Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They don’t meet the first time their paths get intertwined.

And neither of them will realize it was the other that sealed their faith.

When Akemi was small, her parents told her stories of a trapped princess who was saved by a brave hero. In those tales, there was always a moment when the darkness pressed close, when the princess nearly lost hope before salvation finally arrived.

That night, the darkness pressed close.

The men in black came again, just as they had so many times since her parents found a new investor for their project. Their voices filled the front room, starting low and venomous before rising, sharp as glass ground underfoot. Akemi sat frozen on the threadbare carpet, the hum of the air-conditioner swallowing her ears in static. Shiho huddled in the corner beside her, arms wrapped tight around her stuffed rabbit, squeezing it until Akemi thought the seams might split and its head pop free.

The air was suffocating. The machine pushed steady gusts of cool air from the window, but it only sharpened herawareness of the sweat tickling down the back of her knees, the damp cling of her shirt, the itch of fabric at the nape of her neck. The sour smell of overheated plastic from the AC mixed with the cigarette smoke of the men in black, turningthe air thick and hard to breathe.

Suddenly, the front door slammed into the hall tree behind it, rattling the stained-glass windows on either side. Moments later, her mother crouched before them, her hands trembling on their shoulders, forcing a smile that quivered and broke at the edges.  

“Quickly– get your bags. We need to leave.”

Shiho hugged her rabbit tighter, its worn ear pressed against her lips, muffling her voice. “Why?”

Their mother’s eyes flickered towards the doorway, where their father lingered, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the glass. He stood motionless, peering into the enveloping darkness beyond, lost in thought.

Gently, she ran her fingers through Shiho’s copper tresses. “Because…” she began, her voice soft and filled with a sense of wonder. “Because we’re going on an adventure.”

Stop lying! Akemi wanted to shout. But the words lodged like splinters in her throat. Instead, she whispered, “I’m scared.”

“It’ll be fine,” their father replied from behind their mother, but his voice was taut with tension.

Shiho’s clammy fingers slipped desperately into Akemi’s. Akemi squeezed back, harder than she meant to. Their palms squeaked against each other, impossibly loud in the silence that followed their parents’ hurried footsteps.

Outside, the night was smothering. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, a droning chorus swallowed by the screech of tires on gravel. The headlights cut twin tunnels through the dark, and soon the house was nothing but a shrinking shadow behind them.

The car’s air-conditioning roared, cold air blasting from the vents, yet the weight of heat and fear lingered stubbornly. Shadows smeared across the windows, moonlight breaking into restless blurs as the car tore down the road. Shiho’s hand found hers again in the back seat—less sweaty now, but still clinging as if letting go would mean being lost forever.

Akemi turned toward the glass, watching the night rush past. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and pale, framed by the fleeting smear of streetlights. Somewhere deep inside, she knew her father’s words were hollow. Still, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass, shut her eyes, and forced herself to believe the lie.

They would escape.

No one could hurt them.

But then night split open.

A blinding white flash ripped the world apart, followed by the scream of shattering glass. Metal shrieked, folding in on itself like paper crushed in a fist.

And then—pain. Hot, crushing, everywhere. It tore through Akemi’s body, hammering her against the seat, pinning the air in her chest.

When she opened her eyes again, everything was red. Smoke painted the sky, fire stained her vision. Her ears rang so violently that her own breath seemed miles away, as though she were drowning beneath invisible waves.

Pain lanced up her spine, every nerve sparking with fire. But adrenaline—cold, wild, merciless—drove her forward. She clawed at the seatbelt, fingers slippery with blood and sweat. The latch refused her, slick metal grating against her nails. Her heart thundered, battering her ribs like it was trying to break free.

Beside her, Shiho whimpered in shallow, broken hitches. Her breath caught and rattled, wet and desperate. Smoke leaked through the edges of the window where fractured glass still clung to its frame, black ribbons curling inward. The heat thickened, baking the air, searing Akemi’s lungs until every gasp burned.

She turned, frantic, searching—

Her mother glowed in the firelight, pale skin catching the flames. Beautiful. Terrible. Still. Her head was bent at an angle that was all wrong, her body slack against the seat.

“Oka-san!” Akemi’s voice caught, a silent scream scraping her throat raw.

Her gaze snapped to the front. Her father’s silhouette was still. Hands slack on the wheel. His chest was unmoving.

“Oto-san! Please, do something!” She tried to yell, but her mouth filled only with smoke, and her body was too heavy to respond.

“Get the children!” a voice barked from somewhere beyond the flames.

“The boss didn’t say anything about letting the kids live,” another snarled.  

“I said, get the kids.”

The rear window burst, glass exploding across Akemi’s hands in glittering knives. A burning cough ripped from her throat as shadows loomed closer. Rough hands unfastened her belt, dragging her out into the open. On the other side, another man hauled Shiho free. Her stuffed rabbit slipped from her grip, tumoring into the fire until it blackened into nothing.

Through blurred vision, Akemi saw her: a tall, blond woman framed by the blaze. For a heartbeat…one wild, desperate heartbeat… Akemi thought she was an angel, a savior from her parents’ bedtime stories. Her rescuer.

She tried to beg for help. To tell her their parents were still inside, that they needed saving. But when the woman’s cold eyes narrowed, the hope curdled. Something inside Akemi twisted, icy and sharp. This woman wasn’t here to save them. She was here for something else.

“Children are a curse,” muttered the man carrying Akemi, his grip bruising her ribs. She kicked, fought, but he only tightened his hold. “I don’t understand why we had to save them.”

“They can be killed anytime, Pisco,” the woman replied flatly. “But they can also be… useful.”

Shiho reached desperately toward Akemi, sobbing now uncontrollably. The man holding her clamped a hand over her mouth to silence her cries, but he pressed too hard. The little girl’s face turned blotchy, her eyes shiny with tears, gasping for breath that didn’t come.

She’s choking!

Akemi’s throat ripped with a scream that never came. Her body convulsed in panic, thrashing helplessly in the stranger’s iron grip. She could do nothing but watch as her sister’s body sagged limp in the man’s arms.

And then— Akemi was thrown into the back of a car, and Shiho was thrust back into her arms. Alive. Barely. Her breathing came in shallow gasps. Akemi buried her face in her chest, trembling, but her hands shook so violently.

The heat moved away, but her skin stung from blisters and smoke had scoured her throat, each breath splintering her chest. Behind her, the wreck of the car was a torch, her parents’ bodies swallowed whole by fire, faceless and forgotten.

They left them behind. They left them!

An ambulance. Someone had to call an ambulance. Someone. Anyone.

But her voice refused her, strangled by ash. Her cries dissolved into silence. And deep inside, she knew it was already too late. Her parents were gone. The world around her froze—heat and fire crashing into a numb, arctic stillness.

She told herself it was a nightmare. And when she woke up in the morning, they’d be back in her home, Shiho sleeping in her cot next to her bed, and her parents would wait for them in the kitchen, eating breakfast.

She told herself a hero would come. He had to come. He would take them away from these people. He’d save her parents. Everything would be okay again.

She told herself the stories had to be true. Somewhere, someone was meant to save them.

Yusaku Kudou cradled his son in the crook of his arm, surrounded by a menagerie of stuffed animals. Yukiko had packed them into every available space, creating a rolling landscape of faux fur, paws, and tails. Shinichi preferred detective stories and puzzles to toys. Still, he never argued with his wife’s efforts to keep a touch of childhood around him, refusing to let their precocious child grow up too fast.

That night, Yusaku’s voice carried the final lines of The Adventure of the Speckled Band. The lamplight flickered gold across the pages, across Shinichi’s face. The boy’s eyes, glassy with fever, struggled to stay open. He was determined not to miss a word. Only when his lashes fluttered down to pale cheeks, breath rattling in shallow intervals, did Yusaku close the book with a quiet sigh.

The boy’s cold had lingered far too long. His chest wheezed, each breath uneven, snagging on the silence between them. Yusaku brushed a damp strand of hair from his son’s forehead. Too hot. The air in the room was thin despite the air conditioning; the hum of the machine did little to chase the weight pressing against his chest. He hesitated at the doorway, listening to the rise and fall of his son’s breaths, before stepping out into the hall.

The telephone’s shrill ring split the stillness.

Minutes later, he was standing on a deserted stretch of road, moonlight caught in the sheen of shattered glass. The air stank of gasoline, of smoke, and scorched metal. The twisted wreck still hissed and groaned, heat radiating so fiercely that paint had peeled away in grotesque streaks, curling like skin. The sight of the Miyanos—Atsushi and Elena, two young scientists—reduced to charred silhouettes inside their car would haunt him for years.

A uniformed officer from the local precinct adjusted his cap, glancing at the wreckage. “Looks like a deer strike,” he said flatly. “Happens often in these parts. The animal probably bolted into the woods after the impact.”

Yusaku’s eyes narrowed. A deer. Perhaps convenient, perhaps true. But the fire had consumed so much of the evidence, leaving only warped steel and smeared shadows of impact. It was difficult to tell what, if anything, the car had collided with.

“And the children?” he asked. The neighbors swore the couple had left home with their daughters, Akemi and Shiho, only hours before. But at the scene were no children. No small bodies. Akemi was six years old, Shiho nearly two. It wouldn’t be impossible for them to crawl out of the wreckage.

The officer looked from the car to the nearby woods. “If the girls made it out, they couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Children that young don’t simply vanish,” Yusaku murmured, more to himself than to the officer.

“Sir?” The officer was staring at him, brows knit.

Yusaku stared at the photo in his hand of bright-eyed, smiling pictures of the girls, and something tightened in his chest. He thought of Shinichi, safe at home sleeping, surrounded by a sea of stuffed animals.

He straightened slowly, eyes narrowing at the burning wreckage. “Send a search team through the woods,” he said, while vowing to himself, ‘I will find them. I will bring them back.’

Yusaku threw himself into the investigation with a hunger he hadn’t felt in years. Tire marks, half-heard witness accounts, joining search teams—anything to trace the Miyano girls. The deeper he dug, the more questions rose. 

Then one morning his phone rang.

Yukiko’s voice was thin and trembling when he picked up. “You need to come back. Shinichi—he’s had a relapse. He’s in the hospital. They don’t know if—”

The world tilted. The case files, the missing girls, the accident—all of it blurred into white noise. There was only one thought in his mind now: his son.

He didn’t remember leaving. He didn’t recall the drive back to Tokyo, only the white glare of the hospital, the beeping of machines, and his wife’s tear-streaked face as she threw herself into his arms.

“What detective am I—what father am I,” he whispered, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, while sitting in one of the plastic chairs next to Shinichi’s hospital bed. “If I leave my child when he is sick?”

Yukiko clutched his sleeve, her voice breaking. “You can’t blame yourself for everything.”

He shook his head. Who else is there to blame but me?

He had known Shinichi’s cold was worse than it seemed. He had heard the uneven breaths. And still, he had gone chasing another case.

A father second. A detective first.

When had he changed the order of things? Being a father should be his first job. Anything else should be second.

Days later, when Shinichi finally opened his eyes and everything seemed okay again, Yusaku thought of the two girls with the bright smiles. But by then, it was already too late.

The case had been closed. A woman and a man in black had stepped forward, claiming to be distant relatives. They told the police the girls were with them that night.

A photograph was slid across the captain’s desk—Akemi and Shiho, alive, seated stiffly on a couch. Their smiles were wrong. Their eyes were hollow. Yusaku reached for the picture, but the captain’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder, shutting the file.

“Let it go. They’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

“No,” Yusaku said, wrinkling the photo in his hand. “Alive isn’t the same as safe.”

“You’re wasting your time, detective. They’re with family. These kids are orphans now. Let them heal with the family they have left. Let it go.”

He should. That would be the smart thing.

But he didn’t.

Still, every lead dissolved like smoke between his fingers. Names disappeared, witnesses recanted, and addresses led to dead ends. It was as if the Miyano girls had never existed.

