a timeline ig.
10 Promises to my Dog - a incredibly touching japanese drama about a girl growing up with a dog her late mother gifted her. Warning: you will cry like a baby
Tue-l'amour (fr) - a romantic turn-off of sorts, an undesirable trait that's a negative dealbreaker
~~~~

phew this chpt was a bitch to write. it's actually like twice as big, but I decided to split it in two and will post the second part in like a few days.
finally focusing a bit on the love of my life that is kaede. next time ill f i n a l l y focus on maki.
i tried to shoehorn as many references to canon games as possible
using angie as a proxy for my phylosophical ramblings? its more likely than you think.

the chpt title comes from Grimes' song Symphonia IX. it weirdly inspired me. also rachmaninoff, he's the goat.
um. im also kinda busy over at my tiktok, so if ur interested. theres also danganronpa content. same handle. drop by and say hi if u wanna.

Chapter 10: Symphonia II

Summary:

An ordinary day in the life of one assassin.

"Weird question, but does anyone know how to clean up blood? I mean, I think I might have bleach..."

Before her own brain properly processes the question and comes up with an appropriate answer, her mouth answers on a reflex:

"No bleach. Glass and window cleaner liquid, sit for fifteen minutes. Then hydrogen peroxide to desinfect and rid of residue," Harukawa says mechanically.

"How do you know that?" Kaito narrows his eyes suspiciously. Saihara chokes on his saliva.

"She's a girl , Momota-kun," Akamatsu points out, huffing. It takes Kaito a moment to realise, and he grows beet red and squeaks an indignant "I'll get the cleaner stuff!" before disappearing into his bathroom, bandaged fingers fidgeting in embarrassment. 

Saihara shakes his head ever so slightly, and Harukawa just shrugs at him and turns her attention back to Momota's back, as he fumbles with the cleaning liquid at the sink. Apparently he's gotten a small nosebleed or something, slightly staining the sleeve of his all-time favourite white shirt.

"So, sidekick," he starts, liberally pouring the cleaner liquid over the fabric. "I've heard you solved a case, eh?"

"A-ah, well. Yeah?... Um." Saihara shrinks in on himself and tilts his head to try and hide behind his bangs. He glances at Akamatsu like a lost puppy. "I t-thought you'd tell everything?"

"Noo, you deserve to tell about it yourself, Sherlock!" she smiles so widely, Maki feels her own cheeks strain just from looking at it.

"Oh..." he glances at his wristwatch, then to Akamatsu, then back to his watch. Sighs, fidgets with a sleeve, and then, with another dejected sigh, starts the explanation. He ends on: "W-well, I presented the e.. evidence at the PD and it was enough to is-issue a searching warrant. And that guy, indeed, had the stolen bonseki. L-literally in his home office, in the open."

"Dumbass," Momota snorts from the bathroom. 

"So when's the trial?" Akamatsu asks, weirdly excited.

"Uh... It's still in the investigation stage, while he's d-detented. They're trying to find his ties with the hired perpetrator, but if it turns up nothing in a certain period of time, my reasonings will count in c-court."

"And those are?" Harukawa arches a brow. 

"Mafia ties?" the detective replies, sounding incredibly uncertain. It's almost grinding on her nerves. She just hums in response and loses the interest in the discussion, lazily observing them.

The pianist speaks with her hands, her loud and cheery voice like mall music, a pleasant yet empty background noise.

Akamatsu is someone that normally would never get on her radar. Unduly optimistic and overtly nosey, every time she opens her mouth is a sure way to give the assassin a migraine. The pianist is smart enough to avoid trouble and be somewhat helpful and insightful, but she still misses what's literally in her face, which is a good thing for a criminal trying to be stealth. Maki doesn't hate her per say, just moderately dislikes.

Yet people like Akamatsu annoy her: they're always surrounded by people, so it's trickier to take them out. Maki grits her teeth, kicking away the thought.

Now Saihara... She doesn't know what to think of him.

On one hand, he's the kind of guy who inadvertently makes everyone like him. His low self-esteem lacks the universally found annoying self-deprecation, which just makes him likeably shy. He's smart, well-read. Compassionate and unapologetically kind and forgiving - she's only seen him lose his cool when it came to the pesky Thief, but that's a rightfully warranted reaction to his antics.

On the other hand, she'd rather be locked up in a prison school with multiple clones of both Akamatsu and the Thief, then have a conversation with Saihara beyond forced small talk. Something about him and his persistence to be on such good terms makes all the alarms in her head go off. She tolerates him only because he is Momota's best friend, now with the added weight on her chest of a detective no less knowing about her criminal record. It was a mutual relationship - Saihara also never seemed too keen on interacting with her. Until recently. It's baffling that he decided to befriend her after he learned that she essentially makes a living out of taking people's lives.

The reminder on her phone goes off. The basic system ringtone. Everyone's eyes glue to her, even Kaito turns around, taking a break from torturing the poor shirt.

"Almost forgot, I have work today," Harukawa stands up and straightens her skirt and sweater. It's a comfy. unassuming look - fitting for a child caregiver.

Saihara's piercing questioning stare doesn't escape her, and she prays someone says something, and she doesn't have to explain herself and have it sound like pathetic excuses. Thankfully, her knight in shining sweatpants speaks up:

"Oh, the same boy as last week?" Kaito asks gleefully, with a weird tinge of disappointment. Maki doesn't understand why he's disappointed, but most of all she's thankful he said it.

She nods and picks up her things and gets ready to leave.

"Oh, that's why the huge bag," Saihara says suddenly, too quietly, almost as if only for her to hear. It's unusual for him to look someone in the eyes, but looks away quickly and smiles guiltily, embarrassed for assuming... stuff.

Ah, that's why this trainwreck who can't order a coffee without stuttering is dangerous: he sees right through people. 

"My auntie always travels with, like, two or three of these because of her kid!" Akamatsu chimes in, clasping her hands together. The sugar in her attitude is giving cavities to Harukawa's teeth, but she just nods appreciatively of the input and leaves with a grumpy goodbye.

 

In an hour on public transit and around fifteen minutes by foot, she slouches in the farthest corner of the bar counter and swirls an untouched glass of margarita in her hands. Her target is still in the building, within the people, so her focus is dissipated among the crowd of lonely drunkards and tipsy overly touchy couples. She indulges her brilliantly screwed up brain in shapeless concepts of someone kissing the backs of her hands and her arms and her shoulders until her legs give out, just like a couple a few tables down. Yet the sweetest dreams come to a halt and are replaced with a scalding cold singular line of thought the moment she spies a drunken man a few sits down stand up on wobbly legs.

"Put it on my tab," he barely slurrs to the bartender and unsteadily waltzes to the exit. The bartender shakes his head disapprovingly and turns to another patron.

The assassin waits a couple moments and stands up to squeeze through the feisty crowd, her short stature and change of darker unfitting clothing almost invisible and unmemorable.

Finding her target isn't hard: he couldn't have gone too far in his state. As a matter of fact, he is swaying on his feet only a few meters away, patting over his pockets and jacket. She stands a bit further away from him, pulling out her cigarette pack out expressly slowly, and studies him with her peripheral vision.

Her target is a man in his early twenties, the lover of the Chief Financial Officer of Iidabashi Industries. She doesn't know who the hired party is - but it wouldn't be a stretch to assume it's someone from the Towa Group, their competitors. Targeting a CFO's lover? Low blow. But that's what having infatuations may cost.

"Heyy, care to bum me a smoke?" the target approaches her and smiles dumbly, absolutely hammered. She hates killing intoxicated people - it feels unfair and dirty.

The assassin shares a cig with him and tugs him to the nearest alleyway, as he rambles incoherently about something. His lover's name comes up, and she barely hides her grimace. The motive is clear as day: the rumors have been around, and when the CFO is forced to make a statement - it's going to cause an uproar. One of the heads of the leading robotics enterprise does not only have a same-sex partner, but said partner is also getting killed, drunk behind some shabby bar in Ashikaga? Stock markets are going to explode.

The assassin leans to the wall and chokes him with her elbow from behind, pinning the man's back to herself.

The pressure on his windpipe renders him unable to speak, letting out quiet sobs and rasps.

With a swift motion she pulls out a blade out of her back pocket.

The brain of an apex predator is locked in the knowledge she learned and practiced since before she learned multiplication tables.

Don't cut the front. That is where the muscles and cartilage is. Go for the side. That's where your main arteries are. If you cut from one side of the Adam's apple to under the ear, you hit the jugular and the carotid. A person drops in a few seconds from lack of blood pressure in the brain. The heart will still keep beating for several minutes, but the person is effectively dead without a trauma team right there.

The half-smoked cigarette on the dirty concrete is put out by splashes of bright red arterial blood.

 

As she gets off the transport at the school bus stop, Momota is there to pick her up after work, holding a still hot paper cup of coffee for her. She doesn't want to think about how this makes her stomach flip.

"So, how's the kid?" Kaito's smile alone could light up the whole street at these late hours.

"As usual," she shrugs and sips on the coffee.

"You weren't online the whole time, did he even let you breathe?"

"Boys are boys," she shrugs once more. She's the furthest from a very good liar - but she's learned that the less details your story has, the more believable it is, the more in control of it you are.

They walk side to side, and he carries her bag. She tries not to think about the bloodied clothes and knife in there.

"The stars are really bright tonight," he mentions, trying to make the remark sound off-handed, but he's an even worse liar than she is.

"They are."

Too bad she's too socially inept and emotionally stunted to get what he's hinting at. 

"I like stargazing at nights like these," he tries again. With her side vision she notices him swallowing thickly.

"I've never done that," she finally attempts a dialogue. It's awkward and probably not what she's supposed to say, but that's enough for Momota's face to lit up as he turns to her excitedly.

"Really?! Oh, we gotta do that, like, right now!"

"Right now?"

"Yeah!" he looks around hastily and points to the empty football field. "We can sit there... But it's better if we lay down! C'mon, Makiroll!"

He pulls her with him, walking fast and heavy like he's scared she's going to refuse. She'll never refuse spending time with him, though.

They drop off her bag and Kaito insists to spread out his jacket for her to lay on. She doesn't care about her clothes, but doesn't argue.

Maki breathes out deeply into the night air and relaxes her muscles. Kaito's jacket is warm and rough in all the best ways, lulling her into the scary and unknown feeling of safety.

The space enthusiast shuts up for an uncharacteristic amount of time, settling down and staring up intently, like he's reading a book.

“There's the Big Dipper,” Momota whispers, as if he had just hunted down a cautious little animal. He keeps his eyes focused to the sky. Maki's sure that if she turned to him, she'd see galaxies in his eyes, but the mere thought of that makes her feel queasy.

She follows his finger and squints up at the imaginary spot in the sky. Her heartbeat quickens as she tries to focus on the stars and not the scent of his offensively manly cologne, applied maybe a bit too liberally (she stopped minding it a long while ago). 

“See that bright spot?” Kaito nudges her with his shoulder, and draws a circle with his finger in the air.

She tries in earnest as she squints, but all stars look the same to her. Except for the one laying besides her on the grass.

Harukawa shakes her head slowly and hears a half-hearted chuckle right above her ear. Her breathing stops, like it did the moment she slit that man's throat earlier, and she can almost feel the hot blood pouring over her cold boney hands. But then the hot phantom feeling is replaced by a real and just comfortably warm one.

