[~1900 Words]
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Wall Street—short in length but towering in influence—stands as the pulsing heart of global finance, where the planet's sharpest minds converge.
A single gesture from these titans can summon storms or scatter fortunes across the world. That's the raw power embedded in its very pavement.
Deep inside one of those gleaming financial firms, a blond middle-aged executive huddled in a sealed conference room, his pulse racing like a cornered animal.
Word had reached him hours earlier: a notorious assassin was en route, gunning specifically for his scalp. The killer's moniker? Fallen Angel.
This shadow had only surfaced in the underworld a handful of days ago, yet the body count already included heavyweight tycoons and a string of congressmen—men shielded by layers of federal security.
None of that had mattered; Fallen Angel slipped through every net and left corpses in his wake.
Desperate, the executive barricaded himself behind reinforced doors, flanked by a phalanx of armed bodyguards patrolling the corridors, fingers itching on triggers.
Minutes stretched into an agonizing hour. No breach, no gunfire, no sign of the phantom.
The blond man's shoulders sagged in tentative relief. 'Maybe the rumors exaggerated this ghost after all.'
That fleeting calm shattered in an instant. A swarm of inky silhouettes materialized from the vents like living smoke—Black Shadow Corps, silent and inexorable. A coarse rope looped around the executive's throat before he could gasp.
His fingers clawed uselessly at the noose as it tightened, crushing windpipe and resistance in one merciless pull. Eyes bulging, he slumped lifeless to the carpet.
The shadows vanished as swiftly as they'd arrived, erasing every trace: no footage, no whispers of their passage. Clean. Professional.
Mere days prior, Fujiwara Takuya—operating under the Fallen Angel alias—had orchestrated a brazen assault on the Pentagon itself.
America's military reeled from the fallout: tens of thousands of soldiers lost, civilians maimed in the crossfire, infrastructure in ruins. Discovery now would paint an even larger target on his back.
By afternoon, television networks buzzed with the breaking story: Prominent Financier Found Strangled in Secure Office—Assassination Suspected.
In a dimly lit bar across town, Vermouth nursed a martini, her lips curving into a sly, satisfied smile as the anchor detailed the kill.
My little protégé doesn't disappoint.
Takuya's streak was flawless—impossible hits executed under the tightest scrutiny, zero failures.
Recruiting him into the Organization? That would catapult her influence skyward.
Gin occupied a nearby booth, Vodka looming at his side like a faithful bulldog. The silver-haired enforcer flicked ash from his cigarette, voice low and clipped.
"Vermouth. That gentleman issued orders. Track down this Fallen Angel. Bring him into our fold—whatever it takes."
She tilted her glass in mock salute, eyes gleaming with hidden amusement.
"Consider it handled, Gin. Tricky as it might seem to outsiders... I've got this." After all, he's already mine. Persuading my lover to sign on? Child's play.
Calvados flashed through her mind—her current lapdog subordinate, all eager fawning and zero spine. Useless. She craved the thrill of being the devotee, kneeling only to Takuya's command.
Rising fluidly, she tossed a wink over her shoulder. "I'll start the hunt. Don't wait up."
Vodka gaped as she sauntered out, the door swinging shut behind her. "Big bro, did she just... agree? Without a single barb? That's not the Vermouth I know!"
Gin exhaled smoke, brow furrowed in rare confusion. Something was going on, but Gin decided not to pry. If Vermouth would handle it, then fewer headaches for him.
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Back at the hotel suite, Takuya lounged on the plush sofa, remote in one hand, the other idly tracing patterns along Eri Kisaki's waist.
She nestled deeper into his embrace, head against his chest, utterly pliant as his fingers wandered—skimming curves, cupping her softness through fabric.
No protest, only a soft hum of contentment even when he boldly palmed her breast.
"Husband," she murmured, voice laced with lazy affection, "when do you head home?"
"Once the airports reopen," he replied, lips brushing her temple.
Returning to Japan wasn't feasible yet—not with the nationwide lockdown triggered by his Pentagon spectacle.
Flights grounded, borders sealed, investigations raging. Perfect excuse to linger.
Days blurred into a decadent rhythm: stolen afternoons with Eri, sultry evenings tangled in Vermouth's sheets, midnight rendezvous with Yukiko that left them both breathless and brazen.
He'd corrupted the elegant Actress Yukiko utterly—parks after dark, grimy public restrooms, derelict warehouses, even inches from her snoring husband's side.
Yukiko had evolved from hesitant adulteress to insatiable vixen, initiating as often as he did, craving the danger.
Takuya savored every illicit second.
The Metropolitan Police had granted him indefinite leave amid the chaos—half a month, extended until the blockade lifted. Why rush his paradise?
The suite door clicked open with a sharp snap.
Eri bolted upright, smoothing her blouse as she scooted to the sofa's far end.
Takuya straightened, adopting a casual slouch. Just two friends watching TV. Nothing more.
Ran stepped in, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyeing them with mild suspicion. "Mom, TVagain?"
Eri pulled her daughter close, tone shifting to maternal concern—formal, lawyerly precision edging her words.
"And why not? There's little else to do safely. Stay indoors, Ran. No wandering—the streets are a warzone. The moment flights resume, you're on the first plane back with your uncle."
She wasn't exaggerating. Gunfire echoed nightly in this so-called land of the free; now, full-scale conflict had erupted, missiles raining on the Pentagon. Terrifying.