At night, sleep betrayed him. His dreams were filled with empty car seats, with small hands slipping from his grasp. He dreamed of crows. A dozen of them. Circling in the air, before they descended on the girls, tearing into them. Pecking. Ripping. Flesh torn from bone while he stood frozen.  

And their eyes—Their eyes locked on him as the crows feasted.

‘You chose him,’ they whispered. ‘You ran to your son and left us behind.’

He woke drenched in sweat, throat raw from a scream he never released. The sound of their cries clung to the air long after his heart stopped racing. 

Without remembering the steps that carried him there, Yusaku found himself standing over Shinichi’s crib. The boy’s chubby fists flexed and uncurled in his sleep.

Yusako had made the right choice. He had to believe that.

He was a father first, a detective second.

He couldn’t stay when his child needed him. He couldn’t.

And yet—there was no comfort in the truth. Because in choosing his son, he had let two little girls vanish into the darkness.

‘I am truly the worst.’

Two weeks later, Akemi Miyano decided fairytales were nothing but cruel promises. They dangled hope like candy, whispering of rescues, miracles, and heroes who always arrived just in time.

Lies, every one of them.

Her parents hadn’t been saved. No one had come when the fire swallowed their car. No one had stopped the men in black from tearing her and Shiho away.

So she stopped them for good. She didn’t tell them to her sister anymore. Shiho asked why, eyes wide and wet, still clinging to fragments of the bedtime tales their mother once told. Akemi only shook her head.

“No more princesses,” she brushes soot-tangled hair from her sister’s face. “No heroes. We can’t wait for someone who’ll never come.”

Shiho cried, clutching the hem of her sister’s shirt, but Akemi held her tight. She forced her own tears down, burying them deep. From then on, she would be Shiho’s shield, her anchor, her everything. There was no knight, no savior.

Only them.

Far away, in a world that still felt safe and ordinary, Yusaku Kudo sat alone in his study. His typewriter clacked, each key striking like the tick of a clock. Shadows stretched across the room, lengthened by a lamp burning far past midnight.

His manuscript was finished. The words blurred together, hollow victories for fictional detectives who always solved the case, who always saved the innocent. He stared at the dedication page, fingers hesitating over the keys.

Finally, he typed the only words that mattered:

To the two girls with the bright smiles—

I’m sorry.

He leaned back, rubbing tired eyes, but the guilt didn’t ease. The pages mocked him. They were filled with detectives who always found the missing, who served justice on a silver platter. That was the seductive lie that kept him typing into the night—the fantasy that one person could matter, that he could stitch the world's wounds.

But in reality, he hadn’t saved anyone. Two little girls were still out there—alive, maybe, but not safe. And the silence of his failure followed him into every dream.

Chapter Text

3 years later

Shiho remembered nothing of the night her parents died. For her, the world began in the aftermath—inside the quiet, dusty house of the elderly couple who took them in. They were kind in the way one is kind to a stray cat: They would set food out, put folded blankets at the foot of their beds, and rarely spoke to them. Affection was absent, but so was cruelty.

The couple did not frighten Shiho. If anything, they seemed more afraid of her and Akemi. Only when the sisters quarreled or broke something were they punished, shut away in the cellar where water dripped steadily from stone, each drop echoing like a metronome into the dark. Other times, they were locked in their room, left to sit in the quiet.

Akemi did not mind their behavior. She appreciated it even. Both sides ignored one another, no one paid the other any mind.

But Shiho….Shiho minded. Maybe it was the need for approval from an adult. Perhaps it was something else….

She wanted to be seen.

To be acknowledged.

And that drive led her to notebooks, numbers, and crude experiments bubbling in jars hidden under the bed. Sometimes she curled on her pillow, pencil in hand, peeking at Akemi watching her before forcing her gaze back to her notes. Each glance was like a stumble in her chest, a strange little trip of her heart.

She wanted to be praised.

One evening, Shiho pulled off her socks and knelt on the clean, short carpet between their beds. By now, she knew the periodic table by heart. She scratched at a calculation, lips moving as she worked. If you add magnesium—

“Don’t let them see.”

Akemi’s voice sliced through her thoughts. In a heartbeat, she had snatched the pages from Shiho’s hands, stuffing them under her mattress with trembling fingers. “If they notice, they’ll tell. And if they tell…” Her voice caught; her eyes shone with fear.

“But it works!” Shiho pointed to one of her jars. “Chalk and vinegar—see? It bubbles because gas escapes. If I could justtrap it—”

“No.” Akemi’s gaze was fierce with desperation. “Promise me, Shiho. You have to burn everything.”

But why?

The question screamed in her head, tangled with others: Why can’t you understand? Why won’t you let me try? Why can’t you let me be proud?

Shiho hated that voice. But she couldn’t silence it. The one who screamed at her to rebel. To not follow her sister’s demands and instead prove to everyone what she could do. But….she loved Akemi. She was her sister. The only one left in her world.

“Look Shiho–“ She could feel her sister reach out, but Shiho ignored her and crawled onto her bed.

Cognitive dissonance, they called it. The mental friction of holding two conflicting truths. Big words she had read in one of those old books that somehow always ended up in their room’s bookshelves.

She loved Akemi, but she hated her demand to keep everything they were doing secret.

Shiho woke to sunlight streaming over her bed. She was still in her clothes from the previous day, but under the blankets now. Akemi must have put it around her at some point. The bed opposite hers was empty, sheets mussed, pillow dented.On the nightstand beside Shiho, a crumpled ball of paper waited. She smoothed it out—and her breath caught.

Her equations.

But not as she left them. Akemi’s careful handwriting threaded through the margins, correcting mistakes, expanding on half-formed ideas. Notes in the very places Shiho had been stuck.

A bitter taste rose in her mouth, quickly followed by shame.

Stupid. Ridiculous. Childish.

Akemi sees me, Shiho thought. It should be enough.

But the small rebellious voice inside her whispered, it wasn't. 

Every year, Pisco came, a man always dressed in black with white hair and eyes like polished ice. Akemi’s hand would always clamp around Shiho’s, knuckles bone-white, whispering rehearsed lies into her ear: Don’t say the truth. Tell him you play with dolls. Tell him you want to be a princess.

Shiho loathed dolls. She despised their vacant glass eyes and placid smiles. She hated how they seemed to mock her. But she obeyed. Always. She would sit perfectly still in the too-large chair and watch Pisco’s mouth tighten into a thin, bloodless line of disappointment as she recited the lies. His gaze slid over her like she was nothing. She looked away, her cheeks burning.

Stupid, she thought, stupid.

But the crushing weight of his indifference was always followed by the suffocating relief of her sister.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Akemi would slump, her entire body trembling as she exhaled the breath she’d been holding for an hour. She would pull Shiho into a fierce, desperate hug, her voice muffled against her hair.

"You were perfect," she'd whisper. "He said we were disappointments! He said our parents would be ashamed!"

Those words stabbed deeper than his indifference. Being told that their parents would be ashamed? It was agony. And still, Akemi called it victory.

Shiho swallowed her frustration year after year, until it was too much.

“A princess,” Pisco sneered that year. “A frivolous ambition for a daughter of scientists. Pity.”

The door clicked shut. Akemi exhaled a shaky breath, the tension leaving her shoulders, but Shiho remained frozen, nails carving crescents into her palms. Behind her eyelids, her parent’s face materialized. She saw her mother’s disapproving frown, her father’s disgust. In the theater of her mind, they turned their back to her, shaking their heads with disappointment, as if to say, ‘No daughter of mine. ’

Her nails dug deeper into her palm.

Pisco had seen the empty shell Akemi had constructed, and he had accepted it as the entire truth. As if she were truly nothing more than a child, an irrational little girl. Unworthy of her parents’ memory.

She couldn’t live in the lie anymore.

Shiho wrenched her hand from Akemi’s grasp, yanked the door open, and darted out into the misty evening after the retreating figure.

“Wait!”

Pisco stopped but did not fully turn, a dark silhouette against the bleeding crimson sky.

“I’ve been… watching seeds,” Shiho panted, stumbling outside. “Some grow tall, some wither. The same seed, but—if the light changes, or the water, or what I mix into the soil—it becomes different.” Her small hands clenched into fists at her sides. “It’s like something inside them chooses what to become. A switch. Maybe… maybe we can flick it!”

Pisco turned slowly. The usual mask of disgust was gone, carved away, replaced by hunger.

“Continue.”

Shiho’s heart hammering louder and louder against her ribs, but she lifted her chin anyway. “I’ve been testing it. But I need more substances—proper reagents, not kitchen vinegar. And a microscope. I need to see the genes to analyze them. Maybe… I can learn to rewrite them. I’ve read about it.” She faltered slightly under his stare, her throat starting to itch as if she had swallowed sandpaper. “I…I don’t know for sure.”

The man’s lips curved faintly. His eyes moved over her face; Shiho tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, feeling like a bug pinned to a board, or like he was peeling her open, trying to figure out all the pieces that suddenly appeared.

“It seems that at least one of you inherited your parents’ genes.”

Shiho chewed her cheek, not sure what to say to the sudden bloom of pride inside her chest. Finally! But then she noticed he wasn’t talking to her, and instead focused on a point behind her.

Akemi stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the frame for support. All the color had drained from her face. Her eyes were wide, glassy with horror and betrayal.

“What have you done?” Akemi’s voice was hoarse and shaky. It’s a sound Shiho has never heard before.  Shiho’s head felt suddenly light-headed, blood rushing too quickly in her vessels, while a wave of regret burned in her stomach like acid.

The knock came before dawn, and it echoed down the hallway. Akemi’s hand shot out in the dark, her fingers tightening around Shiho’s wrist.

When the door creaked open, a blond woman stood waiting in the hall. Her smile was serene, almost maternal, yet utterly wrong in this place. Behind her loomed Pisco and another younger man, both wrapped in black that seemed to drink in the meager light.

The old couple bowed to the woman, so low their backs looked ready to snap.

Shiho felt Akemi trembling beside her. Her sister’s fist twisted in Shiho’s shirt, pulling until the seams strained. Akemi had always feared Pisco. But now, her eyes weren’t on him. They burned the woman. Not fear. Hatred. Raw and searing, like fire lodged in her throat.

“How fragile your little wards are,” the blond woman stepped closer to them. The couple flinched as though struck. The old woman stammered, “We’ve done everything, madam. Everything. Just as you wished.”

The blond woman smiled, though her eyes were cold. “And yet, the younger one plays with seeds.”

Both blanched. The old man dropped to his knees, fingers clawing at the shiny red heels of the woman. “We didn’t know! Please, we didn’t know!”

The blond woman leaned down, brushing her fingers along his thinning hair in mock tenderness. “I know. It must have been hard looking after two such peculiar children. Especially when your own son’s life is on the line. Trying to escape the Organization….after begging so badly to be let in? He really is a unique boy, your son. I think it’s time we reunite you again.” She straightened again, moving towards the two little girls on the staircase. “But first we have to focus on something else.”

Akemi shoved Shiho behind her, body a fragile shield. “Yesterday she told a story,” Akemi snapped, her voice trembling. “She makes things up all the time. That’s all it was.”

The woman’s painted smile didn’t waver. “So were your parents, once. Dreamers. And yet… so very useful.”

Cold hands seized Shiho’s shoulders, wrenching her backward. She yelped, twisting desperately, clawing at Akemi’s grip. Fabric tore with a sickening rip, her sleeve splitting under Akemi’s frantic hold.

“Akemi!”

Her sister’s face was pale as chalk, eyes blazing with terror Shiho had never seen before. She reached, fingers straining, but the men dragged Shiho farther and farther, until her hands only clawed empty air.

Pisco’s gloved palm smothered Shiho’s cries, muffling her terror into shallow gasps. For a flicker of a moment, she saw herself reflected in Akemi’s eyes—not the girl she was, but the toddler she had once been, choking as flames devoured their parents.

“Don’t!” Akemi shrieked. “Shiho, it’s going to be okay! We’re going to be okay!”