Momora takes her hand, agonizingly slowly and gently, and folds down her last three fingers so only her index still points straight. Still holding it softly yet firm, he points at the sky.

“This is the handle,” he says, and traces out three more stars in a curved line. “And here is the bowl.” he points out four more stars in the sky.

Maki knows exactly what it takes to kill a person, but right now she feels like that warm wide hand on hers would do the work better than any gun or blade. At least she feels like she's dying, her lungs and heart burning in a weird twisting feeling.

As the grip on her hand loosens a bit, it all comes crashing down on her in a gloriously painful realization, leaving her heaving and writhing like an animal, but also laying frozen, so she just takes in a sharp breath and shudders. Probably for the first time in her life she understands what she's feeling, and it scares her.

She doesn’t want Kaito to let go of her.  

The space enthusiast scoots closer to her. Maki can feel his body heat as their shoulders and upper arms are leaning into each other. She watches the sky as Kaito traces out the Little Dipper with her finger and whispers something about Polaris, like he's telling her a secret only she is worth hearing. 

“Can I show you Orion?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“A moment. It's actually easier to find in winter.”

Harukawa swallows harshly. She wishes they both would be here together in winter, for him to show her the stars again. 

“There it is!  You see those three stars right there?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Orion’s belt.  Above it are his shoulders, and that bright orange star is Betelgeuse. Below it are his feet, and the bright star on the left is Rigel. Oh, look to the right - that constellation is..."

Maki works out constellation after constellation as her space boy describes them, and tries not to get distracted at how just right his palm feels on her hand. They’re already laying shoulder to shoulder, but she wants to pull him even closer.

He lets go of her wrist, and the warmth lingers like an echo of a symphony in an empty church. The star-talk slowly fades into sweet comforting silence. Just the two of them and the endless space above.

"How are you not an astronaut," she finally says quietly.

He takes a few moments to respond. When he finally answers, his voice is quiet and pained.

"Failed the health evaluation."

Maki doesn't press. Usually Kaito would go on a tangent, filling in tons of useless details, but, given the short simple answer and the distinct shift of the mood, it's best to leave it at that. Maybe one day he'll tell her how he, who can put some professional athletes to shame and hasn't caught a cold since third grade, failed it. Or maybe not. He's entitled to his own secrets. She has many of them too after all.

"I study child care because I failed at the entrance exams and didn't get into social science," she says, surprising both of them. She wants to attempt a dry joke like "we're both failures", but feels the warmth leaving her side, and then Momota is leaning over her, with his eyes and mouth wide open.

"Really? I thought it was, like, your calling!"

"No way you thought I'd genuinely want to work with children," Maki huffs. She doesn't usually like when anyone is towering over her, but Momota looks too much like a kind dog to feel remotely threatening.

"They like you a lot though," he cocks his head to the side and smiles softly.

"It's unrequited then."

Kaito laughs and falls back onto the grass.

 

Around three in the morning she runs out of cigarettes, having chain-smoked all throughout her psychology of deviant behaviour course work she's running late to turn in. She types in the last characters and closes the laptop.

The room is unpleasantly warm and suffocating, and the smell of cigarettes clings to the wooden table and curtains, so she throws on a jacket and walks to a further convenience store.

At the small convenience store the fate she doesn't believe in makes her run into none other than the exasperatedly perceptive detective in training. Maki wants to punch the nearest wall or drop something and watch it break into pieces, but she just tightens her lips and politely asks him what does she owe the pleasure of the meeting.

"Ran out of coffee pods," Saihara answers timidly and gives a small saccharine smile. Maki furrows her brow.

"At three in the morning?"

"I w-was working on a case."

They check out in silence and stand outside the store together: she stopped to smoke, and Saihara... probably just too shy to bid goodbye first. He awkwardly shuffles in place but doesn't speak up. 

"Didn't you already solve your case?" she finally asks, watching as smoke curls into the night air.

"J-just partly," with her peripheral vision she sees him fidget with the shopping bag. "I still want to get to the b-bottom of all this. I found the hiring p-party and now I need to find the c.. contractor."

"The little menace?" the bitter taste of filter burning fills her mouth and she flings the spent cigarette into the nearest trashcan. "Isn't he helping you?"

"W-well!"

Maki turns to look at him. Saihara is staring at his feet, chewing on his lips.

"Didn't expect you to have the backbone," she comments. She really didn't: from what she's seen of him, Saihara is a soft nervous pushover, who only feels somewhat confident when doing his little detective thing. 

"He's an active criminal. It's only right if I-"

"So you'll convict me too?"

"Eh?" he looks up, eyes wide and lips trembling. Is he going to cry?

"You know my occupation. In your teeny worldview it means I should be arrested, correct?" 

"But you've quit, r-right? You don't want to do it anymore... And I consider you a- a friend. I wouldn't do that to someone, who's t..trying to change..." he says quietly but firmly, determinedly looking her right in the eyes. Impressed by the unexpected of the detective in training boldness, Maki swallows - there's a lump in her throat somehow? - and hums in acknowledgement. She leans in closer to him and notes how much he tenses and obviously tries not to flinch away. He's still scared of her: that's good, that means he does have some working braincells and a survival instinct.

"I see. But let me give you an advice: don't put so much blind faith in people. You're bound to get hurt. Badly ," she maintains eye contact, waiting for him to cower and look away.

"It's not blind," he says so, but he doesn't seem so sure of it anymore. Pleased, Maki steps back and turns to go home without another word.

 

"I know you didn't babysit today!" she hears him shout after her, voice cracking and trembling, and her heart sinks.

Notes:

mmm kaimaki juice

my fbi agent, seeing me google how to clean up blood and how to slit someone's throat: >:o

if you think maki is way too hostile towards shuichi: yes, she is. as she should.
also writing this just reminded how much maki despised kaede in canon,,, pls she hated my piano waifu so much and for what

sorry ive not been answering to comments, i do read them all. im just. idk. sorry? i loved writing this chapter sm, esp the stargazing scene. it gave me life.

Chapter 11: Police dog blues

Summary:

And on this week's episode: our jolly detective goes to court and gives an interview.

Notes:

Police dog blues - a song by Blind Blake, released in 1929.
"She got a police dog cravin' for a fight...
His name is Rambler, when he gets a chance
He leaves his mark on everybody's pants"

It's certainly far from the first time Shuichi's been in a courthouse: once serving jury duty and countless times as a student, under the supervision of practiced attorneys. But it's definitely the first time he's been attending a court hearing as an active investigator. The prosecutor's side is represented by the inspector Nozu, since Shuichi is technically still just an intern, yet he has to be present, in case of any questions and confusions related to his evidence. He looks around the courtroom, filled with attorneys and cops, and sighs shakily.

"Issa fiine," Nozu-san waves her slightly tanned hand dismissively and chugs her coffee. She’s taken a paid leave for a couple days, warming up her bones at the beach after weeks of working on the homicide case and frequenting the cold and gloomy morgue. "You don't have to, like, actually do anything, I've got it."

It's a bench trial, so at least there are no jurors - less eyes on him, as everyone is busy doing their own thing.

The defense lawyer, a tall man with a very prominent five o'clock shadow and sleeves rolled up in careful carelessness, approaches them and slings his arm around Nozu's shoulders, startling her slightly.

"Heey, Jeju-chi," he grins, pressing into her side way too close for any intimate distance guidelines. 

"Yo, Hosuke. So you're the defense, huh? The guy's not to be envied then," Nozu turns her face to him, annoyed yet amused at the same time. Shuichi notes the first name basis, staring at the two of them wonderingly and quietly sips on his espresso.

"You're wounding me, Jeju-chi! My clients win about 90% of cases," the attorney's voice lowers, "Though it's not looking too well for Daiki-san. I mean, he couldn't have discredited himself more." he brights up and stares at Shuichi. "Ah, and you must be our wonder boy, who caught him, right? Amazing, man!"

Shuichi sputters at the praise and reaches up to tug at the brim of his hat, but it's not there. He doesn't even remember where he last saw it, left and buried somewhere in his room.

"Uh, t-thanks? It's nothing, I-"

"Saihara-kun and his deduction is a treasure," Nozu interrupts him. "He's a little Francois Vidocq in the making!"

"Damn, that's cool. Alright, I'll get to going, we're starting in…" the attorney looks at his watch. "Half an hour or so. I still need to prepare, even if it's a lost case. Looking forward to clashing heads with you, Jeju-chi!" he draws a heart in the air and leaves with that.

Thirty minutes, huh.

"Jeju-chi?" Shuichi snorts.

"Oh, please, beloved Saihara-chan," she rolls her eyes. "You're not the only one entitled to funky pet names."

"You two s-seem close," he abruptly changes the subject, feeling the tips of his ears burn in embarrassment.

"Met in the academy, dated for a while, then ran our separate ways. I like solving shit and he likes making up shit and getting money from his clients, that Fletcher Reed wannabe."

"I see…" Shuichi trails off. Twenty three minutes. "I, uh… I want to t..talk the s-suspect. I mean. I'd like to. Uh."

 

Getting the directions, he steps into the courthouse library, a tiny dimly lit room with tons of bookcases and a writing desk. Leaning on the desk, there is the suspect. The guard at the library door pays the young detective no mind, as he enters the library.

The suspect, however, does.

"Ah, our beacon of law and hope, Saihara Shuichi!" the man flashes a wide toothy grin and gestures to the folded chairs at one of the walls. "Take a seat, young man! Was anxiously waiting for the opportunity to talk to you!"

"Oh, t-thank you." Shuichi clumsily sets out one chair and flops on it rather ungracefully, limbs suddenly too long and foreign. He feels the familiar onset of an anxiety attack creeping up on him. Seventeen minutes.

"So polite," the man commends and smirks. He has an amazing smirk, it doesn't even look fake. "Why so stiff? Relax, I just want to chat!"

"Uh-huh," Shuichi nods and tries to relax his muscles, back already straining. Fifteen minutes.

“If it’s not too personal…Isn’t your dad,” Shuichi stares at him in confusion: shouldn’t they be discussing the case, the trial? The man can’t be this despaired he doesn’t see the point in talking about the matters at hand. “The actor from the Colour of Moonlight?”

“Y-yeah, that’s him.” he tries to chuckle nonchalantly but it comes out choked and hysterically high-pitched and all around fake and awkward, just adding onto his already strained nerves, almost at the tipping point.

“Ah, I love his movies. The Colour was so ethereal, I actually bought its collectors edition. I rewatch the roof scene every now and then, it's phenomenal.”

Shuichi keeps silent, looking at the man’s hands, resting on the desk. He’s way too calm.

“Circumambient is a close tie. The writing in this one is amazing, especially the “working to the bone” monologue! That ought to be taught in school.”

“M-my mother wrote that movie…”

That movie is pretty average, actually, at least to Shuichi, who’s had a pretty extensive movie watching experience: it’s about a family falling apart because the parents are always busy working and neglectful to their kid and to each other, yet work through it all in the end. Classic. While the movie’s screenwriter and the lead actor’s own kid is left behind, lonely and scared and betrayed, while the pay went to another continent to chase their fame and money, not once looking back.

Shuichi swallows.

Ten minutes.

