A Snowy Night in the Mountain Forest.
"Shinichi... are you absolutely sure we won't run into those men in black at Mr. Itakura's villa?" Professor Agasa asked, his voice trembling slightly as the car left the outskirts of Tokyo. The further they drove into the wilderness, the more his anxiety mounted.
"Don't worry, Professor. Based on Itakura's diary, the Organization isn't the type to keep him under constant surveillance," Conan replied from the passenger seat. He was wearing his headphones, intently listening to a news broadcast.
Itakura's obsessive-compulsive disorder was severe; if he felt watched, he might have snapped or done something unpredictable. Right now, the real question was how long it would take for the Organization to catch wind of Itakura's death.
"Anything on the news?" Agasa asked, his knuckles white against the steering wheel.
Next time something like this happens, don't drag an old man like me into it, the Professor thought. Let you young people toss yourselves around...
"Nothing yet. It looks like the incident at the Haido City Hotel hasn't leaked to the press. The headlines are still focused on those jewel thieves," Conan said, sinking back into thought.
The sentence from the diary continued to echo in his mind, hauntingly cryptic: "We can be both of God and the devil. Since we're trying to raise the dead against the stream of time..."
Elsewhere.
Tsuneo pulled his motorcycle out from its hiding spot in the dense brush. In situations like this, the bike's agility and low profile were far superior to a car.
"How many targets are we looking at tonight?" the "Repairman" asked, adjusting his voice-modulating mask as he spoke into his earpiece.
"Twenty-six. I've already mapped out the most efficient route," Hiroki's voice chirped in his ear. The AI was going to be incredibly busy tonight.
"Since you've already verified their identities, I won't waste time talking to them," Tsuneo said. He kicked the engine to life and sped toward a small apartment complex in Beika's 3rd Ward.
Target: Yoshihiro Oba. Male, 22 years old, unemployed. He had joined a local gang after high school and was noted for his physical prowess. However, he had mysteriously vanished from the gang a few months ago, scrubbing his trail.
The young man sat in front of his computer, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at the handgun and combat knife resting on his desk. To him, the money was secondary; the allure of becoming a professional hitman for a global syndicate was far more intoxicating.
He had left his small-time gang for a much bigger fish—a powerful, international criminal organization. They even provided professional "instructors" for training. And while he claimed not to care about the money, the "benefits" were excellent; he could afford high-end restaurant delivery every single day.
Knock, knock, knock!
Hearing the door, Yoshihiro Oba logged off the internet and stood up. "Delivery's early today," he muttered.
He unlocked the door and turned back toward the shoe rack, pulling two large bills from his wallet.
"Here you go—"
As he turned back around, his hand froze in mid-air. He stared in bewilderment at the figure standing in his doorway—a man dressed entirely in black, face obscured.
What the hell is this? Where's my sushi?!
"Thank you for your patronage," the man in black said in a cold, metallic voice. He reached out naturally, took the two bills from Yoshihiro's stunned hand, and tucked them into his own pocket.
"I—!"
Yoshihiro's eyes went wide. Was a lunatic really trying to rob an aspiring professional assassin in his own home?
"Have you decided on your codename yet?"
In the dim light of the entryway, a powerful hand clad in a leather glove clamped over his mouth and nose. Bang! With a single, fluid motion, the back of Yoshihiro's head was slammed against the wall.
The question had been asked, but based on the bone-crushing force of the grip, the intruder clearly had no intention of waiting for an answer.
"Which department should we notify to clean this up?" Hiroki's voice asked once the target was unconscious and his limbs had been systematically disabled.
"Let's go with Public Security. Send the address to Amuro Tooru," Tsuneo replied. Before leaving, he made sure to close the door firmly.
Public Security had their ways of getting inside. Compared to them, the FBI's movements were far more restricted by red tape.
"Understood. Though, Gin is going to start suspecting moles again at this rate," Hiroki said with a digital chuckle as he sent the message via a virtual number.
The Black Organization had a massive hierarchy, but for every loyal soldier, there seemed to be at least one traitor or undercover agent.
"Wait, I forgot one thing!" Hiroki exclaimed suddenly.
Tsuneo pulled the motorcycle to the curb. "What could an AI possibly forget?"
"I forgot to tell you that there were originally twenty-seven targets," Hiroki explained.
"And you removed one?" Tsuneo guessed.
"Yes. Like Amuro Tooru, he's a mole from Public Security. He went through a lot of trouble to become a low-level intelligence gatherer for the Organization. When I was planning the route, I just filtered him out."
As expected—another undercover agent. If Tsuneo had taken out everyone else and left only that one low-level grunt standing, it would have been a death sentence for the mole's cover.
"Leave him be. Let Tooru-kun deal with that headache," Tsuneo said, accelerating toward the next target.
With Noah's Ark on his side, it didn't matter if there were more or fewer moles. He'd just break the legs of the real criminals, dump them on Amuro's lap, and maybe squeeze a little "consultation fee" out of the situation later...
A dark night with a high wind—perfect for working overtime.
A certain blonde, dark-skinned waiter was currently working a part-time shift at a bar. Perhaps he was trying to refine his mixology skills?
Ding!
A notification chimed. Amuro Tooru flashed a charming smile at the two ladies sitting at the bar before turning away to check his phone. The two women were clearly a bit tipsy, and the way they were looking at him was anything but innocent.
[Beika-cho, 3rd Ward...]
The message was signed: Dark Knight.
"What does this mean?"
Amuro continued to wipe down the glass rack with one hand while his brain rapidly memorized the contents of the message before deleting it. The "Workaholic Emperor" felt his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour.
The message was clearly from the "Dark Knight." There were no details, just a single address. Was this an invitation to meet?
Fifteen minutes later.
Amuro took off on the small electric scooter parked behind the bar, making sure to keep his helmet on.
"This is the place..."
The scooter came to a halt in front of a mundane, two-story apartment building.
Ding!
Another message. It was a second address, with the same signature.
Amuro scanned his surroundings cautiously. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he produced a thin wire and picked the lock of the door labeled "Oba."
The moment the door cracked open, a muffled whimper echoed from the entryway.
"This is...?"
Startled, Amuro pulled his cap lower and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.
The young man on the floor looked to be in his early twenties. Judging by his twisted posture, his limbs had suffered severe trauma—likely multiple fractures. His jaw had also been dislocated, leaving him unable to make anything more than a pathetic, guttural groan.
The apartment was empty otherwise.
Amuro did a quick sweep. Handguns, ammunition, sharpened daggers, even a bulletproof vest and various pieces of tactical gear were stashed in the closet.
Who does this guy belong to? Amuro wondered. An agent? A terrorist?
"Hey, it's me." Amuro dialed a secure line. "Send a transport vehicle."
He paused, looking at the second message he had just received, and added: "Actually, make it a modified cargo van. A big one."
After hanging up, the blonde waiter knelt down and looked at the broken young man. A small, cold smile touched his lips.
"So... who exactly are you?"
(To be continued)
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