The door slammed shut, swallowing the promise whole.

Shiho’s chest heaved, her heart like a bird breaking itself against the cage of her ribs.

This wasn’t what she wanted. Not like this.

The blond woman crouched before her, the same gentle smile painted on her cherry-red lips.

“Come now, little one,” she cooed. “You heard your sister. It’s all going to be okay. We will....help you make your parents proud.”

But Shiho could feel only the torn threads of Akemi’s sleeve clinging to her hand before her arms were yanked roughly, her small body slammed into the back of a sleek black car. The leather seats bit into her skin as she struggled, kicking, twisting. The windows were tinted; the world outside dim and distant. Her chest heaved as she pounded on the glass of the closed door.

Suddenly, the door of the house flew open again, and light spilled onto the driveway. Akemi’s hands clutched at the car, nails scraping metal, her voice desperate.

“Shiho! No! Stop!”

“Lock her in a room!” the blond woman snapped over her shoulder, and the second younger man dragged Akemi away. “And take care of the… other business.” She nodded to the old couple that stood in the entrance of the house. Then she reclined in the passenger seat, legs crossed, and produced a silver cigarette case and lit one of the cigarettes while Pisco got into the driver's seat, turning on the engine.

“Calm yourself,” she said to Shiho, while smoke curled into the car’s interior, thick and acrid, leaving a bitter-sweet sting. 

Shiho’s wanted to scream, but then two sharp bangs shattered the tension. She froze, her muscles going rigid. 

She recognised it right away. Knew it from nights long ago, when the old man had pressed a gun into her hands, Akemi’s knuckles white around hers. He had never taught them anything else, never cared to look their way—until that day. Until he’d moved from silence to instruction, correcting their stances, telling them to shoot. Neither of them ever asked why. Maybe they’d been too afraid of the answer. Maybe he had thought it would keep them safe. 

Now, with the echo of those lessons rattling in her skull, the car seemed to shrink around her. The past and present blurred—the phantom weight of the gun in her palm, the sharp tang of smoke filling her chest and fear filled her lungs, lacing around her heart, making it race. 

Gunshots.

Akemi!

The blond woman exhaled slowly, while Pisco turned on the radio. Voices filled the interior, weather reports, traffic advisories. He twisted the dial until piano melody unfurled. 

“Don’t worry, little mouse,” the woman laughed at Shiho's chalk-white face. “That wasn’t for your sister.”

Shiho wanted to believe her words. She needed to believe them. But her pulse refused to slow, hammering like a second heartbeat. 

The woman tilted her head, streetlights carved gold into her eyes, making them glint like cat-eyes. “Though I can’t promise it won’t be… if you don’t cooperate.”

“Wait, Vermouth” Pisco rumbled from the driver’s seat. “Didn’t you say the boss wanted both kids alive?”

The woman –Vermouth– gave Pisco a quelling look, emphasized by her eyes glowing in a dangerous, hawkish kind of way.“I didn’t ask you for your opinion.”

His hand tightened on the wheel.

The car speed on, swallowing city lights and darkness alike. Vermouth leaned back, cigarette glowing, watching Shiho with the precision of a predator studying prey, while the piano in the background climbed key by key. 

Pisco brought her to a building whose doors were thicker than any she had seen—reinforced slabs of steel that could outlast a siege. The air inside was colder, drier, as if the building itself breathed differently. Gray concrete stretched in every direction—walls, ceilings, floors—an unbroken shell that pressed down on her lungs. Walking those halls felt less like entering a lab and more like being lowered into a crypt.

She was led to a room where a tall man waited. He had a freckled face, a reddish beard that grew unevenly across his jaw, and hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. He didn’t look mean, but he didn’t look nice either.

“Galliano*,” Pisco said, his tone flat. “A scientist. He worked with your parents once, long ago. He continues their project now. Though…” A trace of disdain slipped into his voice. “Not very successfully.”

Galliano ignored the jab. His gaze settled on Shiho, pinning her like a specimen under glass. “This is a waste of time, Pisco. She doesn’t belong here.”

Pisco’s jaw tightened. “Orders are orders. She stays.”

“Orders.” Galliano spat the word like it was poison. “Do you even understand what this place requires?

“Not my concern. You just make her useful.”

Galliano turned on them, his freckled face darkened with anger. “Useful? If she touches the wrong vial, if she misreads a single figure, everything could go to waste. Section C isn’t a playground! And I don’t have the luxury of babysitting.”

Pisco stepped closer, his voice lowering until it felt like the weight of stone. “Then don’t babysit. Train her. Or break her. I don’t care which. She isn’t leaving.”

The air in the room thickened. Galliano’s gaze slid back to Shiho, as though testing how little it would take to splinter her. He said nothing for a long while, until at last he laughed humorlessly. “Fine. Leave her here. But when she fails—and she will—it won’t be my fault. It’ll be on you.”

“I look forward to it,” Pisco smirked faintly and turned toward the door. It was then that something snapped in her, as if she’d been in a trance throughout the time she’d been separated from Akemi to now, not realizing that nearly a whole day had passed.

Shiho darted forward, grabbing his sleeve. “Akemi! Where is my sister?”

He yanked his coat free with a sharp twist, and sneered at her. “She’s useless. Best you forget about her.”

“I want to see her!” Just once. Just to know they weren’t lying. That she was safe.

“Yeah? Too bad your sister doesn’t feel the same way.”

Her breath stuttered. 

“You’re lying!” She wanted to sound certain, but the words came out more like a question.

“Am I? Last time I visited, she looked pretty shaken by your little revelation. By your little betrayal." The scene when Shiho had decided to go against Akemi’s demands and reveal her experiments flashed in her mind. The memory burned—the betrayal in Akemi’s eyes. 

But....

Hadn’t Akemi chased after her? Tried to shield her?

She had. Hadn't she?  

She wouldn't do that if she didn't want to see Shiho. Wouldn't she? 

But the gunshots....

What happened after she was taken away? 

Maybe it was bad enough....maybe....maybe it was enough to abandon her little sister. 

Shiho's shoulders folded inward.

Perhaps...Akemi really doesn't want to see me....?

“Maybe she’ll change her mind,” Pisco said, brushing smooth the sleeve her desperate fingers had wrinkled, while turning around towards the exit. “If she’s still around when I see her again.”

The steel door slammed shut with finality, shrinking the room into a cage of gray.

Shiho pressed her fists to her chest. Her pulse raced, her throat burned, her stomach twisted. Her eyes itched from trying not to blink, but she refused to give in. Especially when Galliano’s eyes locked on hers, stripping her bare. Anger, blame, disapproval, it shone through his eyes. 

“If you’re here, girl,” he growled, annoyance leaking into his words “you’d better keep up. I won’t hold your hand. I won’t explain things twice. You see it, you understand it, you apply it.” His knuckles cracked against the bench, the clang echoing like a warning bell. “You don’t touch a thing without my say-so. You don’t breathe a word of what you see. And if you slow me down…” His eyes narrowed, dangerous. “You won’t be in Section C anymore. Clear?”

Shiho nodded, her throat feeling tighter and tighter, as if a chain had been spun around it. 

“Good.” Galliano pulled a folder from the bench and let it fall in front of her. The pages fluttered like dying wings. “Start with this. Yesterday’s notes. Find where the data collapses. Ten minutes. If you can’t…” His voice dipped lower, final. “…then you’re already useless.”

Her heart hammered as she spread the papers. Numbers blurred—until she caught a spike. “Here,” she whispered. “The activation flares, but only for a fraction of a second. Then it resets.”

Galliano leaned over, exasperation etched into his shoulders. But when his eyes fell on the page, his expression changed. “Why?”

Shiho’s mind went blank. “…I don’t know.”

His mouth tightened. “Figures. For a second, I thought you might be something special. Like your parents. But you are not.”

Shiho turned her face away so he wouldn’t see how deeply the words landed.

Why, why, why?

Why again?

After everything. Everything that was sacrificed….In the end, it had all been for nothing. She was still a disappointment. To Akemi, to her parents. To everyone. 

But she would prove him wrong.

She needed to do better.

That night, Shiho laid awake in her narrow cot next to the entrance of the lab, the fluorescent hum of the overhead lights still in her ears. Section C never slept, machines whirred, data streamed, and Galliano prowled the halls restlessly. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to summon a memory of Akemi’s smiling face. But all she could think of was the gunshots she heard when they took her from the house.

The next morning, Galliano acted as though the previous day’s exchange had never happened. He barked instructions, demanded results, never offering a crumb of encouragement. But every so often, Shiho caught him watching her in a measuring way. As if she were a peculiar butterfly pinned to a display case.

She pushed harder. Faster. She stopped sleeping, skipped meals, chased patterns until her vision blurred, and she accidentally mixed the wrong substances.

The vial hissed, releasing a sharp chemical odor. Shiho staggered back, her knees nearly giving out. Alarms shrieked overhead, red lights flooding the gray lab with a warning glow.

No!

Galliano swore, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her toward the emergency station. He shoved a respirator mask over her face, forcing the straps tight until they bit into her scalp. Cold liquid splashed over her hands as he scrubbed them with decontamination fluid. His movements were rough, anger wrapped around a thread of urgency.

“Idiot! Do you even realize what you just mixed? You could have burned your lungs out of your chest.”

Shiho couldn’t answer. Her chest heaved, vision blurring at the edges.

When the alarms finally died, the lab was silent again, save for Shiho’s ragged breathing. Galliano stared down at her, his freckled face drawn tight. “You push yourself past the point of use. And when you break, you take my work with you! The work of your parents!"

The words knifed deeper than the fumes. Shiho lowered her gaze, shoulders shaking. She wanted to vanish into the floor.

"I knew this would happen...I knew it. Children in a lab. What are they thinking! This is madness." Galliano muttered to himself, letting out a long, hard breath. Then he straightened, his eyes darting back to her. “If you do that again, Section C will be your grave.”

That night, her body ached, her lungs still raw, but she returned to the notes. Her hand trembled as she wrote. But she was determined.

If brilliance required suffering, then she would endure it. She needed to, for Akemi. To maybe find someday the opportunity to see her sister again. To prove to her parents she was like them. 

Even if the cost was everything.

Years slipped by in the windowless monotony of Section C. Days and nights blurred into the hum of machines and the sour tang of chemicals.

Shiho grew taller, her frame leaner, her face sharper. Her eyes steadied into something cold and exact. She no longer flinched when Galliano barked instructions. Often, she was already moving, finishing calculations before he voiced them.

Her notebooks were filled with meticulous annotations. Even Galliano began referring back to them. He never admitted it aloud, of course, but she had become his right hand.  

Akemi would have been proud, Shiho told herself. She clung to that thought as if it could keep her alive. But pride soured quickly. Ever since the night she’d been dragged into Section C, she hadn't seen or heard from her sister again.

You said everything would be okay. Liar.

Why did you lie?

I hate you.

I miss you.

Please, Akemi, see me again.

Sometimes, the dark around her hissed that Akemi was dead, that they had lied, that she was already gone. That one of those gunshots ended her sister's life all those years ago.

In those moments, breathing turned impossible.

So Shiho outlawed the thought.

She told herself instead that Akemi simply didn’t want to see her. Believed what they all told her. And fiercely clung to the hope that one day, her sister would forgive her. That she would be proud of Shiho.

She worked harder. Ignored the clock that had long since crawled past midnight. Machines hummed like insects in the walls, but Shiho’s pen scratched louder than any of them.

Galliano leaned against the bench, rubbing his temples. His reddish beard had gone gray in streaks, and the lines around his eyes had deepened. He watched her over the rim of his glasses as she worked.

“You see it faster than I do now,” he muttered. It was not praise exactly, but close enough that Shiho froze. She looked up, heart racing. 

Galliano’s gaze drifted past her, somewhere far away. His voice softened with memory. “Your parents… would have been impressed.”