“Really? That’s one hell of a family! Wonder why you didn’t follow in your parent’s footsteps!” nine minutes, Shuichi is suffocating. "Although maybe it’s for the better: I’ve seen the work you’ve done to get onto me, and, frankly, it’s impressive,” the suspect hums appreciatively, changing the subject as if sensing the boy’s discomfort, or maybe just growing tired of the small talk himself. “But how’d you even decide to dig into me?”

“Um, w-well…” the young detective stutters. His fingers dig into his knees, as he tries to both ground himself in reality despite the rapidly thumping heart and to come up with a lie.

“I think that, uh… Thief? Framed me,” Daiki whispers suddenly, gaze intense as he confides his suspicions in the detective. “He purposefully left clues leading to me, somehow.”

“What makes you think so, Ko-san?” 

“There’s no other explanation. Nothing could’ve realistically tied back to me, right? I’ve never even met the guy, and the work-around was rather discreet…”

“C-can you elaborate?” 

Five minutes.

"There's this, uh… agency… my friend referred me to. They work like freelance management, almost. They hooked me up on him. Them. Whatever."

"So you don't know anything about your contractor…" Shuichi puts his hand to the chin in thought. He wants to ask about Ludenberg, but way back then, when they talked, she told him there's a network, a lengthy chain of people between clients and contractors and handlers. She didn't lie about anything else, so he chooses to put his trust into her on this occasion too. "But how would he know about you?"

"If he's smart enough to hide, he's smart enough to find," Daiki shrugs. "I'm not even mad about getting caught. I'm just confused why he'd do something like that, isn't that bad for their organisation?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out too," the detective confides. Not even mad about getting caught, huh?

"Good. Drop by the prison and do tell once you solve it, Sherlock," he chuckles sorrowfully. Shuichi sinks into the chair guiltily. He knows the man has committed a crime, a morally skewed misdemeanor at the very best, but damn if it’s still hard to process. He expected the suspect to be furious, try to deny all and be aggressive and accusatory towards the detective who caught him. That friendliness is suffocating and hurting.

"Ko Daiki-san, to the courtroom. The hearing is starting," the guard at the door calls out.

"Damn. Okay, Saihara, was nice talking to you."

They exchange a firm handshake. Daiki fixes his suit and his expression darkens as he exits, looking extremely pissed as he talks to the guard and eyes his defendant.

"W-wait, Ko-san. Who's, uh, that friend that told you about it all?" Shuichi asks hastily, as they approach the courtroom.

"Ah, that. Kuzuryu Natsumi." 

"Where can I find her?"

The man laughs hoarsely.

"You can't, she's dead."

 

 

Kokichi never pegged himself for a hopeless head-over-heels lover boy, who gazes in the distance oh-so longingly and sighs as he doodles hearts in his class notes and writes love poetry in french on napkins, but that’s almost exactly how he finds himself lately. Somehow his daydreams have shifted from wondering whether a certain capable detective was making any progress in his investigation, whether he was pissed at his antics yet completely obsessed with the elusive Phantom Thief, to being unable to focus in class or throughout his club meetings, mind occupied with adorably messy hair, prying pretty eyes, the brilliant inquisitive mind, the smart essays and amazing taste in books… 

He tunes out Shirogane’s complaints about the new girl in their drama club being suspicious on top of being “plainly too full of herself just because she’s an acting prodigy or whatever”. His thoughts are elsewhere, around three to four hours on a train. Saihara is probably chatting with his shallow friends or wasting his time at that police station. Or maybe he’s at the trial for that one guy Ouma worked for. Is he thinking about his darling Thief, not really paying attention to the accuser reading out the case materials? Does he get tense every time the Thief is mentioned, does he itch to just spit it all out as it is? Does he wish the criminal was there, against him, them and the jurors and the attorneys engaged in a fiery scrum debate? Does he think back to their little game of catch in the museum, does he wish they could do that again? Does he think about the Thief all the time, would he think of just Kokichi just as much?

“What is this… Utsugi girl even doing at Tokyo University, she doesn’t need that kind of education, if she’s such good of an actress,” Shirogane doesn’t stop, rolling her eyes and huffing, as the girl in question is handing out her socials handles left and right and engaging club members in pointless talk, even though they’re running on a tight schedule.

“Are you just mad because she’s an actual Remnant?” Ouma quips half-heartedly, on all levels except physical not in the drama club room. He thinks of Saihara handcuffing him, but being so characteristically gentle and considerate even during such a procedure. He’d definitely ask if it’s uncomfortable, that softie. Would that count as handholding?

Shirogane makes an indignant noise and turns away. Ouma doesn’t really catch it, because for no apparent reason for the 1oth time this day his mind supplies the memory of Saihara drowsily smiling, water dripping… everywhere, as he booped his nose after their sweet sweet cat-and-mouse run across the museum corridors. Gotcha. God, that was so… Cute? Low-key hot. Absolutely dreamy. 

 

 

Shuichi crumbles another sheet of paper and sends it straight to the trash can and slumps on the kitchen table.

“Writer’s block?” his uncle jokes, turning his own red from exhaustion eyes to him, hands gripping onto the papers before him. It’s well past midnight, although neither of them bothers to check the time.

“Y-you could say so…” he sighs. “Can’t focus, e-especially after the trial.”

“Yeah, attending a trial can throw one off… Well, just say… Erm… whatever the Tokyo Dep told you to? You don’t need to write write your speech,” his uncle waves his hand and leans back, thin lips spreading in a sly smirk. “You can just go impromptu. I mean, it worked well enough during your latest soiree with the Thief- Hey, don’t glare at me like that!”

Shuichi groans and bangs his head on the table. After that encounter in the Mori Art museum, very not-graciously caught on the security cameras, his department, still livid from the constant gifts and the god forsaken “agape” note, just broke out in romantic jokes. It’s all in good fun, but honestly starting to get on his nerves. It all peaked when he came to the police station, functioning on one hour of sleep, three espressos and a prayer to Yonaga-san’s God, and the front desk lady dropped a “it’s been a while since your beau got in touch, huh?” and all the others didn’t spare him the embarrassment and very much not subtly had a good chuckle.

He himself is still unsure of what came over him back then. Well, technically he did all he could – his walkie-talkie was taken from him, and he didn’t carry (obviously), so... He just talked and ensured he wouldn’t be putting his life at risk, while the officers got to him. 

And he booped the Thief on the nose for no reason whatsoever. Yeah, that too.

He sinks deeper into the chair and feels the tips of his ears burn just thinking about that. In his very personal, very based and very not to be spoken of opinion, breaking each and every regulation would’ve been worth the absolutely befuddled and amused expression on the Thief’s face, and it’s just an added bonus that his actions didn’t break the code (if you don't count the fact that he lied and told the cops that he wore another mask underneath. It was believable enough to work).

The constant teasing cancels that bonus out though. Almost.

“On a real note,” his uncle's voice breaks him from the thoughts. He glances up questioningly. “Why don’t you ask Kirigiri for her opinion? She likes you and would know how these conferences go. I mean, she was the one to hook you up as a speaker.”

“No, she wouldn’t help me write what the p-police department wants to hear. Kirigiri-san really… um… d-dislikes the police?”

“Oh, mood,” Seicho chuckles. “Alright, gimme a second to finish up these, and I’ll help you, champ.”

“T-thanks you so much!”

“But in return…”

“Oh…?”

"You'll tell me all the juicy details of your conversation with the Thief!"

Shuichi’s head meets the table once more.

 

So, after Shuichi had successfully solved the bonseki case, his suspect Ko Daiki, the businessman and art lover who commissioned the theft, was arrested and subsequently recently had his first court hearing. Having someone so young and inexperienced solve a crime that Tokyo PD was stunted on caused quite an uproar, first in the professional circles and later on in the wider media. Thankfully, his uncle shut down the journalists until the official investigation is over and Daiki gets the sentencing. Yet the judges seem pretty conclusive, so in too short of a time his life will be chaos, that’s for sure. The very thought of seeing his face and name… literally anywhere but his ID and social media accounts sounds like the most horrific and despairing thing in the world. He may or may not have had a couple meltdowns already.

And now there’s the IPA Japanese sector press conference that Kirigiri-san insisted he participates in. He’s unsure of what her agenda is, but went along with it anyway, and now has to deal with the horrifying realization that he’ll have to give answers about his investigation in front of people and cameras. He needs to rehearse before talking to a cashier! What was he thinking?!

 

"Why can't you just say things like they are?" Akamatsu huffs, watching her friend abuse the notebook with drafts of his answers.

"Well, first of all - it's still an ongoing investigation, saying too much might cause troubles," Shuichi, rubbing his eyes harshly (he and his uncle went to sleep only around 5 in the morning), pointedly ignores Kaede's annoyed remark of "yeah, your investigation" and continues, "Second of all, even the police doesn't know how things are. I already lied to them that I didn't see his face, imagine telling the press he helped me."

"I still don't get why you cover for his ass," Momota rolls his eyes. He’s already lowkey mad that their hangout is derailed by Shuichi writing his press conference speech, and the onsetting conversation about one particular criminal is just pulling on his nerves.

"You can't just rat out a friend!" Akamatsu argues, putting down her mug a bit too loudly. 

"Since when he's considered a friend?!"

"Excuse me," Shuichi says, but his voice is meek enough to go almost unnoticed. "I'll go drink some water."

He slides out to the kitchen and sits at the dinner table, stares at the coffee rings on it. Tries to scratch them off.

It's become a normal situation like that recently: Akamatsu being weirdly positive towards the criminal in question, going as far as to say the Thief's been a "good influence" and a "valuable helper". In what world is he even an okay influence?! (Not arguing about the helper part though, even if he has a very roundabout way about doing that). Momota, on the other hand, seems to hold a grudge against the Thief - understandable, even if unsubstantiated, given that he's never been an active threat even when he absolutely could. And Harukawa… Saihara's not sure what is going on between the two stealth criminals he knows (how does he know two of them, anyway? one is already too many), but the assassin is genuinely seething with pure unadulterated hatred whenever the topic of her colleague comes up.

Whatever, he thinks, chugging straight tap water. He's too stressed to deal with that too for now. First: the press conference. Then - his friends' very strong opinions on his work ethics and who he chooses to associate with. And then - going forward with the investigation.

He hears Momota-kun talking about how criminals of that caliber are dangerous and should not be trusted. Good thing Harukawa is at her daycare work and can't hear it.

Shuichi sats the cup into the drier and stays for a second, taking a moment to think it all over. His momentary hope of approaching the agency and alleged Remnants - and Amami - was crushed immediately, by the arrested Ko Daiki-san's friend being dead, on top of her being a Kuzuryu. He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. He could try cooperating with the Thief again. The criminal is, how did Daiki phrase it again? "If he's smart enough to hide, he's smart enough to find”. Incredibly smart and chaotic in a good way somehow. A shit stirrer for sure, but… Not malicious. It could work. He’ll just have to make sure to keep it from Kaito.

 

 

Upon coming back from his club meetings, just before the curfew, Ouma opens his dorm room door to the dim warm light of his desk lamp, now positioned atop the coffee table, a tall dark bottle with two wine glasses, and a woman reading one of his study books, aristocratic features vaguely illuminated by the lamp.

Ouma clears his throat and closes the door, proud of himself at not being startled by the intruder in the slightest.

"What did you tell the concierge?" he asks flatly, hanging his jacket, fully turning his relaxed back to her as a statement.