Takuya's expression twitched at the "uncle" label. *Uncle?* It grated on his nerves—especially with the fantasies he'd entertained about Ran herself.
"Don't worry, Mom," Ran assured, though her voice wavered. The shootout she'd witnessed still haunted her dreams. "I will stick close to the hotel. Promise."
"Good. Remain here with me... and your uncle." Eri's gaze flicked briefly to Takuya, a flicker of heat quickly masked.
Ran crossed her arms, tone souring with teenage jealousy. "You two have been glued to that screen lately. Is the programming *that* captivating?"
Eri's cheeks warmed at the memory flood: Takuya's hands everywhere, bodies entwined across every surface—the bedroom's silk sheets, living room rug, sun-drenched balcony, steamy shower, even the kitchen counter mid-meal.
"Company beats solitude, especially now. Outside's a nightmare."
Ran sighed, gaze drifting to the window. "When will the airports reopen? School starts soon—I need to get back to Dad. Half a month away, and I'm terrified he'll starve without me." Kogoro's domestic skills were nonexistent; without her, he'd die on instant ramen and beer.
Her eyes narrowed, replaying scenes: Mom and "Uncle" Takuya sharing meals, laughter, lingering touches disguised as platonic.
Restrained, yes—but the air crackled.
What if Eri fell for him? Takuya was a catch: devastatingly handsome, wealthy, skilled in the kitchen, tender yet commanding. If Shinichi weren't her heart's anchor, even she might waver.
No. She refused a stepfather. Separation was key—she had to pry them apart before sparks ignited.
Eri echoed the sentiment inwardly.
Ran's presence risked everything: the affair, the pregnancy already stirring morning nausea (thankfully absent during daughter's visits).
A few more weeks, and the bump would betray her. Explanations? Impossible.
The TV anchor's voice cut through: [Live Update: Authorities have apprehended key insurgents behind the Pentagon breach and related unrest. Airports resume operations in three days.]
Relief washed over Eri like cool water. Three days. Send Ran home, then nurture her unborn child in peace.
Ran beamed. Finally—Mom and Takuya can be split before disaster.
"Rebels, huh?" Eri mused aloud, formal cadence returning. "Explains the audacity. Power grabs in broad daylight."
Takuya smirked inwardly. Rebels? Please. Scapegoats for America's embarrassment—political pawns sacrificed to save face.
Their families might walk free; the "insurgents" wouldn't. Irrelevant to him.
His days overflowed with bliss: Eri's devotion, Yukiko's surrender, Vermouth's fire. Two stunning conquests in one trip? Jackpot.
His phone buzzed. Vermouth: Winery invitation. Come alone.
Joining? For her sake—and the Organization's other temptresses? Absolutely.
Convenience for her pregnancy, deeper entanglement.
Identity concealed, risks minimal for him.
No heroic delusions of toppling the syndicate for Conan or justice. Pleasure first so that he can improve his strength.
"Eri, Ran-san," he said, pocketing the device with feigned nonchalance. "Business calls. Some investments need oversight. I will be Back soon."
Eri's eyes softened—wifely warmth. "Hurry home."
Ran caught it: that adoring gaze, like bidding farewell to a spouse. Damn it, Dad—you slacker. Takuya's everything you're not.
Guilt gnawed, but resolve hardened. Investigate. Sabotage if needed.
As the door closed, Ran turned, voice tentative. "Mom... Officer Fujiwara seems awfully attentive. Guard your heart Mom. You're worlds apart—It's impossible match."
Eri blinked, expression neutral.
"Nothing like that, darling. Don't think too much. Takuya has never confessed his feelings to me. We are just ordinary friends. "
A teasing lilt crept in. "Unless you'd object to me pursuing him? Loneliness does creep in from time to time..."
Ran's hands shot up in surrender. "My bad! Forget I said. Please."
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Once outside, Takuya changed his appearance entirely—prosthetic modifications, hat, sunglasses, mask. No one could link him to Inspector Fujiwara.
The bar was near-empty under afternoon sun. He beelined for the private booth Vermouth reserved, shoving the door wide.
Gin and Vodka snapped to attention, hands drifting toward holsters.
Takuya ignored them, addressing Vermouth with cool detachment. "Vermouth, these are your people? I'll say this upfront—I don't need to know anything about your organization. I complete missions, I get paid. That's it."
Vodka bristled, muttering under his breath. "Cocky bastard. Thinks he's hotter than big bro?"
Gin remained ice-calm, appraising the legend.
Fallen Angel's resume spoke volumes—A man who didn't seek organizational secrets was less likely to betray them. The Organization swam in funds; one killer's fee was pocket change.
"Very well," Gin said. "From today, you will work with us. One mission per month. In return, the organization provides intelligence, resources, and payment."
Easier than expected. Takuya's true aim?
Vermouth's bed, her submission, perhaps sampling the syndicate's other sirens.
He wasn't here to help Conan, save the world, or take down the organization.
He was here for the women.
Particularly the deadly, beautiful ones.
"One op per month—gratis. Post-mission, I do my thing."
"Accepted. Codename?"
Takuya paused, recalling a velvet Bordeaux. "Latour."
Gin nodded. "Welcome aboard, Latour."
Vermouth's smile sharpened, predatory delight gleaming.
My ace in the hole. A child with him? Her call—or so she believed. Oblivious to his infallible talent: lovers in his orbit always conceived, sooner or later.
And Takuya? The Organization lured him, but the he was here for beauties waiting within.
The Organization had just gained a new member.
And a new chaos was about to begin.
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