A small, fragile smile tugged at Shiho’s lips before she could stop it. It was the closest thing to approval she had ever heard him give. And it gave her hope. Hope to have finally stepped closer to her goals. 

Then Galliano sighed, his voice turning heavy. His eyes sharpened again, cutting into hers.

“Impressed, yes. But proud?” He shook his head. “No. Not proud.” He gestured at her—at her ink-stained hands, her hollow eyes, the dark smudges beneath them. “Look at you. A child working herself into ash. Chained to the same cage your parents tried to break free from.” His voice roughened. “They would curse me for letting you near this.”

Her smile collapsed, and the pen trembled in her grip. She wanted to argue, but the words stuck.

Galliano turned away, his jaw tight, as though he regretted saying anything at all. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we push the sequence further. There’s a conference across the street. If we finish in time… maybe I’ll let you see it. Remind you the world exists outside these walls.”

Shiho stared at his back, shame and yearning tearing her apart. She should have felt comfort. Instead, her mind whispered: I need to work harder. 

But the next morning, when Shiho entered the lab, two men in black were waiting. She didn’t recognize either, but Galliano’s jaw tightened upon seeing them.

One of them lifted a gloved hand and gestured toward Galliano. “Your presence is required.”

Galliano’s freckled face hardened, but he gave no protest. He stripped off his gloves, tossed them on the bench, and shot Shiho a warning glance.

‘Stay quiet. Stay small.’ His eyes read.

Then he followed the men out of the lab.

Shiho stood frozen, the air in Section C suddenly heavier. Her hands hovered over the notes she had been about to open.

She wanted to move, to work, but her chest wouldn’t loosen.

Minutes dragged. The hum of machinery grew unbearable in the silence. When Galliano finally returned, his eyes were dark, his shoulders tight with a tension she had never seen before.

“They’re accelerating the schedule,” he muttered, not looking at her, shaking his head. “Too soon. Far too soon.”

Shiho hesitated, her voice filled with uncertainty. “…What does that mean?”

Galliano finally looked at her. The sharpness in his gaze was gone, replaced by sadness.

“It means, kid, you’d better pack your bags. Congratulations—hell’s finally come to burn what’s left of us.” For a long moment, Galliano stared at the pages scattered across the bench, at the numbers he had looked so thrilled at before. 

“Across the street, they’re holding a conference. Your parents used to dream of presenting there.” His gaze flicked back to hers, almost pleading. “Go before they come back. Step outside. Remind yourself that the world still exists. Because after today…” He broke off, rubbing at his temple, voice raw. “…once they take you, there’s no leaving.”

She wanted to scream that there was never a leaving to begin with, that this was important. Important if she wanted to see her sister again. To feel like her parents would be proud of her. But the forlorn look in the elder man’s eyes made her bite her lip instead. 

Shinichi was twelve the first time he was allowed to accompany his father to a forensic conference.

The air in the auditorium felt heavy with the weight of authority—rows of men and women in pressed suits, police uniforms, and academic jackets gathered in low murmurs that buzzed like static under the hum of the projectors. The smell of coffee, ink, and faint disinfectant clung to everything.

He could feel the ripple his presence caused as soon as he stepped inside. Eyes flicked to him, then darted away. They were uneasy. A child trespassing in a world built for adults.

But no one said a word. No one dared. Not when Yusaku Kudou’s hand rested firmly on his son’s shoulder, guiding him through the crowd. Yusaku was a man the entire room respected, sometimes even feared. One of the most brilliant crime novelists alive, and an even better detective consultant. He solved cases with precision and speed. And he was never wrong.

Shinichi admired his father—he did. Yusaku was the best father anyone could ask for. But what drew Shinichi to him wasn't who Yusaku was but what he brought with him. Cases. Mysteries. Puzzles. He lived for that. For solving the impossible. The world could look impossible, chaotic, but then, with logic and patience, it all made sense. Sometimes he’d even steal police reports and try to solve cases faster than Yusaku. Though he didn’t manage that quite yet.

His father’s hand gripped his shoulder tighter, curling into the back of his shirt as he did at crime scenes. The gentle tug kept Shinichi moving as groups of detectives passed by, suppressing the urge to step aside. Instead, they separated, glancing at Yusaku as they went.

“Yusaku!” A voice boomed from the other side of the hallway. Recognition flickered across his father’s face as a gray-haired man approached.

“Koto-san,” Yusaku greeted the approaching man. “I see retirement still doesn’t suit you.”

“What else is there to do? Gardening?” The old detective chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His gaze lingered on Yusaku a moment before softening toward Shinichi. “And you must be Shinichi. Look at you! Last time I saw you, you were barely up to your father’s knee.”

“He’s grown,” Yusaku said, quiet pride in his tone. “Shinichi, this is Detective Koto Yoshihara. He worked the Missing Persons division for thirty-five years. We’ve worked together on a few cases.”

“Your father’s insight was invaluable on several of our more… complex cases,” Koto-san said, though his eyes dimmed, the warmth ebbing into something more solemn. “I saw you in the Cold Case database last week.”

Shinichi frowned. Cold Case? He knew every case his father had touched—didn’t he?

“I go through them occasionally,” Yusaku admitted evenly.

“You’ve requested that file every year for a decade. Are you still searching, Yusaku? After all this time?”

Shinichi’s frown deepened, his chest tightening.

What file? What search?

What were they talking about?

Yusaku was silent for a long moment. Then he crouched, bringing his face level with his son’s.

“Why don’t you look around for a bit? I know you’ve been itching to explore.”

Shinichi wanted to argue, wanted to demand to stay, to learn more about this case they were talking about. But he recognized his father's tone. He wouldn't bulge as long as Shinichi was wishing earshot. Reluctantly, Shinichi nodded and slipped toward the main auditorium, fully aware that his father's eyes were on him the whole time, until he was out of sight. 

Inside, the presentation was already underway. A senior investigator stood beside blown-up photographs of a body, diagrams marked in red ink.

“…as the blood spatter indicates, the assailant was right-handed, striking from a position of—”

Shinichi’s eyes narrowed. The geometry was wrong. He traced the trajectory in his mind, mapping the angle and depth. Before he could stop himself, his hand was in the air.

“Yes, young man?” the presenter said, drawing attention to Shinichi. A murmur rippled through the crowd, half amusement, half irritation at his appearance.

“Wouldn’t the wound angle suggest a left-handed attacker?” Shinichi asked. “The downward slant and the internal damage shown on the diagram… a right-handed person would have created a different entry pattern.”

The speaker faltered for a beat, his smile stiffening. “That’s a… creative observation. But the evidence has already been thoroughly evaluated by professionals.” He turned away, clicking to the next slide. “As I was saying, the spatter analysis confirms…” Just like that, the audience’s attention returned to the stage. The moment was gone.

Shinichi lowered his hand slowly. A cold knot twisted in his chest. He saw it—why didn’t they? The answer was right there, begging to be seen, and still they looked past it.

“That was a good question,” said a soft voice right behind him.

He turns, startled.

A girl stood there, maybe a few years older, in a crisp navy uniform with a crimson name badge he didn’t recognize. There was no name, no department –just two words: Sector C.  

Her red-blond hair was pulled back tightly, every strand forced into place, but her skin was pale, her expression sharper than it should be for someone so young. He had to blink twice to see the girl beneath the severity of her expression.

“You noticed it too?” he asked.

“Obviously.” Her gaze stayed fixed on the screen. “The wound trajectory suggests a left-handed assailant, additionally the blood pattern on the wall suggest a different theory but the suspect they’re fixating on is right-handed. Amateur oversight.”

Shinichi blinked, momentarily stunned. That was exactly what he’d been thinking. The words sounded strange in someone else’s mouth—familiar and alien all at once.

“I wish they’d also pay attention to it,” he muttered.

“They won’t.” Her tone was flat, detached, the projector’s light painting her face in pale, cold hues. “The truth makes people uncomfortable.”

Shinichi stared at her, trying to make sense of her the way he might a riddle. She sounded… tired. Worn. Like she had carried more battles than he could imagine.

“The truth usually does,” he said quietly.

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “True. But no one likes being reminded they missed something. Especially by someone half their size.” Her eyes flicked to him. “If you want them to listen, you’ll have to force them.”

The words struck him harder than he expected, lodging like a stone in his chest.

Force them.

As if it were that simple.

“Do you… work here?” he frowned. 

Her eyes snapped to his, a flicker of humor breaking the mask. “Is that your way of saying I look old?”

His body flushed. “No! I just meant—”

But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure. She wasn’t much older, not really—maybe a years? Perhaps a little more. And yet there was something aged in her, something weathered, like paper left too long in the sun. He couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting back to that crimson badge. Different. Wrong.

She doesn’t fit.

Not like Ran or Sonoko, whose worlds still felt soft and so childlike. This girl was different. Wrong, in a way that made his chest ache.

“Why is yours different?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She stiffened. Her hand brushed the badge as if it burned. Her gaze slipped far, far away.

“This doesn’t mean I work here,” she said softly. “It just means they’ll let me into hell.”

Hell?

“What?” he whispered.

“Never mind.” A humorless laugh escaped her lips. Then, almost as though cutting herself off from whatever had leaked through, she asked: “What’s your name?”

“Shinichi,” he said, startled. “Kudou Shinichi.”

Her eyes widened. “Kudou? As in… the novelist?” Her chin tilted toward one of the glossy posters behind them, where Yusaku Kudou’s newest book was advertised.

“He’s my father.”

She hummed, as though filing it away. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why do you see what others miss?” Her eyes returned to the screen. “Don’t worry. They’ll listen one day. And if they don’t… you’ll just have to prove them wrong.”

Her words sent a strange, electric warmth through him. Encouragement. Belief. From a stranger, but sharper, somehow, than any he’d received before. His chest buzzed with something electric, something new.

He opened his mouth, ready to reply—thank her, maybe—but her body went suddenly taut. She glanced over her shoulder, posture stiff. Shinichi followed her gaze. Two men were weaving through the audience toward them, each wearing the same crimson badge.

Her jaw tightened. “I have to go,” she said quickly. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Wait!” he blurted, panic bubbling up before he could stop it. “You didn’t tell me your name!”

She hesitated. For a breath, she looked almost human—almost like the girl she should have been.

Then she turned away. “Maybe next time, Kudou Shinichi.”

And then she was gone, swallowed into the tide of suits and murmurs, her crimson badge a brief flash before it disappeared.

Shinichi stared at the space she’d left, her words echoing in his chest.

Next time.

Galliano was removed from her detail the moment they learn she slipped away. It didn’t matter; it was only a conference. It didn’t matter that she revealed nothing of consequence. The simple fact she spoke to anyone—anyone at all—was enough.

She stared at the doorknob, unmoving, waiting. It’s been a while since she was last locked inside a room. It used to be normal when she was staying with Akemi at the elderly couple's place. Back then, when she would cry, they’d lock her in the cellar and turn off the lights until the next day. It was a scary place. Much different than this room.

Her thoughts drifted to Galliano. A pang of worry, guilt, and regret filled her.

Would they reassign him?

Or do something worse?

Would she ever see him again?

She never got to say goodbye.

And then she remembered the boy. Shinichi Kudou. The strange, sharp-eyed boy who had held her attention like no one else.

She had never spoken to someone her own age before. Not really. Outside of Akemi, her world had been a series of silent observations: children glimpsed through tinted car windows, or on playgrounds across from lab compounds. She would drink those moments greedily, as if trying to memorize the cadence of their laughter, the careless swing of their legs, the freedom that radiated from every movement.

They were like creatures from a world she was not permitted to enter.

But he had been different. Not like the other children she watched. Not like the adults around her, either. He had carried the same edge she bore inside. It felt like looking into a mirror, just… this one felt like it did things the right way.

His father must be proud of him...

The memory pulled at something deep in her chest, a quiet ache she didn’t have the words for.

Then the ache curdled into fear.

The two men in black. Would they… act against him?  

Her nails dug into her palms.

No.

His father is famous. He has protection.

He must be safe.