"I'm your German tutor. Have the pass and everything." she puts down the book - Les misérables - and gestures to the glasses. "Wine?"

"That's my wine, you don't get to offer," Ouma snickers as he sits down across the coffee table. "Who would ever believe you're my German tutor? I don't even take germanic languages."

"Your dean's office did."

"Touche." he pours himself a full glass of Rosé Imperial. He recalls buying the wine around half a year ago, after a rather boring robbery of an art appraisal facility. Good times, funny times.

"So, senpai, did you come here to just share a bottle of Moët and Chandon as two good old pals do, or did you come to say something of value?"

"A bit of both."

"Too bad I'm not interested in the first one, huh," Ouma takes a generous gulp. "Spill it and get out. I have classes early in the morning."

"Oh, really?" Celestia humours him with an innocent smile. She knows damn well he doesn't have studies on Thursdays, aka tomorrow.

"Yeah! And I also am having lunch with the Prime minister of Russia, so I really need to go to sleep early and look my freshest and bestest," he beams back and then his expression drops into one dripping with disdain and venom. "Really, why are you here? I'm not in the mood for talking to you. Haven't been for a while, if you haven't noticed."

“Then let’s get to business. I’ve been wanting to discuss some legalities with you,” she opens the briefcase, previously positioned on the floor beside her killer heels, and pulls out a thick stack of papers.

“If you knew just how much I don’t care, you’d cry,” Kokichi can’t help but lean closer in curiosity.

“Oh, I am very much crying. Somewhere very, very deep inside,” Ludenberg assures him as she sorts the papers on the table, turning them to him. Lost in confusion, he reads out “Individual life insurance application”, “Affidavit of decedent’s successor”, “Record of emergency data”, “Testimonial form” … He looks up to her, expecting a wicked smile or at least any change in expression, but her mask is plastered on too tight.

“I regret to inform you, senpai, but as far as I know, I’m not dying.”

“Yet.”

“Is this a promise or a threat?”

“I know what you’re doing. Whether you end up in jail or deceased is up to chance, ”

“And what am I doing?” Ouma drums fingernails on the glass nervously. Does she mean his little liaison with Saihara, or whatever he's digging up about his, ahem, employers? 

Celestia taps her earlobe. There are ears everywhere.

“Of course I mean just your general line of work. You’re a nationally wanted criminal.”

“Ahh, that?” his eyes dart to his agency laptop and back to the handler. The bug gotta be in there, right? She nods. “Okay, but… Don’t you need a lawyer for stuff… like that?” he vaguely gestures over the papers.

 “I might or might not used to be a board certified lawyer.” Celestia leans over the table and props her chin over her hands. He notes even now her fingers are stuck in an allonge ballet position, like it’d kill her to have even one authentically relaxed bone in her body.

Her nails are long and black, two whole inches long stilettos. The last time he saw her, her nails were cut to the base and round. She's not wearing her contact lenses, though, staring at him with dark, almost black brown eyes. God, she’s so fake.

“Ah, yes, Celestia Ludenberg, a famous illegal gambler, a killer and also a certified lawyer. Makes sense!” he smiles and pulls the life insurance form to himself, absentmindedly studying it. Maybe it would be good to write DICE in as receivers, in case something does happen…

“I am not a killer.”

“And I am not a pathological liar.”

She stares at him with barely concealed annoyance.

“Okay, okay, miss girl, I'll fill them in later."

"Alright. Then, let's proceed with other matters at hand. I have a work offer." 

"Not interested, don't even continue."

"No, you are," she presses, frowning. "I'd love you to take on Zurich in your next heist."

"Zurich? We don't work outside Japan..." he trails off. She's lying, but she's purposefully letting him see it's fake. Oh, the listening bug.

"It concerns a citizen of Japan, so technically qualifies as our jurisdiction."

"Would you accompany me there, senpai? I might just get lost in a scary foreign country and fail my job!" he whines as loud as he can, once again glancing at the laptop. Hope whoever is listening gets an ear bleeding.

Celestia nods once again, acceding, and the side of her mouth tugs in a small smile.

"No, I shall stay here."

Ouma sinks into his chair, biting on his fingernail anxiously. She's proposing they run away from the country, for whatever reason. Someone like Celestia wouldn't get away from a lofty perch that is her life and shady but high-paying work in Japan and uproot herself to Europe randomly, unless something was endangering her. And she's offering to take him in on the ride.

He licks his lips and starts, but the words die in his throat. Escaping, running away essentially, from the agency and the Remnants and this whole mess, ditching the efforts to solve it all - it feels as morally wrong as murdering someone to get out of a killing game, like in that weird book Saihara likes. And he despises murder even inside a thought experiment.

"I'll have to refuse your offer, senpai. It's nice and all, but..."

"I see. Then I suggest you use your time off to review your legal options," long metal claw ring taps on the forms. “And I suggest you talk to Shirogane about opening an offshore investment account.”

They sit in silence.

"Have you heard that Saihara Shuichi solved your case?"

"Yes. Good for him."

"He'll be speaking at an IPA press conference here in Tokyo next week."

"Wow."

"You know, I was supposed to attend it, but I am sadly way too preoccupied. What a waste of a free pass there, don’t you think, cheri?"

The way he instantly perks up and can barely hide the bubbling excitement inside doesn’t escape her - she reads him like an open book and smirks knowingly.

"I'll send the pass to your university email."

“I…” Ouma starts, joyous, but instantly deflates. As tempting as seeing Saihara once again in person sound, he can’t fathom inserting himself in a wasp’s nest that is a press conference full of cops and journalists. “Nah. I’ll pass.”

He finishes his glass, trying to drown the even nastier voice in his head, telling him that meeting or god forbid exchanging even a word with the detective would just make his fall worse, hook, line and sinker and lungs filled with dirty water.

The handler fiddles with one of her rings, waiting for his change of heart. It never comes. But she wouldn’t be known in certain circles as the ultimate gambler, if she didn’t always think ten steps ahead.

“I actually have work for you there. I need you to accompany someone.”

“You got it all confused, I’m a thief, not a bodyguard or an escort.”

“But you’re good at observing,” Celestia puts a sealed envelope in front of him. “Here’s everything you need to know.”

Kokichi feigns disinterest and rips the envelope open absurdly slowly, until he is satisfied with the irritated twitch of her eyes. Inside there’s a personal information sheet and several photos of the person in question. The name instantly catches his interest. “Mazuri Houmiki”. Sounds obviously fake, like someone is trying to come up with a stereotypical Japanese name. He voices that thought instantly.

“Because it is. Well,” she snaps her briefcase closed and stands up, layered frilly skirts shuffling along. “I shall get to going. Thanks for the lovely evening. Tell the Prime minister of Russia I said priv’et.”

“Obyazatel’no ne peredam.”

She laughs as she approaches the door, swinging the briefcase. The echo of her heels clacking in the dormitory corridors weights on him, as he hunches over the envelope contents.

 

 

The detective sits in the coffee break room, furthest from the conference hall, tapping a familiar yet discomforting melody on a bottle - Debussy's Claire De Lune,- thinking: how thoughtful of them to give him this bottle. Tapping the glass of the bottle feels nice, the touch cooling and clean. He'd emptied the bottle already: any extra hydration washes his brain that works too intensely and hysterically, amplifying his worries and anxiety.

Shuichi was practically walked to the room on a leash and told to just sit and wait like a dumb lost puppy. Kirigiri said she’ll be there, but he still hasn’t seen her not gotten any messages, and none of the police officers, the IPA staff or media representatives pay him any mind. With a sigh, he does the only sure thing when he’s confused and/or sad and calls Akamatsu-san.

“Heyy, how's the world's best detective doing?”

“Don’t be a sycophant,” Shuichi quips half-heartedly. The wonderful sound of her laughter on the other side of the call calms him a bit. “I’m at the place where the press conference is hosted. Um… It starts in fifteen minutes, yet no one tells me anything.”

“Oh, that sucks. How’s the hotel you’re staying in?”

“It’s… okay. A bit f-further from the centre, but it’s not expensive and is just a short walk from Kirigiri-san’s office,” he clutches the trusty hat. Just breathe and talk, Akamatsu’s a friend. 

“Sweet! How long will you be staying after the conference? We already miss you!”

“Uh…” four seconds to breathe in, seven to hold, eight to exhale. “I’ll stay for a while. I’m still working on… investigating... some stuff? It’ll be easier in T-Tokyo.”

“You’re going to investigate Amami-kun. Right?”

“Y-yeah,” his breath rhythm stutters and he has to move the phone away a bit to dry heave, chest shuddering. God, Akamatsu-san is not helping. “I…” he swallows painfully. “I was thinking of reaching out to the Thief. If my d-deduction is correct, he is a Tokyo resident or at least frequents here. He might help?”

“Uh…” there’s a concerningly long pause. “I mean, if you trust him, then I trust him too.”

“But…?” people are busy outside, but no one comes in to give him any instructions. He drums his fingers against the bottle again, trying to distract himself. It’s a distorted, awfully off-key Flea Waltz, or Stepped on a Cat. Akamatsu never liked it for some reason, always says it has unpleasant vibes.

“Listen, Saihara-kun, I- You know I’m all for you working with that thief, because… Well, he helped you, and you seem to be much more confident now, and you seem to like him to a degree… But I have to agree with Momota-kun and Harukawa-san too. You’re, like, obsessed with him.”

"A-am I?" Shuichi hits the bottle way too hard and it tumbles on the table, threatening to fall down. He just watches it, as if out of his body. It doesn’t fall, maintaining the fragile stability.

"Yeah, you- You take any opportunity to talk about him, you… Listen, it’s okay. I’m just concerned whether you’re betting too much on him. He’s still a criminal. I t-think you need a second or even third opinion, because you’re a bit…”

“Biased?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I…” he hears Kirigiri’s flat low voice (that is somehow always noticeable and heard; how does she manage to do that, without ever raising it?) outside. “I a-appreciate your concern, Akamatsu-san. Sorry, I have to go.”

“You show ‘em, tiger!”

The private eye peeks into the room, long lavender hair tied up and in a formal pantsuit. She wordlessly nods to urge him to get up.

Sweat condenses on his forehead, on his palms, in the clavicles. He wipes his hands on his pants, following the senior detective. Why does he have the feeling like something bad is about to happen? 

 

 

The person Celestia wanted him to meet and “observe” greets him, disdain in each and every little muscle movement and tones of voice. Ouma has to suck up his ego and grin at her with gritted teeth, tongue rolling the mini-camera Iruma left him after their little heist preparation back then at the museum. Once they’re in the building, he flees to the mens restroom to spit the camera out and fix it on his jacket as discreetly as possible.

The person in question, “Mazuri Houmiki”, or formerly widely known as Koizumi Mahiru, as the simple anagram solving turned up, fixes her long dark hair in a tight ponytail and powders nose and cheeks in front of the hallway mirror (probably to hide the freckles), as she’s waiting for him.

“Why did they hook you on to my back again?” she asks once he steps out of the restroom.

“Aw, don’t act so hostile, Houmiki-chan! I know you’re thrilled to have me here!”

“As if,” she snorts, “Some dumbfuck fucked up his work and now some little snot is going to be gloating about that in front of the journos, and we have to spin doctor the hell out of it.”

Kokichi doesn’t let his smile waver, even if he’s absolutely seething on the inside. Fucked up? It was a glorious, amazing, unsolvable crime, as usual - the only weak link was the guy who commissioned it, and, well, he’s going to get it behind the bars - and Ouma is in fact the active force behind it. But that’s beside the point… Little snot? His Saihara-chan is the smartest, most capable, most astute, most- he’s not even going to finish that line of thought, it’s redundant. Saihara-chan is perfect in each and every sense, and any perceived flaws are merely sweet little quirks.

“Well, you’re going to puppeteer the media coverage of this glorious bastard’s case, so my not any less glorious presence is very much warranted," he puffs out his chest.

Koizumi rolls her eyes and turns on her heels to walk into the conference hall, throwing short little instructions at him, as he catches up to her. Stuff like "don't talk", "don't ask the participants questions", "stay away from cameras", etc. Things he is smart enough to know by himself, but apparently Koizumi doesn't view him as such. Isn’t his disguise of the day a low level damage control manager from the agency?

“Shut up, we’re late,” she grumbles. He makes sure to run in circles around her (not metaphorically), trying to catch her from different angles. Thankfully, she writes it off as him just being annoying. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s how you make a first impression that works in your favour later - just be a pest from the get-go! And it’s fun and all, until they enter the conference hall.

All his life he thought sugar rush was a mind-numbing game, or at the very best a symptom of drinking way too many sugary drinks. Apparently, sugar rush meant molasses spreading throughout his system and striking him with a literal heart attacks at the sight of Saihara fucking Shuichi being pushed to the forefront of the lineup, almost visibly shaking and gripping the mic intl his knuckles are white. He's got the damn hat on, too. Doesn't listen, does he, Ouma chuckles adoringly, taking his place beside Koizumi, who's reviewing her question list and case details in her note app.

Then Shuichi starts speaking and he's a goner.

He forgets to breathe and only takes a deep gulp of much needed air when black starts to creep up at the edges of his vision. He never realized how their precious rare text messages and letters were merely scraps until he finally got to see his favourite detective in person once more. Mahiru squeezes his shoulder to gain his attention and whispers something to him, probably comments on the shallow and painfully obviously rehearsed answers, but all he hears is white noise and Saihara’s soft voice above it all.

The detective is answering the questions, eyes firmly fixated somewhere above the crowd – a smart move for someone with an apparent stage fright. But then Mahiru steps in, just as Saihara is about to finish his interview, and, as those pretty gasoline eyes panickedly flick between the journalist and the audience, their eyes lock.

 

Shuichi's heart skips a beat as his eyes find none other than the Phantom Thief in the crowd, staring at him with a blank and somewhat strained expression. It's uncharacteristic for the criminal to ego trip, so he must be here for some.. other reason than to hear about himself and his doings, right? Maybe the thief's here because of him. Shuichi clutches his own wrist to calm himself; it's a weird but delightful thought, he realises with dread: to have the fabled criminal even as half as interested, as the detective has been in him for a while; it's definitely doing a great thing for his ego at the moment.

“Mazuri Houmiki, the National Tattler. Why is the official statement that the perpetrator was the Phantom Thief, yet no evidence was released? According to public records, there have been at least two confirmed cases of copycat crimes inspired by them," a journalist with a long dark ponytail and military-esque outfit asks, holding out her recorder. Her tone raises a bit hysterically at the end of sentences, like she's accusing him of something, though overall her voice is smooth and cold.

Her face looks familiar, he notes to himself, but even his photographic memory fails at pinning down where exactly he could've seen her before.

"W-well…" the young detective has to think of an answer quickly, so as to not sink both himself and the police's official agenda. He balls hands into fists until his short nails dig into the palm painfully to ground himself. "T-that's an ongoing investigation, so the police are only voicing the working version. I- It's not conclusive yet. We're not placing the blame on anyone until there's substantial evidence."

His eyes find the Thief in the crowd once more, and some of the worry is relieved when the criminal nods approvingly, looking back with those deceivingly cordial round eyes of his.

Shuichi decides to look at him for now, since it seems to keep him from tripping over the verge of an anxiety attack.

The journalist keeps bombarding him with loaded questions - more like statements he has to rebuke, like it's a Reid's interrogation. Keeping eye contact with the Thief strangely… helps. At some point he praises the criminal's fashion of committing his robberies and avoiding being caught, and the pleasure of seeing the man in question widen his eyes and smile slightly is filling the detective with a weird sort of pride.

The journalist asks him about certain questionable details, tries to gouge out the reason he decided to investigate Ko Daiki of all people… Asks whether he feels sorry for the arrested man.

"I cannot release any personal information on the suspect," he concludes. "But, as to my p-personal feelings on the matter- What he did is wrong: it's a crime. His motives are selfish and u-unjust. But we - as in the general public - should understand that good people do bad things too. My- Actions of an officer of the law are not a judgement of one's character," it's harder to look at the Thief's face, a completely blank and emotionless mask stretched over it. "I-I can feel sympathy for the culprit and wish for the proper penalty at the same time. I h-hope that answers your question."

 

Neither breaks eye contact even when Saihara bows as the questioning ends and awkwardly backs away to stand beside the – what’s her name again? Doesn’t matter! The short second when Shuichi doesn’t look at him, doesn’t pay all of undivided attention to him, as he turns to the lavender-haired private eye to answer a question, feels like an agonizing eternity to Kokichi. Oh, he’d do anything to get Shuichi to notice him and only him all the time… even strangle him.

On the topic of being strangled, the moment those cruelly ethereal grey eyes finally turn back to him, he feels like he’s being choked, like there’s stinging poison in his veins, like his body is being smashed and grinded to a bloody pulp, until there’s nothing left to be put back together.

He only comes to his senses as cold air hits his face, when Koizumi pulls him outside, disdain warping all of her face.

“You okay?” she grabs his shoulders a bit too forcefully, ready to shake him out of this weird trance any moment.

“No, I’m gay,” he finally rasps and steps back, forcing her to release her hold.

“Stop clowning for a second,” she scoffs. “You looked like you’re about to faint. We were getting outta there either way, but that's a peculiar exit.”

“A bad case of Stendhal syndrome,” well, not exactly a lie now, is it? His beloved detective would definitely qualify as the most beautiful piece of art in his very much not humble opinion. “Kidding, it was very stuffy in there.”

She huffs and pushes him away lightly, yet it's enough for him to stumble and have to lean onto the nearest lamppost for purchase. He declines her offer to get him a cab to the doctor and watches her quickly loose any interest or concern and walk away, tapping away on her phone. On shaky legs he calls Iruma to pick him up, still digesting Saihara's interview. Good people do bad things too, huh?

 

"W-who's that… last journalist?" Shuichi asks, trembling hands hovering over the cup of green tea - Kirigiri refused him any coffee, given his borderline anxiety attack state.

"Mazuri Houmiki, columnist for a tabloid. Notorious for her very controversial articles, specifically politics. Has no morals - great for a journalist, bad for everyone else around her," Kyoko tells readily as if she's had this same conversation countless times before already.

"She seemed angry… for some reason," he finally let's himself take a sip, hoping he wouldn't drop and break the cup in his shaken state.

"She's always like that. Especially with male interviewees and article subjects. Pay her no mind, you did good at the conference." Kirigiri predicts his next question, as she is nonchalantly folding her jacket and rolling up her sleeves: "She "investigated" me once too, but that was a guilt by association kind of a narrative that lead nowhere. Unimportant." she stresses the last word, cutting off any more prying questions. Shuichi nods and tries to relax into the stiff cushions of her couch. Four, seven, eight, four, seven, eight.

He really wanted to catch the Thief after the conference and talk, but the latter disappeared, vanished like the Phantom that he is. Answering the journalist's question did kind of feel like he was talking to the criminal, but… he just wanted one, one genuine conversation with substance, eye to eye. That's apparently too much to ask.

"If you had the o-option of working with a.. a criminal to catch a b-bigger criminal, would you do that? K-Kirigiri-san?" he asks out of nowhere.

Kirigiri doesn't even take a millisecond to respond, her own hand holding a teacup frozen midair.

"Without a second thought."

 

Notes:

Odoroki Hosuke - the original (Japanese) name of Apollo Justice, a defence attorney from the Ace Attorney game series
Jeju - the name of an island in Korea. I chose it as Nozu's name for no other reason than that it comes up when I googled Saishu (early on she was supposed to be a foil of sorts to Shuichi,but eh…)
Fletcher Reed - the main character from the movie Liar, Liar (1997) with Jim Carrey, a crooked attorney
Francois Vidocq - a real life detective, founding father of criminology, opened the first ever detective agency
Colour of Moonlight and Circumambient (used as movies Shuichi’s father starred in) are both songs from the Visions album by Grimes. this whole album somehow became almost an OST to this fic?
IPA (Japanese sector) - International Police Association, a friendship organisation for members of the police force, whether serving or retired.
Priv’et (rus.) - hi, hello
Obyazatel’no ne peredam (rus.) - definitely will not tell him
The 4-7-8 breathing technique Shuichi uses is a breathing pattern that aims to reduce anxiety and calm panic attacks.
The National Tattler - a disreputable tabloid newspaper from "The Red Dragon" novel by Thomas Harris, the first novel to feature Hannibal Lecter. The newspaper was featured via the sleazy journalist Freddie Lounds.
Reid interrogation technique - a US interrogation method of using accusatory claims and leading questions, used widely by the police and the FBI
Stendhal syndrome - a psychosomatic condition of having strong physical response to beautiful pieces of art
also pls im so dumb I wrote Sugar Rush as a game, but i was acc thinking about Candy Crush! Sugar Rush is the racing game from Wreck-it-Ralph smh. not gonna rewrite it though, i like that one sentence too much idc.

god pls help them theyre so gay (me too)

a drinking game: drink every time I shoehorn a canon reference in here, especially to executions

idk if there are any mistakes i finished writing at like 3-4am so ill check it later, toodles

Chapter 12: Although I joy in thee

The Phantom Thief watches the interior light of the wagon flicker, the repugnant sulphur yellow of it blinking at him over the dirty ceiling. There are a couple blueish lights too for some reason. 

He blinks back at the lights and looks at the floor then. It's dirty and wet from the passengers walking in from the rain outside. There aren't a lot of people, due to the ungodly hour, probably - 3:46 in the morning - or maybe because it's a very old train, on a monorail line that's surely to be discontinued in the nearest future. 

The train stops at the Kataseyama station and enters a stocky man in a blue dress shirt, unbuttoned to an obnoxious degree to showcase his chest hair, and cheap cosplay-worthy spiky shoulder armour plates. He stares at the Thief. The Thief stares at him.

"Hell yeah! Found you," the man all but growls deeply and snatches off his star-shaped sunglasses.

"Maybe you would've found me quicker if you didn't wear shades at night," Thief shrugs and pats the seat next to him. The man - actually, he's not much older than himself, might just be a peer - slumps down, huffing with anger. 

"Whatever the fuck have you been pullin' lately, huh, you punk?!" he starts. "First you acted out on your own not once but twice in a row - and now one of our clients is in jail. What the fuck, I'm asking you?!"

"Calm down, jabroni, I'm just having fun. That's why I'm the Phantom Thief, not some no-name burglar."

"Who you callin' jabroni, jabroni!?"