He had to be.

The echo of a door opening and closing down the hall snapped her spine rigid. Her breath caught, shallow and quick. Footsteps drew closer, the knob rattled, and cold air spilled inward as the door opened.

She lifted her gaze and found herself staring at red and silver. A new face.

His hair gleamed metallic under the fluorescent light, cropped neat but glinting at the ends. A long black coat brushed the frame as he stepped inside. The smoke from his gleaming cigarette filled the room. His gaze flicked up and caught hers, heavy and emotionless, as if he was looking straight through her.

“Long time no see,” he smirked.

Shiho frowned. Did they know each other? She tried to remember, but her mind came up blank. He either didn’t notice her confusion or didn’t care and continued without waiting for a reply,

“You’ve been reassigned.”

Something coiled cold in her stomach, an ineffable dread born of the primal instincts mankind could no longer claim as their own. Reassignment could mean anything.

“Where?” she asked.

His lips curved, but not in a smile. “Under my detail.”

Her pulse roared in her ears.

“Did you have fun?” Yusaku asked as they stepped out into the cooler evening air. The conference hall loomed behind them, its glass panels catching the last red light of the sun.

Shinichi kicked lightly at a small cobblestone on the ground. “I guess,” he muttered.

Yusaku’s brow lifted. “Just ‘guess’? That’s not the answer I was expecting. You were practically vibrating to come along.”

“I liked it,” Shinichi admitted, kicking the stone with more force. “But no one listened.”

Yusaku glanced sideways at him. “Listened to what?”

“I saw something,” Shinichi said quickly, abandoning his stone and instead balled his hands into fists at his sides. “In the case they presented. The stabbing. Their conclusion didn’t fit the wound trajectory. It was obvious the killer was left-handed, but they—” He cut himself short, the words tumbling too fast, his face heating with frustration. “They brushed me off. Like it didn’t matter.”

His father’s mouth twitched into half-amusement, half-sympathy. “Ah. Your first taste of being ignored.”

Shinichi scowled. “It’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t laughing,” Yusaku replied gently. “But you’ll have to get used to it. Adults don’t like being corrected by children.”

“But I was right.”

“That,” Yusaku said, resting a hand briefly on his son’s shoulder, “is what matters. Whether they realize it now or ten years from now changes nothing.”

Shinichi’s scowl eased a little. But the weight in his chest didn’t lift. His thoughts flickered back to the girl with the crimson badge, her flat voice repeating: If you want them to take you seriously… you’ll have to force them.

Yusaku watched him fall silent, studying the set of his jaw, the restless way his fingers tapped against his thigh. “Something else is on your mind?”

Shinichi hesitated. Should he mention her? The strange girl? A part of him wanted to. But another part, a deeper instinct, told him not to. Instead, he asked, “Back there… when you were talking to Detective Koto. What cold case was he talking about?”

Yusaku froze mid-step.

“You’ve been requesting it for years, right? Why? What case is it?” Shinichi added.

For a long time, Yusaku didn’t answer. His gaze had dropped, shadow hiding his eyes, but Shinichi caught the faint downturn of his mouth, the way his hand flexed once against his coat pocket before going still.

 “Some mysteries aren’t meant for children.”

“That’s not fair,” Shinichi protested, frustration bubbling up again. “I’m not a child! I'm twelve. Nearly a teenager!”

“Excuse my mistake,” Yusaku chuckled softly, his hand ruffling Shinichi's hair. “But there are truths that change the way you see the world. Once you learn them, you can’t go back. One day, when you are older, we will have this conversation.”

“Then… is it dangerous?”

Yusaku didn’t answer. He looked away, toward the city skyline flickering awake in neon and glass. Then he smiled at Shinichi. “Don’t worry, alright?” he said simply. “Come. Your mother’s waiting for us. And you can tell me on the way what you would have said in that lecture.”

Shinichi’s lips parted. “You mean—like presenting it?”

“Exactly. You’ll need the practice if you want to argue with people twice your age. Which, if I know you, you will.”

The tightness in Shinichi’s chest eased. He nodded, his voice more certain this time. “Okay.”

They walked on, the boy talking fast, the man listening quietly.

Galliano’s eyes—what was left of them—stared back at her. Empty sockets rimmed with a strange, viscous sheen. His skin had melted away, leaving only bone slick with the residue of his own creation. They’d fed him his work.

Rotting in hell. Literally.

The stench clung to the air, chemical and putrid, making Shiho’s throat tighten until bile seared her tongue. She couldn’t look away. Galliano’s warning, Akemi’s fear, the old couple’s broken pleas—they all converged into one truth that gnawed at her ribs: she had begged to be seen, chased recognition, clawed after proof that she belonged. And in doing so, she had struck her bargain with the devil.

For a fleeting second, she thought about the strange boy.

He lived in a world she could never touch—schoolyards, friends, being ordinary without having this constant whisper that screamed she needed to prove her worth. To belong.

He could be ordinary. She could never be.

She envied him for that. Envied him so much it terrified her.

A hand gripped her shoulder. “Come, Sherry.”

Her throat burned. “That’s not my name.”

“It is now,” The whisper brushed her ear, carrying smoke and metal. She had grown accustomed to the scent in the days since she'd been placed under Gin's detail. "The boss signed off on it. Congratulation, you're officially the head of the program. Your parents would be proud."

It was strange. 

For the first time, she had exactly what she once thought she wanted. And somehow it made her feel more hollow than ever. 

“Why did he have to die?” Her voice cracked. 

Gin’s eyes barely flicked to Galliano’s remains. “He didn’t. He chose to.”

Shiho turned to him, startled.

“Galliano may be a fool,” Gin said flatly, “but he was too valuable for us to waste. This was his own doing.”

Her stomach twisted. “But… why?”

Gin’s gaze sharpened, almost amused. “Why did Ajax the Great* fall on his own sword? Pride, Sherry. Pride is a cross heavier than any executioner’s blade. He couldn’t bear the thought of being outsmarted by you.”

Shiho felt the words lodge beneath her ribs. She glanced back at Galliano’s corpse—at what was left of the man whose opinion had mattered so deeply to her. Had he been jealous? Was that why he said her parent's wouldn't be proud of her? 

It....didn't feel like that was the case. If anything Galliano had seemed sad. And guilty of something she didn't fully understand herself. 

Gin’s grip on her shoulder tightened, pulling her away from the corpse as though she had lingered too long in its warning.

Shinichi couldn’t forget the strange girl with the crimson badge.

After that day, he searched every crowd, every conference corridor, every panel his father attended. He listened for her voice, watched for the flicker of red against navy, for hair like copper under the lights.

But she was never there.

It was as if she had stepped out of the noise and chaos for a single moment—just long enough to speak to him—and then vanished back into the shadows where she belonged.

Sometimes he caught himself replaying the encounter in his mind, sharpening each fragment of memory like a photograph under a magnifying glass. The way her eyes had narrowed at the diagrams on the screen was cool and calculating. The faint, tired humor in her smile. The way her fingers had brushed the badge like it was a brand burned into her skin.

‘This doesn’t mean I work here. It just means they’ll let me into hell.’ The words echoed. He didn’t understand them, not really, but they clung to him, strange, heavy, like a piece of a puzzle he wasn’t supposed to have.

Even Ran noticed something was off.

“You’re spacing out again,” she told him one afternoon, kicking her legs under the library table. “Thinking about a case?”

Shinichi forced a shrug, burying his nose deeper in the crime novel spread open in front of him. “Something like that.”

But the truth was simpler and stranger than that. He wasn’t thinking about the puzzle of bloodstains and angles anymore. He was thinking about her.

It shouldn’t matter. She was just a girl. A stranger. But his thoughts circled back to her again and again, like his mind was tugged by an invisible thread.

One day, he promised himself, he’d find her again.

And when he did, he’d solve the puzzle she was.

Chapter Text

Shiho had been on the move for years. Different labs, different colleagues. It was a method to keep her isolated and under control. Shiho knew the pattern by now.

She glanced back at the rumpled bed. Cigarette ash dusted the ivory sheets—black and white and gray, like everything else in her life. A muscle twitched deep in her abdomen, involuntary, as though her body itself wanted to recoil from the weight of it all.

There had been one exception to her solitude, one person who had been permitted to stay. But even he was being stripped away. Part of her had wanted to run, to wrench the suitcase open and scatter its contents to the floor, to scream that she would not leave. The other part had wanted to pretend she never cared and that losing him meant nothing.

Gin had been waiting at the top of the steps, a dark silhouette against the railing, a pack of cigarettes dangling loosely in his hand. The faint, sharp tang of tobacco lingered in the air. He hadn’t lit one. She could tell he had been about to, but when his red eyes found her, he had slid the pack smoothly back into his coat.

Clutching her crimson suitcase to her stomach, she wondered how long he had been standing there—how long he had been watching her. She met him at the landing. He shifted just enough to let her pass, gaze flicking once to the suitcase as though weighing its contents.

“Took you long enough.”

Shiho adjusted her grip, the edge of the suitcase biting into her ribs. “I had to make sure everything was in order,” she said. A weak excuse, and they both knew it. She had been stalling.

The corridor smelled faintly of dust and rain, the kind that clung to clothes and lingered in the air. Gin started down the steps without looking back, and she followed, the sound of her suitcase wheels rattling against the worn wood.

“You’ll be in Vienna this time,” he said without looking back. “There’s someone there who may be useful to your research.”

Vienna. Another faceless lab. Another cage with a different wallpaper. She bit down on the inside of her cheek until the sting cut through her haze.

Outside, the street was hushed, too still for a city street. A black car idled at the curb, headlights washing the wet pavement in ghostly light. Gin opened the rear door for her, her eyes never leaving his face, searching for something he would never give away.

Shiho hesitated, one foot inside the car. “Will I see you again?” The question had slipped out before she could stop it.

Gin didn’t react. “If the Organization wills it.”

Of course.

That was all he ever gave her. Obedience to something larger, colder, more immovable than either of them. They lived and breathed the Organization. Gin had trained her the last few years for that.

To obey without hesitation.
To bury doubt beneath logic.
To trade warmth for precision, conscience for control.

He had taught her how to survive under watchful eyes, how to speak in measured tones that revealed nothing, how to silence the tremor in her hands when the serum hissed and the world shrank to the sound of her own heartbeat.

She looked away first, lowering herself into the car, the red suitcase pressed against her chest as if it were a shield.

“Right,” she murmured, though the word had felt like ash on her tongue.

Her parents. Akemi. Galliano. And now Gin. The Organization took, and took, and took. It never gave. Not without a bodybag. 

She should be used to it by now.

Long gone were the days when she chased the ghosts of her parents’ approval, or the childish fantasy of being seen. Where being respected as a scientist mattered more than anything.

I’d like to be a princess, she had once told herself in the mirror to a ghost of her ignorant younger self. A princess locked in a tower, perhaps, but still unaware of what lurked in the shadows, untouched by it. She had wanted to crawl back into that memory, seize that little girl by the shoulders, and shake the foolishness out of her.

Stop begging for recognition.
Stop waiting for cursed praise.

She wanted Akemi again. To hear her laughter, to hold her hand, to whisper an apology that came too late.

She wanted to beg Galliano to send her anywhere else. To lock the lab doors, to keep her far from conferences that would mark his demise and tighten the chains around her hands.

She wanted to wake up in a haze of cigarette smoke, ignoring everything that was wrong, clutching at the one or two things that had felt right.

She wanted that ordinary life that the boy – Shinichi Kudou – from that conference long ago had lived.

She wanted what she could not have.
Instead, she had this; a future that wasn’t hers to decide and hands that dripped with death.

Shinichi was fifteen when he gave up on ever finding the girl with the crimson badge.

Sometimes, he wondered if he had imagined her. If he had conjured her from the static of a forgettable conference and memory. Other times, he wondered why it had felt so important to begin with. A brief encounter, a forgotten face in a crowd. It shouldn’t have haunted him the way it did.