The purplenette tunes out the remainder of the "monokub"'s tirade and turns his attention to the dirt spot on the seating, dangerously close to his new white Cucinelli slacks.

The monorail terminates at the Shōnan-Enoshima line and the few passengers sluggishly amble to the exit. Before the Thief stands up to do the same, he is swiftly put into a hold and head and left shoulder pinned to the wall.

"Woah, what gives, sir Monodick?" he gasps against the dusty metal.

"It's Monokid, ya punkass!" he barks. The remaining couple of people scurry from the wagon. "I'll say this once: if you don't stop this dumb fucking shit, you will be fired," his tone drops and darkens, "and you're not gonna like the way we unemploy people."

"Oh do tell," the thief laughs and tries to wedge out of the hold, bruised face rubbing uncomfortably at the wall.

"Gahh!" Monokid releases him and stomps his combat boot like a child, disappointed in the lack of fear. "Ya laugh all ya want; while I think of an interesting way to kill you, once I get the nod. Maybe I'll pick ya up and squeeze ya till your guts come gushin' out like toothpaste!"

"Kinky."

"Shut up!"

They get off the train and walk in semi-silence towards the coastline and stop in the 1-chōme-7 block. Well, not really silence: Monokid is talking about something, occasionally making weird noses (emulating a guitar riff?), but the Thief is a bit too busy rubbing his hurt cheek and thinking how he is going to hide the bruise on lectures and club meetings. 

They stop in front of a small-ish villa.

It’s dark inside, and Monokid tells him he needs to turn on the electricity and instructs to move through the corridor into the dining area. The Thief obliges (not without a snarky remark) and blindly creeps down the hallway and enters the room at the end of it, engulfed in darkness, only vague strings of dawn light allowed through thick curtains on the windows. He carefully moves towards the big shape that he assumes is the dining table. As his eyes get used to the dark, he makes out a human shape at the table, and stops in his tracks. The shape notices him as well and stands up, chair rattling behind them.

It's a tall thin woman in a fluffy knee-length skirt. The momentary thought that it's Celestia dies immediately: this woman is quite taller, possibly Iruma's and Shirogane's height.

"Good morning," she says in a quiet low voice, extending her hand. He touches it cautiously and flinches, feeling a weird texture: gloves.

"Ain't nothing good about mornings to me," he laughs and finally properly shakes her hand. "Name's Hatoyama Ichiro."

He more feels than sees her smile politely at the joke.

"Very nice to have you here, Hatoyama-sama ," she jests in tow. "I am Tojo Kirumi, a maid. Please let me know if you require my service in the duration of your stay here."

"Tojo, huh? Like Tojo Hide-"

The lights turn on, fake electric candles on the walls. The interior of the dining area and, presumably, the entirety of the house is much cheaper than he'd seen even in restaurants Ludenberg used to take him out to in more rural areas of the country. That, however, isn't the most shocking.

Pale lighting, definitely chosen to conceal the inexpensive materials and textures, falls on the delicate but stern features of the maid.

"Wait, don't you hang around the Prime Minister?"

"I... do work as a maid for our current Prime Minister, it's true."

"Do all maids accompany their clients to meetings with ambassadors?" he bounces in place, staring her down intensely. She looks thoroughly uncomfortable. "What are your thoughts on his latest policies? He made quite a 360 a couple years ago... Almost funny how it coincides with your appointment as his maid, isn't it? Oh, and-"

"I hold no opinions of which to speak. As a maid, my only role is to fulfill my duties, no matter the situation, no matter what happens. So please, feel free to think of me as you desire, even if it's a conspiracy at best," she finally states firmly. They stand in tense silence, until Monokid barges in.

"Ah, Tojo-san, you're already here!"

"Yes, I have arrived around fifteen minutes before you. Would you like something to drink?" Tojo bows her head.

"Uhhh, is there any beer?"

"Surely there is in the kitchen, I'll get it. And for you?" she turns to the Thief.

"Tea?"

"Will do."

She bows once more and walks out of the dining room.

The monokub plops down at the table and pulls out a phone. Even from a distance, one can tell he’s playing some three-in-a-row mobile game, despite the serious expression he’s wearing. So much for the brutish exterior and violent threats, huh. 

“So, are we here to just have a tea party, or are we doing anything of value, my dear little cub ?” Thief walks around the table and sits down across the glaring monokub. He actually really hates the weird name the agency has for their management - whoever looked at the position of directing criminal activities and decided “ah, yes, the young of a bear”?!

“Just you wait,” Monokid sneers. Tojo brings them their respective drinks on a serving tray that desperately wants to look antique and expensive, but, on a closer look, is made of cheap plastic. Whoever lived or lives in this house really revels in cheap fake luxury. He doesn’t ask who it belongs to, though, because he just feels he might not like the answer.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. The Thief doesn't move or flinch, but the way his shoulders tense doesn't escape Tojo.

"Do not answer," she warns him, voice suddenly stripped of the gentle submission.

He nods through gritted teeth, silently praying it's Celestia, texting him she's going to get him out of this hellhole.

"Whatever you say, mom," he finally says. Tojo doesn't seem to find a professional retort and just nods in return, resuming opening the beer bottle and pouring it into a tall glass.

A phone ringing. It’s not his, though: one of those old rotary dials, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside the house.

“That’s for you. Second floor, door to the right from the stairs,” the maid instructs him. Thief just nods and stands up, palms of his hands suddenly cold and sweaty. Tojo’s face softens.

“ They don’t call for you this way if it’s something bad,” she whispers. “I don’t know who you are, but it’s probably just corrective instructions.”

He nods once more and disappears into the house filled with tacky design choices. 

The second floor is dark, so he finds the right room by feel and the ever-growing nauseating ringing of the phone. He flicks the lights on and locks the door behind himself. It’s an office, admittedly furnished a lot better than the rest of the villa: expensive, high quality, mostly wood and dark velvet. The rotary telephone stands proud on the desk.

After giving himself a moment, the Phantom Thief picks up the handset and answers the call.

Saihara’s indefinite stay in Tokyo isn’t turning out to be very fruitful, as he finds himself at a dead end before he even started, waking up the next day after the conference: he doesn’t know the city well enough to even begin mapping out what areas he needs to hang out. In Isesaki he knows (at least in theory) where you can buy illegal stuff, where teens and young adults hang out away from the law’s watchful eyes, knows all schools and universities, how to get into certain parts of town, all the shortcuts… Tokyo is like an entire different universe, dark and messy, suffocating with indifferent crowds, neon lights plastered around like a fake urban fantasyland. People in the megalopolis are also not what he’s used to: they’re not rude per say; uncaring is a good word to describe it. Secretive is another. Intimidating? Incredibly on spot.

“H-have you ever seen this person?”

“What are you, a cop?” a computer club owner doubling as a bartender squints at him.

“Ah, n-no, of course not!” Shuichi stumbles back and raises his hands, phone in hand. He belatedly thinks he should’ve used a burner phone, in case someone breaks or steals it. “A f-friend asked me to f-find this person.”

“You’re good at finding people but not a cop, eh?” club owner chuckles. “Not very believable, but, either way, no, I haven’t seen him.”

Shuichi sighs and swipes Rantaro’s photo. “What about this woman?”

The man snorts.

“Celestia Ludenberg? Really?”

“You k-know her?” the detective gawks.

“Everyone knows her, even if most won’t confess to it,” he shrugs. “She’s Japan’s ultimate gambler, so to speak. She doesn’t come around here, though, so I can’t tell you more than everyone already knows.”

“Uh-huh. And about this person?”

The man frowns and leans on the counter with a dark expression.

“You should get to going, boy. Really. Before you get in trouble,” his eyes flick both ways. “Go to Harajuku, or to Scramble Square. Buy some ice cream. Shoo, go now.”

Saihara steps out and stares at his phone like it’s somehow responsible for him getting essentially kicked out. The club owner seemed comfortable enough saying he knows about Celestia, and, frankly, he wasn't the only one who outright recognized her – but the moment he saw the Phantom Thief’s sketch, he became agitated and nervous. So it’s safe to assume he at least knows about the criminal and - or? - the Thief might be a regular at that specific computer club and that man wanted to protect his customer's identity. He takes a mental note of it.

He carefully passes past a group of riot police officers and slips into a cozy little izakaya hidden away down a side street. In the dark low atmosphere of the mostly empty pub, he has a moment to collect his thoughts and review the evidence he collected from prancing around Tokyo for two days. It’s… inconclusive.

There's a high chance that Amami Rantaro was involved in money laundering and loan schemes: either as one of the unfortunate victims of loan sharks or as an ordinary employee. Either way, it all comes down to illegal activities. If it was possible to reach out to Celestia… if everyone knows her, there's a high chance she knows everyone and could help.

His investigation on the Remnants has to be put on hold: he thinks the assassination (he's sure it's too calculated to just be a mere drunken fight) that took place a few days ago is directly linked to the ongoing rivalry between Idabashi Industries and Towa Group. Hearsay among the former’s employees on their coffee breaks alludes to a PR scandal and inner staff shuffles - no doubt the goal of the contract kill. He doesn’t want to think about how this homicide’s approximate date and time perfectly aligns with Harukawa’s suspicious out-of-town job. She’s not as good at hiding as she thinks she is.

Then there's the Thief…

From his research it seems like the Thief is a tokyoite, a university or a college student, around his age, give or take a couple years. With the kind of money he must be getting for his commissioned burglaries - estimated from the bonseki case - he might be able to get into a very prestigious university, might even be on a scholarship. Most likely a humanities student. Not the quiet wallflower type, that both wouldn’t fit his apparent narcissistic tendencies and would be too suspicious. The closer people look, the less they see.

Finding the Thief, on paper, doesn’t seem like the hardest part: what follows next is. What does he do, once he is face to face with the criminal once more? He could, of course, just convict him. Or he could use his help to find Amami, or even look deeper into the whole Remnants situation.

He maps out some universities and colleges he wants to check out today and gets to the subway. The more theoretical questions can wait until he gets to the criminal.

 

“Have you seen this person?” Shuichi asks for what feels the hundredth time, his heart racing like a greyhound after hanging around the Tokyo University - it seemed like a good place to start, being a huge communication and student life hub. The criminal’s sketch looks to him as if it knows what a vicious influence it has, making him look like a lunatic or a stalker (probably both).

“Isn’t it a school pupil?”

“There’s thousands of students here, dumbass.”

“Methinks he’s from the debate club… no? One of the drama guys, right? Chess club?”

“Eh, no idea.”

“A fourth year. Can’t tell much aside from it.”

“Think I’ve seen him around the campus.”

“What, did he kill someone?”

“Ah, that’s Ouma Kokichi.”

After what seems like hours of getting vague answers and weird stares, Saihara can finally sigh with relief.

“Are you sure? Ouma- How do you write that?” he sits down beside two students in the plaza.

“Yeah, we know him. He leads like, what, four clubs here at Todai?” a petite girl with long brown hair hums. “A few student initiatives, too.”

“I s-see,” the detective nods, as her friend, a heavyset guy with short light hair (almost appearing bald at the first glance) writes the name in his notebook and rips the page out, sliding it to him. He squints.

“Why are you looking for him?”

“A-ah, well…” Shuichi looks away, digging fingers into thighs to calm himself. “W-we met a while back, and, uh… I wanted to r-reconnect?”