But it did.

Obsession. A persistent, intrusive fixation with a thought, person, or goal that dominates one’s mind, often to the point of interfering with rational thought or daily function. He knew what it was. And still he couldn't stop it. 

Was she thinking of him, too? The thought had crept up sometimes. He dismissed it quickly, ashamed at how much he wanted the answer to be yes. Why would she? To her, he must have been nothing more than a curious boy interrupting a lecture. A footnote in her day.

His heart clenched, a foolish ache for a ghost he couldn’t explain. The obsession for someone because of such a minor coincident.

It didn’t even make sense.

He told himself it wasn’t about her. Not really. He wasn't focused on her but on what she represented.

She was a puzzle, an anomaly. She didn’t fit. And Shinichi Kudou was a detective—he lived to solve mysteries, to force pieces into patterns until the whole picture emerged, clean and logical.

That was all.

At least, that was what he had repeated to himself whenever her voice echoed back to him: If you want them to take you seriously… you’ll have to force them.

And that he had done. He’d made them see.

From small neighborhood cases to national headlines, the name Shinichi Kudou had begun to carry weight. And the same detectives who once brushed him off were now asked for his insight—some out of respect, others out of reluctant admiration.

But success didn’t quiet the restlessness. If anything, it made the silence louder. And so, when his parents invited him to join them on his father‘s latest book tour abroad, he agreed—telling himself it was just a break, a chance to breathe.

The airport was a blur of noise and motion—suitcases rattling over tile, departure announcements echoing overhead, people rushing past in every direction. Shinichi had scrolled through his phone, head down, navigating the crowd on autopilot.

Until he collided with someone.

It all happened in an instant. His balance tipped forward, a sharp pull in his stomach as his palm slammed against the floor. Pain shot through his wrist, twisting awkwardly under the weight of his fall. He hissed under his breath, half-ready to mutter an apology as he looked up—

And froze.

Blue eyes in crimson.

She stared at him, head tilted slightly, brows knitting as if she was trying to summon a half-remembered dream.

His heart lurched.

Words knotted in his throat before stumbling out. “You—uh—Sector C, right?”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a gesture that wasn’t quite a smile but enough to stir something deep in him. “You remembered, Kudou-kun.”

The sound of his name in her voice made his pulse trip. She remembered him!

She looked older now. Her features were sharper, her frame taller by a few inches. Strands of red-blond hair spilled from beneath a hood that had fallen halfway back, and her bright crimson coat had swallowed her in folds too big for her frame, sleeves hanging over her wrists. Tucked securely in one arm was a book heavy enough to seem ridiculous in a traveler’s hands: Principles of Bioengineering.

“You were… hard to forget,” Shinichi blurted out before he could stop himself and immediately kicked himself internally. That had sounded too desperate.

She arched a brow. “Is that your idea of a line?”

“What? No! I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Oh? So I’m not unforgettable? How disappointing.”

His ears burned. “That’s not what I—ugh, never mind.” He dragged a hand through his hair, mussing it in frustration. Great. Ruined it in under sixty seconds.

But then she laughed—and it undid him. It was soft, fleeting, but real. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hear it again.

She shifted the weight of the textbook in her arm and glancing down at him. “You’re still on the floor.”

Oh! Right, he had fallen. Heat crept up his neck as he scrambled to his feet, brushing dust from his jeans. He winced slightly as his wrist throbbed.

“You hurt yourself,” she said.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, flexing his fingers.

She didn’t buy it. Before he could protest, her hand closed gently around his wrist. Her touch was cool and deliberate, sending an electric jolt up his arm. It was a strange feeling. Not like when he touched Ran. Not like anyone.

She hummed skeptically, her thumbs pressing gently along the bone. “No deformity, no crepitus,” she murmured, half to herself. “Flexion intact, extension within tolerance… minimal swelling, mild erythema… localized tenderness over the radial side but no instability in the carpal joints.”

Shinichi blinked, staring blankly. “Uh…”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a spark of wry humor in them. “In layman’s terms, you’ve got a bruise. You’ll live.”

“Right. That’s… good?” And once again, he found himself wondering just how old she really was. Why did she sound like a doctor when she couldn’t be much older then him?

She released his wrist, flicking her sleeve back into place as though brushing away the trace of his touch. Without looking at him, she added, “Unless, of course, you decide to heroically fall down a flight of stairs next. Then we’re talking potential ligament damage. Maybe a hairline fracture.”

 He took a step back at her…visceral picture and the phantom ache that came with it.

“Not planning on it.”

She gave him a mock stern look. “Good. My free consultations are limited.”

He chuckled, while rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’ll try not to be such a health hazard.”

“You do that.”

Then her posture shifted—eyes scanning the crowd, grip tightening on her book. For a heartbeat, something cracked through her composure. Hesitation. Maybe fear.

“Where are you headed?” Shinichi asked, grasping for a thread to keep her there.

No answer.

“Do you…visit family?” he tried again.

She shook her head, distracted. “Hell.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“My destination.” A faint smirk played at her lips. “But I’m kidding. Probably.”
He narrowed his eyes. It sounded like a lie, even as a joke. He could hear it in the undertone, the same dark echo she had left him with years ago.

“Alone?” he pressed.

“Not exactly.”

She didn’t elaborate.

The air between them tightened.

He wanted to ask more. About the book, where she was going, who might have been waiting for her, and if she was safe. But just like back at the conference meeting, a man was standing several meters behind her in an all-black coat with a blank expression and the quiet menace of a shadow that didn’t belong in daylight.

“Is that someone you know?” His voice was careful.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t answer.

“I need to go,” she said instead, her tone clipped.

“Wait.” Without thinking, he grabbed her hand, desperate to hold onto her. But she slipped from his grasp with a gentle shrug, her expression becoming distant as the man in the background moved closer.

“Please,” he said and hated how desperate it sounded. “I never got your name.”

She stared at him for a heartbeat. “Haibara,” she said finally. “Haibara Ai.”

The way she had said it had made him think there was more to this name, but before he could dive deeper, she already was walking away. Her crimson coat swayed behind her like a closing curtain. The man followed, and they vanished into the crowd.

Shinichi stood frozen, staring after them, until the loudspeaker jolted him back: “Final boarding call for Flight 816 to Los Angeles…”

His chest tightened. Every instinct in him screamed to run, to follow, to chase the truth vanishing before his eyes. Something felt so off about all of this. Every single detective instinct told him to investigate.

But by the time he had decided, she was gone.

Shiho arrived in Vienna late at night and felt hollower than ever.

The airport was quiet, drained of its daytime chaos, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the soft hum of machinery. Outside, a car was waiting for her, its windows tinted too dark to see inside.

The driver hadn’t spoken when she slipped into the back seat. He only nodded once before pulling away, the vehicle gliding through streets that felt both ancient and foreign. Cobblestones blurred beneath the tires, old churches loomed like sentinels in the dark, and neon signs flickered faintly in shop windows closed for the night.

She had known she shouldn’t have spoken to Shinichi Kudo. Shouldn’t have acknowledged him, shouldn’t have let herself cross that invisible line. There was only so much leniency the organization would allow before someone became a liability.

And yet…

Her lips barely shaped the word.

I’m greedy.

Greedy for the life he lived. Greedy for a glimpse of the world outside that shadowed cage. The other side of the glass. The side bathed in light, careless and free. A world she could only graze through car windows, airport terminals, and in the brief stolen breaths between laboratories and relocations.

Ever since their brief encounter three years ago, Shiho had secretly kept taps on the boy. He had started to become more active in crime cases his father was investigating. So much so that newspapers declared them the ‘father-son detective team’. Though nowadays it seemed as if his father had taken a step back from investigations.

He did make them take him seriously, Shiho thought, a small, almost proud smile tugging at her lips.

Sometimes she let herself imagine an alternate timeline. One she’d come to call Ai Haibara’s world.
It was like slipping into a role on stage, becoming a different girl entirely. A girl who could be remembered. Who fought for good. Who helped catch criminals. Whose hands weren’t stained with the past.

It was the world she imagined Akemi living. Where she dreamed of being too. She clung to that image even though she knew better.

No one escaped the Organization except in a body bag.

Shiho closed her eyes, breathing slowly, as though stillness could quiet the thoughts clawing at her.
Akemi… how she longed for even the faintest sign of her sister. But since she was five, there had been nothing.

It hurt. So badly. But hope kept her moving, someday….maybe….she would see her again.

The car stopped in front of a townhouse with shuttered windows and ivy clawing up its stone walls. She hesitated a beat too long before stepping out, the damp air pressing against her skin. The driver waited until she reached the door before pulling away.

She thought of Gin’s words and wondered what kind of cage this one would be. Her fingers curled around the red suitcase in her lap.

Inside, the air had smelled faintly of varnish and something sterile. A light had flickered on overhead, and a voice greeted her from the shadows of the corridor: “Welcome to Vienna, Sherry. We have been eagerly waiting for your arrival.”

The way the speaker said her name made her skin prickle. People inside the Organization avoided her whenever they could, pretending not to see her, not to know her.

Partly because Gin’s shadow fell over her, and partly because they feared her—feared what she made, what she knew, what she could do.

She was the poisonous ivy. The black widow. The one who carried the scent of ruin. The girl whose name had been whispered when Galliano vanished, and whose silence everyone else had learned to keep.

To dare speak to her like this—to greet her, to welcome her in such a way—had meant only one thing; Whoever was waiting in those halls was not like the others.

A chill run down her spine as she tightened her grip on the suitcase.

What kind of monster greeted a spider as if it were kin?

Back home, Shinichi searched her name. Haibara Ai.

He typed it into every database he could access—medical registries, academic records, even government listings when he was bold enough.

But there was nothing. No photos. No articles. No trace.

As if she never existed.

He sat back, staring at the blank results page, the cursor blinking like a mockery.

Maybe she lied, he told himself. Maybe it hadn’t been her name at all, just another puzzle piece designed to throw him off. That would have made sense. That would have explained everything.

But the way she said it… the weight in her voice, the quiet defiance— It hadn’t sounded like a lie.

He slammed his laptop shut harder than he meant to. The sound cracked through the empty room, startling even himself. He leaned back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes until stars bloomed in the darkness.

He was frustrated.

With himself, for caring too much about a girl he had only seen twice.
With her, for slipping away like smoke.
And with the world, for letting someone like her disappear so easily.

Chapter Text

"We are not creatures of light or darkness, but a single coin spun in the air, forever turning between the two." 

3 years later 

“And this,” announced the deep, familiar baritone behind her, “is the crown jewel of our endeavors: the RNA sequencing and research lab.”

Shiho didn’t need to turn to know it was Maraschino. The scent of his expensive sandalwood cologne had arrived a moment before him, a smell that did little to mask the underlying sting of antiseptic. She kept her eyes forward, watching the automated liquid handlers through the thick, smudged glass of the lab window.

He wasn’t alone. In the reflection of the lab window, she saw him flanked by a young woman with dark hair pulled into a ruthlessly tight bun and a sharp-featured man with fiery red hair. They couldn’t have been much older than she was.

Her heart clenched painfully in her chest. Akemi. Galliano. Their ghosts materialized in the faces of these new, eager assistants.

The pair offered her curt nods from over Maraschino’s shoulder. She ignored them, turning her focus back to the humming spectrometer.

Run, she wanted to scream. Run before it is too late. But instead, she bit her tongue, and the taste of copper bloomed on her tongue.

With a final, dismissive glance in her direction, Maraschino turned. “Come,” he commanded, and the two assistants fell into step behind him like dutiful shadows. They moved down the sterile hallway, stopping before a heavy, reinforced steel door. As Maraschino keyed in a code, the lock disengaged with a solid thunk.

“And this, my dear assistants,” he said, his voice swelling with pride, “is where you will help me change history—”

The door swung open, then shut behind them, swallowing the end of his sentence and sealing the new recruits inside.

As if on cue, the screams began. They tore through the industrial hum of ventilation and machinery, a sound that seemed to bypass the ears and vibrate directly in the teeth. Shiho’s jaw tightened. She focused on the rhythmic hiss-click of a nearby centrifuge, trying to block out the rest.

Shortly before midnight, the steel door hissed open again. Maraschino emerged alone. His tweed jacket was slung over his arm, his shirtsleeves rolled up. A fresh, metallic coppery smell clung to him, now fused with the fading notes of his sandalwood perfume. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, cursing under his breath.

“It didn’t work?”

Both he and she were equally stunned by her question. Shiho had never spoken to him, not since they had been moved from Vienna to Harvard. Not voluntarily, at least.

His eyes narrowed at her.

“What are you trying to pull, Sherry?”

She shrugged, turning back to her station. “I was merely wondering. You are a well-known immunology professor. If research assistants kept ending up missing, it would generate unwanted attention. Just like it did in Vienna.”

He was on her in three strides.

“Is this a threat?” he whispered, the words dripping with venom.

She turned to face him, her eyes going cold. “It is an observation of cause and effect.”

His grip tightened, a flash of pure rage in his gaze. “I never understood how Galliano endured you. Your constant, condescending lectures.” He leaned closer. “But then, perhaps it explains his ending. Being fed his own creation, watching his own flesh dissolve and his bones become dust. He finally understood the practical application of his theories without your commentary.”

Shiho didn’t flinch, but her nails dug crescents into her palms.

His eyes took on a feverish glint. “One day, your protective umbrella will disappear. It is inevitable. And on that day, you and I will finally play the game I had been waiting for, ma Chérie.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left, his footsteps fading down the hall, leaving her alone with the hum of machines, the smell of blood, and the chilling certainty of his promise.

“They say three assistants vanished from LaRouche’s lab last month.”

“I heard that the same thing happened at his last university.”

“Guess some professors bring their ghosts with them.”

The whispers tangled in the chill wind that swept Harvard Yard. Shinichi didn’t turn. He filed the rumor away like a clue and kept walking, his hands deep in his coat pockets.

This trip was supposed to be simple — a family visit, a gentle push toward an American future. His parents called it exposure. He called it interrogation disguised as tourism. Especially since they’d been clever enough to invite Ran behind his back.

Yusaku and Yukiko had moved to the U.S. the year before and had been trying to lure him across the Pacific ever since. In the end, they compromised: he could stay in Japan and finish school, as long as he visited during holidays.

So here he was, strolling under the golden canopy of autumn with a bright-eyed, pink-cheeked Ran at his side, pretending it was a holiday. She was laughing, and her arm looped through his like she belonged there.

And maybe… maybe she did?

His brain told him she was perfect. Ran had been in his life forever. She was his Watson, the one who tagged along to crime scenes, who helped him untangle theories and hypotheses. He told her everything.

Almost everything.

Crimson hair slipped into his thoughts — Ai Haibara. The puzzle. The locked-room mystery wrapped in an enigma. The one he needed to solve. At least, that’s what he told himself. Any other reason she lingered in his mind would have been far too strange. Especially after all these years.

Ran laughed again at something he said. He meant to laugh with her, but the sound caught in his throat.

There she was.

Sitting on a bench beneath a tree just outside the biology building, sunlight spilling over her like the moment had been staged for him. Her hair was shorter now, a sleek line brushing her chin, but that copper glint was unmistakable. A white lab coat hung open over a crimson dress, and her eyes were closed, face tilted toward the light as if she were absorbing something no one else could feel.

He forgot how to breathe.

It’s her.

Ran said something, but her voice drowned beneath the sudden roar in his ears. He muttered an apology and stepped away, drawn across the lawn as if by an invisible wire. He could feel Ran’s confusion burning into his back, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Just before he reached her, Ai opened her eyes. For a moment, there was only cool, assessing confusion, then recognition sparked, and then the faintest ghost of a smile touched her lips.

“Well, if it isn’t Shinichi Kudo,” she said softly, as if she had been expecting him. “Trip over another innocent pedestrian?”

Air rushed from his lungs. He hadn’t realized he had been holding it.

“You’re… here.” The words sounded clumsy, absurdly small for the weight behind them.

Her gaze flicked over him, dry amusement dancing at the corners of her mouth.

“Astute observation, Detective.”

He ignored the sarcasm, his mind focusing on cataloguing every detail: the lab coat, the papers on the bench beside her, the way the sunlight outlined her like a secret hiding in plain sight.

“You’re studying here?” he asked, needing to hear it aloud.

“Something like that.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s suspiciously vague.”

But it was so her. Elusive. Unreachable.

His puzzle.

A corner of her mouth twitched. “I thought you liked mysteries.”

“I like solving them more.”

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her eyes holding his a moment too long. “You’ve grown into a proper detective.”

He should have bristled at the condescension. But it didn’t feel mocking. It felt like acknowledgment. And the distinction was enough to send his pulse skittering.

Before he could answer, her posture shifted. The faint tightening of her shoulders, the flicker in her gaze. She was ready to vanish again.

He looked away, pulling in a breath and pushing it out heavily; his jaw tensed. He wanted to say ‘Don’t. Not yet. Stay.’But the words caught in his throat, strangled.

“Do you live here now?” he asked, wincing the instant it left his mouth. She was in a lab coat outside a science building. Of course she did.

Idiot.

She only shrugged. “Depends on the variables.”

“What does that mean?”

“Didn’t you just say you liked solving mysteries?”

He groaned under his breath. “You really are killing me.”

Her smile faltered. The teasing light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something fragile and unguarded before she turned away. The glimpse of it twisted something deep in his chest.

A gust of wind scattered gold leaves around them, tugging at her lab coat.

“What about you, Kudo?” she asked suddenly, turning the tables. “I haven’t seen you around before. And judging by that very official visitor badge…” She nodded at the laminated tag clipped to his jacket. “I’m guessing you aren’t here to give a lecture.”

He forced a crooked smile, though guilt still gnawed at him. “My parents are trying to Americanize me,” he said dryly.

“And Harvard’s their weapon of choice?”

“Something like that.”

The sunlight caught her hair again, setting it ablaze in copper and gold.

“Are they winning?” she asked, biting her lip. His gaze lingered too long on the faint mark her teeth left before he tore it away.

“Until five minutes ago? No.” He swallowed. “But now… I’m not so sure.”

If she were here… maybe… this wouldn’t have been so bad. Maybe he’d finally solve the puzzle that was Ai Haibara. Maybe then his heart would stop racing, his thoughts would stop circling back to her like a compulsion. Maybe then this strange obsession would end.

She smiled a little at that, and his eyes flicked down to her lips again, entranced. Had they always been this shiny?

“Still such a smooth talker. You haven’t changed all that much,” she says.

Before he could reply, someone called his name. He turned to see Ran approaching, concern written across her face. A quiet, accusing voice rose inside him—reminding him how quickly he’d gone from imagining a future with Ran to chasing a ghost from his past. He shoved it down.

When he faced Ai again, she was watching him, her eyes shadowed. Something unreadable flickering in their depths.

“Your girlfriend?”

“What? Ran? No—we’ve just known each other since we were kids,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Hmm.” She hums, but the flicker in her gaze darkened. “She seems nice.”

“She is.”

Ran was closer now. Maybe thirty seconds away. Her confusion only deepened as her eyes darted between Ai and him. Ai noticed too. Her fingers tightened around her bag strap.

She exhaled, almost weary. “Well, Kudo. It was good seeing you again.”

“Wait!” The word tore out of him, more urgent than he intended. His pulse quickened. “Are you free later tonight?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were here with your girlfriend.”

He groaned in frustration. “Didn’t I just say we weren’t—?”

Her smirk deepened, eyes flicking once more toward Ran, who was nearly within earshot.

“There is a bar on 46th. It’s quiet but has a good atmosphere.” She paused, the faintest edge to her tone. “You should take your friend.”

He opened his mouth—Will I see you there?—but the words caught, tangled somewhere between hope and pride.

She didn’t wait for him to voice it anyway. Just gave him one last, lingering look, her expression now filled by something that looked very much like regret.

“Maybe,” she said softly, as if she had heard his unspoken question after all. Then she turned. Her lab coat flared behind her, ghostlike against the autumn leaves, a reminder of the life she never let him hold on to. Of the puzzle that seemed to grow with each piece, instead of shrinking.

And once again, Ai Haibara was gone.

“Shinichi?” Ran had asked, finally reaching his side. She followed his gaze toward the empty space where Ai had been. “Who was that?”

The automatic response—“A friend”—died on his lips. She wasn’t really a friend. Nor was she a simple acquaintance. She was… something he didn’t know himself.

“No one,” he said at last, the lie burning bitter in his throat. “Just… someone I thought I recognized from a case. But I was wrong.”

Ran studied him. He could tell she didn’t believe it—the slight dimming of her smile gave her away—but she said nothing. Because she trusted him. Because she was kind.

She slipped her arm through his, tugging him gently forward. “Okay,” she murmured. “The library’s supposed to be amazing. Shall we?”

He let himself be led away, but his mind remained behind, under the oak tree where copper hair had once caught the sun.

“There’s a bar nearby,” Shinichi heard himself say before reason could stop him. His own voice startled him. “Do you want to go tonight?”

Ran froze mid-step, her arm still hooked through his. She blinked up at him, lashes catching the autumn light.

“A bar?”

“Yeah. Ai… the girl from before,… she mentioned it. Said it’s quite famous.”

Ran said something, and Shinichi bent his head a little closer to hear her, his hand brushing her shoulder without thinking. She tensed under his touch.

“Look, Ran—”

“If you want to go, let’s go,” she interrupted softly.

But she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Ran, come on.”

She hesitated, then gave a small, tired smile. “I think the sun might have gotten to me.”

He knew it wasn’t true.

“You know what? Forget it. We’ll just—”

“No, Shinichi. You should go. Check it out. See if it’s worth visiting.”

The right thing—the good thing—would have been to smile, to insist he’d stay with her, to walk her back to the hotel and prove that nothing was more important. That she came first. But the words stuck like glass in his throat.

He forced a smile, hoping it would cover the war inside him. “Alright. If you are sure. I won’t stay for long,” he heard himself promise.

Ran’s lips curved faintly, but her eyes lingered on his face, as if looking for an answer she already feared she knew.

The ceiling fan creaked above, blades slicing the air, shadows spiraling over her face like the hands of a clock counting down. She traced the rim of her glass with one finger, letting the bass guitar’s low hum seep into her bones—but her thoughts were elsewhere. On the boy detective who would, inevitably, find his way here.

The bar was tucked into a forgotten corner of the city, hidden between crooked streets that bent like whispered lies. Too close to campus, yet too far for consequences to reach. Maraschino called it a recruiting ground. Officially, she echoed that excuse. In truth, it was her sanctuary—the one place she could pretend she still had choices. A place free, for a breath, of the Organization’s reach.

But…things had gotten difficult again. The rumors were back. Students disappearing. And Maraschino was acting too rushed. The air had begun to stank of danger and death around her. It was only a matter of time until the Organization would act.

And maybe that was why she’d told Kudo about it.

Her finger froze against the glass. Her reflection stared back—eyes too tired, a mouth too firm. A girl pretending to be someone older and stronger. She exhaled and sank into the shadows. She was so tired of running.

The door groaned open, letting in a breath of cold night air and the faint smell of rain. She didn’t turn at first, though her pulse betrayed her. A cluster of students stumbled inside, laughing too loudly, their coats dripping. Behind them moved a lone figure.

It’s him.

Kudo. Tall and broad-shouldered, far too neatly dressed for a place like this. And yet not. The shadows seemed to accept him. The hum of conversation seemed to part around him like water around a stone. He didn’t look at her, not yet. He ordered something simple at the bar, scanning the room with that detached ease that both fascinated and terrified her.

Her throat tightened.

Did he come alone?

Or was the girl—the childhood friend with the bright eyes and sunshine laughter—waiting outside? She forced indifference, told herself not to care. The friend reminded her too much of Akemi, and that hurt in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge.