“And you don’t know his name?” the guy frowns. “Lie better.”

“You could take a few lying lessons from Kokichi,” the girl snorts. Oh, yeah, the thief could definitely teach the art of deceit , Shuichi thinks a bit bitterly and decides to focus on the name. The last name, in four brash confident strokes - king, ruler, - and ten bold yet intricate - horse or bishop. The first name, short and sweet: small luck, simplest first year kanji. The duality of it, a bit too fitting - might as well be fake. 

“T-thank you so much! I swear it’s not for something, uh, bad?” he tries to feebly excuse himself and scrambles to his feet away from the pair snickering behind his back.

It’s incredible luck he managed to score the criminal’s civil name and place of studying at the first try. 

Instead of elation, he feels dreadfully fretful and querulous. He wraps his arms around himself, as he strides across the plaza to the building entrance. If it wasn’t for the layers of clothing, his fingers would’ve broken the skin from the anxious pressure. There was a line he never dreamt of ever approaching, and now he has crossed it. He has the Phantom Thief’s name and portrait. He might as well just take the cab to the nearest police station now. The thought unveils like a bloodied stigma.

He doesn’t notice a person exiting the door until they crash into each other, sending said person on a ground in an almost comical anime-esque fashion, while Shuichi’s shoulder forcefully meets the nearest wall corner.

“Ah, s-so sorry!” “S-sorry!”, they hastily yelp almost at the same time. Shuichi rushes to help the victim of his inattentiveness. He offers his hand awkwardly. 

“Saihara?” she gasps, soft teal eyes going wide, and stands up by herself, ignoring the offered hand.

“D-do you know me?” it sends all alarms in his head going off.

“Um…” she grabs onto her long skirt, twisting the fabric nervously. “That’s, uhh... Ah, that’s so plainly awkward!”

They stand in uncomfortable silence for a moment: it seems like Shuichi has finally met his match in awkwardness and shyness. The girl makes a weird noise and quickly extends her hand: “I d-didn’t even introduce myself! I’m Shirogane Tsumugi.”

“Saihara Shuichi. A-although you already know that,” he returns the weak handshake. “T-though you didn’t tell me how you know me?”

“Yeah, know…” Shirogane’s gaze is unreadable. “What brings you to Todai?” she still dodges the question.

“I’m... just looking for someone.”

“Huh,” her gently nervous expression falls. “And who might that be?”

He notes her sudden distinct lack of stuttering and hesitation. She’s wary of him, for some reason. There’s an air of hostility, too. 

He really doesn’t want to tell her anything.

“A-after you tell me how you know me?”

She huffs in irritation and seemingly contemplates her answer for a second.

“You’re Iruma-san’s ex-classmate.”

“Oh?” that’s odd: it’s true that him and Iruma Miu studied together at school, and he has heard about Iruma going into the Tokyo University... but why would the blonde, who never really cared for him, tell her university friends about him? Besides, this girl doesn’t seem like someone who’d be close friends with Iruma. It would, however, be incredibly easy for anyone to look up his ex-classmates and use this excuse. “I’m n-not sure you’re being entirely truthful, Shirogane-san.”

“Doesn’t matter. Your turn,” she presses. 

“Alright. I’m looking for O-Ouma Kokichi, he’s some clubs’ head, you m-might know hi-”

“I know,” Shirogane cuts him off. She then sighs, a softer expression coming back onto her face. She might be faker than the Thief or Ludenberg, Shuichi thinks to himself. “Listen, Saihara-san, I- I know why you’re looking for him.”

Shuichi doesn’t say anything, blood running cold. Any words feel like glass shards stuck in his throat, he’s mute and paralyzed.

“I suggest you maybe don’t really want to look for him?” she leans in to him, looking tall and imposing despite their equal heights and almost caring quiet tone of voice. Shirogane is dressed up on the brink of formal and casual wear, black and white without much style and fitted to the figure well enough to still conceal the more definite shapes. Kirigiri-san once commented on Saihara’s own, similar habit of clothing himself - it makes people notice him less. For him it’s a defense mechanism; for Shirogane it’s probably a mask, just like gentle stuttering and the anxious curve of her eyebrows.

“You d-do know you’re trying to derail an investigation on a wanted criminal, r-right?” he sounds much more sure than he really feels.

Shirogane sighs and leans onto the wall.

“I know,” she almost whispers and giggles, the sound empty and sad. “He’s gotten himself into a corner, huh?”

“S-sorry?” Shuichi’s not sure what he’s apologizing for.

Heavy silence reigns. 

“Do you m-maybe want to think it over, before doing anything… all of us would regret?” she stares at the floor and chews on her lips. The not-so subtle threat lingers - unclear on her motives, but a sign enough.

Shuichi wordlessly nods. He’s not exactly in a hurry - and Remnants and the whole Amami situation are much more pressing issues.

“Do you… want to talk it all over with him?”

“Um, i-if it’s possible..?”

Shirogane curses under her breath and tugs on his sleeve to follow her into the university building. The halls and classrooms are more or less empty, except from club auditoriums. On a whole, the university doesn’t look much different from his own - more spacious, if anything.

They stop in front of a closed door, Shirogane's hand slightly trembling above the door handle. She takes a sharp breath and turns to him.

"Saihara-kun, he's our peer. He is an almost model student, he runs several university clubs. He has friends who love him dearly," she sighs shakily in her last attempt to dissuade him. "You didn't turn in, uh, your contract killer friend , didn’t you? Could you just... do the same here?"

"I'll..." he swallows. She even knows about Harukawa. What else might she know about? "I'll s-see what I can do."

It's not that the thought of the Thief being just a person, same as him and his friends, never crossed his mind - the opposite, actually. Sympathy is almost a constant variable in his investigation at this point. But, then again, every criminal is. John Dillinger had a wife that he actually tried to settle down with. Ted Bundy was a law student, like Shuichi himself. Sada Abe wished to break away from her humiliating work and loved music. The people who carried out the 300 million yen robbery went back to their families and pets after the heist.

"I know he's compromised himself completely, I don't blame you... And he really shouldn't have let himself be into you the way he is." Shirogane brings her eyebrows together in a pained expression, lips trembling. "Let's go in then. We're already late."

Before Shuichi can ask what she means by "being into him", she swings the door open and her demeanour changes completely, a vacant smile reaching her eyes and posture lax and lively.

"Sorry I'm late!" she sing-songs breathily. "It's been a while since I've used my "one guest" privilege, soo I brought someone to s-spice up today's discussion!"

"About time, Shirogane-chan," none other than the Phantom Thief cheekily giggles in tow, sitting laidback at the head of the long table with legs in obnoxious black and purple boots propped up. His expression falls blank as his eyes shift to the "guest". Others in the room, about 25 or 30 people (Shuichi recognises the two students who gave him Oma’s name among them), glance at the arrived pair and back at the uncharacteristically quiet Thief.

Shirogane elbows Saihara, and he hastily bows.

"G-good evening! I'm Saihara Shuichi!"

He freezes for a bit in his bowed position, his introduction being met with deafening silence, until he hears a soft snicker.

"Welcome to my nefarious secret evil organisation, that we call the Tokyo University Debating Society for conspiracy, Saihara-chan!" he looks up and is met with the Thief's blindingly bright wide grin and unreadable gaze. "You should be honoured we have you here! I'm Ouma Kokichi, the Supreme Leader of these jolly goons! Some also call me the club president! Have your seats, lads!"

Secret evil organisation, goons, supreme leader… Oh god, he wasn’t lying in the letters and texts - just clowning around. The previously seemingly one-sided communication they had now feels reciprocated.

Shuichi forces a smile, although it's not quite fully disingenuous - he is glad the Thief is just playing along. Shirogane beams encouragingly and plops down on the closest chair, tugging her "guest" down.

Since they arrived last, the only available seats are near the entrance, the direct opposite of the "club president". Which Shuichi only realises as he tears his eyes away from the table and looks forward, only to be met with the Thief's eyes staring right into his own. Oh, no. Why did Shirogane decide they need to talk in such a setting?!

"Soo, Saihara-chan. Since you're our guest, care to tell us about yourself?" Ouma actually sits down in his chair properly and leans onto the table, smiling deviously.

"U-uh, I..." not only is the Thief seemingly making him uncomfortable and anxious on purpose, the whole thing with introducing himself to new people is the most nerve-wracking thing for Saihara. He positively hates it. It's like he instantly forgets who he is, what he does on a daily basis, how to form sentences and make coherent noises. "I'm a c-crime law major?"

"Uh-huh," Ouma nods, encouraging him. "You're not from our university, are you? It's okay, we have a lot of members from different ones!"

"Y-yeah. I'm not from Tokyo, I'm here f-for, uh..." 

"Tourism, huh?" Kokichi confidently leads the conversation himself. "That's so cool! Maybe I'll visit your hometown with a reciprocal visit! " he winks at the poor detective, who looks like he's on the verge of tears from the stressfulness of a situation, where all eyes are on him, and a wanted criminal is sitting just across the table.

Shuichi just nods, completely overwhelmed. He hears Shirogane whisper to him encouragingly.

"S-sorry, I'm, I'm not good at debates?... Just, uh..."

"No, no, you're perfect," Ouma replies too quickly for his brain to catch up and too gently for his club members to not snicker at it, and only Shirogane's warning gaze snaps him back. "I mean, everyone is perfect at it once they get out of their shell! That- that brings me to the topic for today - paid killing! You're a law student, so that's double perfect for today's discussion!"

Paid killing? Saihara and Shirogane both wince at it.

"Per usual, we'll start with a warm-up discussion. Form groups, the questions are on the board, you got fifteen minutes. Quin-chan, Shirogane-chan, you group with Saihara-chan to explain how things work."

Huh, so he addresses literally everyone with "-chan". Somehow, it disappoints Shuichi. 

Quin-chan, a short girl with two twintails, nods and stands up with her chair to sit next to Saihara and Shirogane.

"Hi! Soo, basically, right now we discuss the general questions relating to the topic, like definitions and stuff, and then, when the actual debate question is posed, the real fun begins! It's usually some sort of a very controversial and divisive statement or situation, and we argue our points. That's it I guess! The only rule is don't be shy, and... I don't know, don't fight physically?"

"T-that happens?" 

"Well, one time a politics major and a history major got really heated during the debate on Pearl harbor, so..." she giggles. "It's okay, Kokichi doesn't tolerate too much discord, he resolves all conflicts really well. So, wanna start with the questions or-"

Saihara's mouth twitches a bit at the first name basis, which doesn't go unnoticed by Shirogane, who watches him like a hawk.

"What do you think of him?" he asks hastily, stealing sneaky glances at the thief-turned-club president. "S-sorry for interrupting."

"Ah, no problem-o! What do I think of Kokichi..." Quin hums thoughtfully. "He's a really cool guy and amazing club president. A textbook definition of a natural-born leader. He's competitive and passionate about stuff he does, and he really cares about his club members," she smirks, "And also I've never seen him shut up for more than a couple seconds to breathe in and talk more, so your entrance was quite impactful."

"I-is that so?" Shuichi scratches his neck bashfully. It's nice that the Thief is at least a bit as shaken up at this situation as the detective himself is. 1:1, so to speak. 

As the general discussion went on, Shuichi felt himself relax and get into it, if only a bit. Despite how unnerving the almost constant intense stare of the Thief is, Shuichi actually manages to muster up enough confidence and give some insight on legal definitions and specifics, even if that's just academic knowledge and not his opinion.

But, after the actual topic was introduced - is there a substantial and moral difference between soldiers, executioners and hitmen - the atmosphere in the debate classroom heated up, until even meek anxious Saihara couldn't stay away. A number of stances and points quickly devolved into two opposing sides, until at the end Shuichi and Ouma were the only ones verbally dueling each other, leaving other students gawking at them sparring with arguments and rebuttals for almost an hour straight.

"C’mon, Saihara-chan, the difference ends at wars and capital punishment being socially sanctioned, while hitmen are not. There is no moral difference if both morals allow killing people. The legal system sanctions them as well. So, the felony murder rule...”

"I think it’s a case to case issue, and, on the contrary - there is the presence of precedents. It's a moral issue at its core, but if you wish to talk about the systematic approach - take the example of the International Criminal Court's trial from..." 

"I don't believe I've ever seen Kokichi that involved in a debate," Quin sighs amusedly. A tall girl with platinum blonde bob, seated next to her, nods enthusiastically. "It was a good idea to bring this guy, Shirogane-san! He's a great opponent."

"Yeah, a good idea," Tsumugi mumbles, leaning her head on the table. It physically pains her seeing the overwhelming affection in Ouma's eyes glued to the fucking Saihara. And here she thought she’d just micromanage the whole situation. Saihara was supposed to be pathetic and annoying, and Kokichi was supposed to feel unsafe and antagonistic. But she's done the worst thing ever by bringing the detective here - of course he'd somehow turn out to be a great debater and an interesting and smart person, just reaffirming Ouma's dumb dangerous crush! What is this, an enemies to lovers fanfiction?

"Time's out!" another club member with a stopwatch in hands, who had the time to fish out a red clown wig out of the many weird props in the room, shouts over the two debaters.

"Already?" Shuichi huffs disappointedly - Ouma has just started his objection! - and instantly grows red. He didn't come here to fuck around debating!

"Aw, just can't get enough of me, Saihara-chan?" Kokichi giggles and extends a hand towards him. "It was a really good debate. Not that I had expected less from you. Wanna swing by for another club meeting some time?"

"I'd love to," Shuichi replies quietly, returning the handshake. He's not lying or just being polite - it really was amazing, as weird as it sounds. Just arguing their opinions, as equals, as normal people, with no bad feelings or intentions, passionate to defend their point of view, but still respectfully listening to the opponent. And Ouma is a brilliant opponent - intelligent, witty, knowledgeable. Can read him really well, is interesting and dramatic in the best way possible, all beaming smiles and stars in his eyes as if they weren't arguing a pretty morbid topic. And his smaller hand is so, so warm, as he lovingly squeezes it in his. 

"Ne-heehee, well! Sorry we kinda stole the show here, what can I say? We made up quite the duo!" the club president poses theatrically, as Shuichi makes his way back to weirdly apprehensive Shirogane, a silly grin plastered on his face, still riding the high of the debate.

"It's okay, you don't debate that often, boss, it was engaging!"

"Well, it's not like I need to," Ouma checks out his nails. "I'm graduating this year, time to give way for young talent, dontcha think? Someone's gotta take my place when I'm off to cause havoc outside of the university!"

And in this moment Saihara's heart sinks. He's supposed to graduate this year. Supposed to, but might not be able to, if Saihara turns him in to the police. But if he doesn't - would that be the right thing to do? Ouma still has a vast criminal record, and is involved with a terrorist organisation. He could potentially hurt so many people.

"I hate this so much," he whimpers as he slumps down on the table, blocking out the wrapping up discussion.

"Yeah, same- wait, what?" Tsumugi looks at him in confusion. "A-are you okay?"

"T-tell him I got a stomach ache or s-something," he blurts out and storms outside the classroom.

"What? S-Saihara-san!" Shirogane doesn't manage to stop him. This whole situation hasn’t gone according to her spur of the moment scenario. First they stare into each other's eyes oh so lovingly like lovestruck idiots the entire debate, and now this. She worriedly turns from the door that closed behind the detective back to her friend. Ouma stares at the door wide-eyed, ignoring a taller student ruffling his hair, and looks thoroughly heartbroken. 

 

Saihara dry heaves, clutching the sink in the nearest empty restroom. The sound of the door opening startles him, and he flinches, as if he’s been burned.

“Oh, you’re still here,” the Thief says tiredly and shuts the door behind him. They stand close to each other, just like a few minutes ago when they shook their hands. “Listen, I…” he manages his temples as if he had a migraine. “If you’re going to arrest me or whatever, get at it sooner, I barely slept today.”

“I’m n-not going to,” Shuichi answers before his brain even has the possibility to process things.

“Huh.”

They just stand silently, dumbly. Shuichi sighs and decides it’s now or never.

“Well, now that we’re alone, I w-wanted to tell you something!”

The criminal snickers, and the bluenette grows beet red, realizing how it sounds. Still, he continues.

“I n-never got to thank you for your help, so… Thank you. I could never solve that case without your hints. You’re really u-useful,” he clutches the cap in his hands. The Thief watches him like a hawk. “I- I’m not sure why you did that, b-but, if by any chance you’d love to work together… I’d really love to. I t-think our goals might not be so different in the long run. A-and I think I can be really useful to you, too?”

He patiently waits for the answer, setting the hat aside on the sink. Ouma’s face is perfectly expressionless, but the harsh restroom lighting betrays the barely visible anxious crease of his eyebrows, the exhausted dark circles under his eyes, the patch of… some texture on his left cheek. Absentmindedly, Shuichi reaches to wipe at it.

Kokichi winces, but doesn’t flinch away. The velvety texture of some makeup cover-up product unveils a dark bruise under it, blooming with reds and blues, seemingly recent. Shuichi holds the other’s face a bit too long, and has to physically shake himself up and step back, letting his arm drop lifelessly.

“S-sorry, I don’t know what came over me!...” he sputters. “I-is that… Uh, did you get hurt?”

The purplenette tugs his lips into a forced smile and shakes his head drowsily. 

 

Time drips slow like honey. He has to lean onto the door for support, exhaustion and stress weighing on him.

The detective’s water white honey eyes stare at him, but they aren’t cautious or stern or angry - oh, no, they’re gentle and hopeful.

Saihara has proven that he is prone to letting his personal sympathies get in the way of his immediate judgement - evident from the fact he hasn't at the very least dropped miss assassin and the way he had stared at the Thief, disquieted but fond , during the press conference; the friendly and sugar sweet way he looked at him as they debated; and now he’s looking at him softly all the same. The poor little Saihara's virtue of compassion and understanding is bound to become his ultimate downfall. And when he does fall, the criminal doesn't want to be dragged down along with him – doesn’t want his plans to be dragged out. Not after what he was told earlier this morning.

No, he needs to get back the passionately smart and quietly angry bloodhound of a detective, who would dig into every nook and cranny and rip it all apart to claw his way to the truth. That, useful and trustworthy Saihara, managed to find an independent artist to do his police sketches, didn't back away from meeting up with a whistleblower behind the police's back and clearly connected the Thief to the Remnants. Losing all that vigor and progress for this friendly bullshit is just sad. So the Thief will have to get mean .

The purplenette puts on his best, widest smile, and takes a step forward to the detective, chest puffed out, and pats him on the shoulder.

"Although I joy in thee,” he stares at the confused but vacant smile on the detective’s lips and it stings like poison, “I have no joy in this contract tonight.” 

“Ah, s-sorry, I don’t think I unde-“

“I liked you better when you were chasing after me as a vehement law enforcer,” he drops the smile, the demeanor change an effective theatrical tool. “Now you’re following me around like a lost puppy. You want to work with me? I threw you a bone out of pity and impatience, and now you want a steak. Sorry, I'm neither a quirky video game vigilante nor one of your idiot murderer friends, you and your insecurities can cling onto, emo boy." 

Too mean? Yeah, definitely.

 

Shuichi watches the criminal flash him a triumphant smile and slip out of the restroom, and then looks at the closed door until he feels his eyes burn. Be it stress or genuine hurt, he wouldn’t know. An offer to work together and expression of gratitude certainly don't warrant such a bitter and hateful response… It wasn't exactly wrong, though. Shuichi is so insecure it debilitates his life, and he creates a safety net of codependent relationships to fall back onto. He has let his ego find solace in the alluring criminal's amorphous changing interest, and now said ego is shattered into the smallest pieces, digging into his fingertips with poisonous splinters. Maybe it's not even his ego that is wounded - maybe he did feel a sort of grotesque, distorted and malformed feeling of comradeship and closeness with the criminal.

Maybe he even wanted to be friends with him - to feel the way he felt during their debate once, twice, dozens of times more.

But he ran away, like the Phantom Thief that he is.

He wants to call Akamatsu and ask her advice, as he always does, but what advice can she possibly give? She's a great friend, always positive and sweet, but doesn't understand this situation, could never even begin to. Kaito and his uncle are worse advice-givers even on better days. He's never felt so alone and lost.

He all but drags himself to the hotel room and finds refuge in his bed with a blanket over his head, trying to keep away the walls closing in on him. It’s a light and comfortable room, he has to give credit to Kirigiri for booking it for him, it’s as pleasant as anyone would wish. But to him it’s suffocating. Grey walls and hygge furniture, all elements too much reminding of his own room. Plain corporate colours and interior design are repellent, and the sight of case files and other evidence is revolting. It’s even worse now, in the evening, the room painted in smouldering unclean yellow by fading sunlight.

It’ll never be as cozy and inviting as the classroom he and Ou- the criminal debated in.

Kirigiri-san calls one, two, three times. Friends and uncle write him a few texts.

Shuichi lets it all buzz somewhere away from him, dropping the phone on the floor and wrapping himself in the blanket.

He can’t breathe and there’s a sickly tight feeling in his throat and stomach.

It’s a foreign feeling, but feels like a rejection.

Notes:

Brunello Cucinelli - an Italian luxury fashion brand
Kataseyama and Shōnan-Enoshima are stations on the Shonan Monorail Enoshima Line
Hatoyama Ichiro - the 53rd Prime Minister of Japan
Tojo Hideki - the 40th Prime Minister of Japan, Kirumi's namesake
Izakaya - a type of Japanese bars
Todai - another name for the Tokyo University
John Dillinger - an American gangster,who committed a string of high-profile heists during the Great Depression
Ted Buddy - an American serial killer
Sada Abe - a Japanese geisha and sex worker who murdered her lover and castrated him
The 300 million yen robbery - the largest heist in Japanese history; still remains unsolved
Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight - a quote from Romeo and Juliet Act II. in the original context, it’s Juliet taking a step back to rethink how fast and obstacle-filled her and Romeo’s romance is

The topic of the debate is inspired by an article I’ve recently read, The Phenomenology of Paid Killing by Laurie Calhoun (it’s accessible on reasearchgate. highly recommend!), and might or might not be related to future events in the story ;)
~~~~
well that,, happened.
did i seriously pull an uno reverse on their neo world conversation? yeah. but ykno what? shuichi lowkey deserves it for how he acted in canon smh (and how deep in the closet he is in this fix so far. “feels like a rejection” my ass. it WAS a rejection)
so uh. also. kirumi supremacy.