The bass rattled the glass in her hand. She told herself not to look again—but of course she did.

Shinichi was moving toward her now, weaving between tables. He stopped beside her booth, and for a minute, neither spoke. The noise of the bar swelled, then seemed to recede, leaving only the pulse of silence between them.

“You came,” she said at last. She lifted her glass in mock salute, swirling the liquid. “Where is your friend?”

“Ran wasn’t feeling well.”

“You don’t seem particularly concerned.”

Shinichi’s lips twitched. “I’ll be concerned when I need to be.”

To anyone else, it might have sounded dismissive, but she could see the tension pulling at him; the taut line of his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows. He was worried. More than he wanted her to know.

And still, he came.

That unsettled her more than anything.

He slid into the seat opposite her. Blue met blue, and for an instant, Shiho felt what drowning must be like: breath caught in her chest, lungs burning, unable to look away. She hadn’t expected that. So often had she looked into the detectives’ eyes through newspaper articles. But now, sitting opposite him, it was so different.

“Couldn’t stay away?” she teased, softer than she intended, unaware if she meant herself or him.

Shinichi exhaled, half laugh, half confession. “No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.” His voice was quiet, stripped bare and rawer than she expected. He gave her a look that was both confused and utterly perplexed, and something perilously close to longing.

“Tell me,” he asked, eyes steady. “Who are you?”

She raised a brow, masking the tremor inside her chest. Did he know how loaded the question was?

She was Shiho Miyano, Sherry, Ai Haibara. A scientist, a sinner, a ghost in human skin. Who was she? Hell, maybe.

But instead of any of these, she simply answered, “Already forgetting my name? I didn’t take you for such a Casanova.”

He didn’t smile back. He just waited, his blue eyes holding hers, and in that silence, her own defenses crumbled. But then the corner of his lips tipped.

“A Casanova remembers every name,” he corrected.

She lifted her drink, letting the straw brush her lips, thankful for the excuse to look away. The sharp fizz of the soda bit at her tongue, bitter layered with a fleeting sweetness.

“Lucky for you,” she murmured, leaning in slightly, voice low and silk-edged, “I have a terrible habit of collecting things that can’t stay away.”

He copied her movement, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Every enigma reveals itself eventually.”

Her heart tripped. “Spoken like a true detective.”

“Touché.” He lifted his glass and tapped it against hers.

She snorted, then swirled the drink in her hand, ice clinking like faint chimes. She was enjoying this—more than she wanted to admit.

“And what does the great detective do when he’s mystified?”

He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, invading her space just enough to make her breath catch.

“He investigates.”

She didn’t back away. Inch for inch, she met him, her lips curving in a defiant smile as her fingers toyed with the pearl earring that swayed against her neck.

“And what has he discovered so far?”

Shinichi chuckled, but then his eyes turned serious, holding hers in a fierce stare.

“That there’s a beautiful, mysterious girl giving cryptic invitations to strangers,” he said softly. “That she appears and disappears like Houdini. That there are men in black following her. And that her eyes–“ his voice dropped. “–are begging for help, even if she refuses to ask.”

Her stomach plunged. "That sounds more like one of your father's plotlines."

A weak dodge. His look told her he knew it. The playful tension snapped, leaving only the pulse of truth.

Her mind scrambled for a lie, any lie—but under his gaze, every one shriveled to dust.

So she did the only reckless thing left—she reached across the table. Her fingers brushed his, then curled around them, as if she could rewrite the question through touch alone.

“Come,” she said, rising, pulling him with her toward the dance floor.

The crowd swallowed them, music surging, lights flickering, shadows and neon colliding. She turned, back against hischest, her hair brushing his jaw as the bassline vibrated through them both. His hand hesitated at her waist before settling there. The heat of his touch burned through fabric, branding her.

She remembered feeling this same pull the second time they met, at the airport—an invisible thread that shouldn’t exist and yet refused to break.

She swayed, slow at first, then sharper, testing him. He matched her, one step behind but never faltering, his breath grazing the curve of her ear as if he might say something—only he didn’t. And that silence, that restraint, lit her nerves like sparks along a fuse.

Shiho tipped her head back, forcing herself to look up at him. He was watching her as though she were a riddle he both feared and ached to solve. As if she were the obsession, she longed for in him.

Her lips parted, words failing, so she let her body answer instead, leaning into him, pressing her shoulder against his chest, arching just enough for him to feel the deliberate curve of her spine against his hand. His fingers tightened subtly.

So many unspoken things hummed between them.

“Careful, detective,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the noise. “You might discover something you can’t unlearn.”

His mouth curved, but there was no humor in it, only a strange hunger, restrained and trembling at the edges. He bent closer, his breath fanning across her cheek, his lips just shy of touching skin.

“Maybe that’s exactly what I came for.”

He lifted a hand up, tracing a forefinger across her jaw. The touch made Shiho draw a deep, involuntary breath in.

“Should have informed me beforehand.”

“You invited me.”

Heat coiled again in the pit of her stomach, at the base of her spine, as her fingers slid into his hair, nails running against his scalp before tightening, tangling in his curls. “Sin is rarely without complication.”

His hand slid from her arm, tracing the line of her dress before settling on her hip. “And you? Are you a sinner?”

“You’re the detective,” she breathed. “You tell me.” Her chest brushed his, her pulse roared louder than the bass.

For an instant, their mouths hovered far too close. Close enough that the world seemed to tilt toward them, inviting the fall. Her body swayed into him, the scent of his cologne catching in her throat, the warmth of him invading every sense.

One slight move and…

“….is that why so many students disappear around here?” His voice was soft. Not accusing. But the damage was done.

The words cut through the haze like a blade. The light around her shattered, replaced by cold stone and sterile hallways, by the echo of screams that had already dissolved into silence. Those eager faces, that too-tight bun, that fiery red hair.

Shinichi was still here, a breath away from her. But suddenly, an ocean apart.

Shiho tore herself from him. His confusion was written all over his face as he reached for her, but she shook her head, her smirk slipping back into place like armor, trembling at the edges.

“What—” But before he could say more, she was gone—slipping into the shadows as easily as smoke escapes a flame.

The cold air hit her like a blade. Rain had started to fall, slicking her hair to her temples, needling against her skin as she pushed into the dark street. Her breath came sharp, ragged, too loud in the silence after the music.

What had she been thinking?

“Wait! Ai, wait!”

A hand closed on her shoulder, spinning her back. Shinichi’s face was inches from hers, rain cutting silver lines through his hair.

“This was a mistake.” Her voice cracked; the liquor burned away the brittleness inside of her.

She ripped free of his hand. She took a step back, copper hair plastered to her cheeks, the shadows swallowing her outline. “Don’t follow me, detective. You won’t like what you find.”

Then she turned and ran, her figure vanishing into the night—half-ghost, half-flame, leaving the scent of whiskey and rain in her wake.

He had barely entered his hotel room when a soft knock came from the other side.

His heart started to beat, and even when he knew it wouldn’t….couldn’t…be her…his heart was a little heavier when he saw it was Ran.

She hesitated on the threshold, but whatever she saw in his eyes made her swallow her greeting. Without a word, she stepped forward and took his hand.

“You know,” she said quietly, her voice warm and fragile, “it’s okay when you can’t solve every puzzle.”

“What…?” He blinked, thrown off balance.

But Ran wasn’t looking at him—her gaze lingered on their joined hands, her thumb brushing his knuckles. “I know you were investigating that missing student. It must be… horrible, when someone just disappears.”

Oh.

He closed his eyes, exhaling a long, weary breath that did nothing to lift the haze clouding his mind.

“I was worried about you earlier,” she continued, her voice careful, almost trembling. “I know that look in your eyes, Shinichi—the one you get when you’ve found something you can’t let go of. When the thrill of discovery overtakes caution. But…” She met his eyes then, pleading quietly. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. I didn’t want to step in or say anything, but when you were gone….I promised myself I wouldn’t let it go. Shinichi please. Let’s ignore it.”

He should have disagreed. Should have told her that she got it all wrong. But tonight…

Tonight, he was so tired.

This—whatever it was between him and Ai—was draining him. Every glance, every word, every brush of her hand had left him hollowed out and aching. And yet… There was something there. A connection he couldn’t explain.

Somehow, she had shut down with his comment. It should ring so many bells. And it did. He should have chased it. Investigated it. He was Shinichi Kudo, after all.

But when Ran looked at him with those soft, pleading eyes, he did something reckless. Something that felt, in that moment, like surrender.

“You’re right,” he murmured, his voice low. “We should ignore it.”

He drew her close, pressing his face into her hair. The scent of her shampoo—vanilla and jasmine—wrapped around him like warmth against winter air. Her body was trembling faintly, or maybe it was his.

When he kissed her, he told himself it was love. He told himself it was the anchor he needed, the normal life he was supposed to want. His hands framed her face, desperate for something solid, something real.

She sighed against his lips, soft and certain, and he held her tighter—as if he could drown out the memory pressing at the edges of his mind.

But even as their bodies melted into one another, the ghost of copper hair and a crimson dress lingered in the dark behind his eyelids.

And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite make her disappear.

The bright beam of headlights slashed through the rain.

Shiho squinted, her heart quickening in anticipation and wariness. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she slumped with relief, only to stiffen again two seconds later.

She swiped the tip of her tongue over her dry lips as the car stopped in front of her and the passenger window rolled down.

“Get in,” a saccharine voice commanded. Vermouth’s green eyes raked over her, unreadable. The cigarette between her fingers glowed faintly, its ember curling smoke into serpentine ribbons that hung in the damp air.

Shiho hesitated. The rain poured harder, plastering her hair to her forehead and gluing her thin dress to her skin. Vermouth arched a brow.

“I hope you’re not waiting for me to open the door for you.”

Shiho swore under her breath, taking two cautious glances to her sides to check that nobody was watching before she slid open the door to the van and hopped in. She was still damp from the rain, and the taste clung to her lips.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone flat, her hands tightening in her lap.

Vermouth steered lazily with one hand, the other flicking ash out the cracked window. “Oh, you know. Just checking on my favorite runaway scientist.”

“I wasn’t running.”

“Really?” Vermouth’s gaze flicked toward her. “You call this getting air?”

“I was,” Shiho muttered. She folded her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead as she watched the water distort the world outside into a blur of colors and light.

“Air,” Vermouth repeated with a laugh, her voice dripping with mockery. Her eyes trailed over Shiho—her damp hair, the faint smudge of lipstick, the wrinkled dress that still carried the ghost of someone’s touch. “You smell of rain, guilt, and bad decisions.”

A humorless, quiet sound escaped her. Shiho leaned her head against the cold window, the vibration humming through her skull. “My apologies. Next time, I’ll try to make my despair more fragrant.”

The rain hammered harder against the windshield, blurring the city lights into streaks of gold and white. Shiho watched them pass, realization dawning slowly, uneasily.

These streets weren’t leading back to her dorm.

Her stomach turned. “Where are we going?”

Vermouth didn’t answer right away. She took a long drag from her cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the darkness. When she exhaled, her voice was calm. “Back to the lab.”

Shiho’s pulse spiked. “Why?”

“Because someone’s been playing scientist for far too long without delivering results,” Vermouth said lightly, though her tone had hardened underneath. “And our dear Dr. Maraschino is getting sloppy. He needs… correction.”

Shiho’s hands curled into fists. “Don’t tell me—”

“That you’ll help?” Vermouth smiled faintly. “Of course you will. His failures reflect on you, after all. But with your touch, I’m sure he’ll improve.”

The car turned sharply, tires slicing through a puddle, the city bleeding away behind them.

When they arrived, the lab was eerily still. No guards. No sound. Only the hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of Shiho’s footsteps beside Vermouth’s heels.

At the end of the hall, the reinforced steel door loomed like a vault. Shiho hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keypad.

“Go on,” Vermouth said softly. “You know the code.”

Her fingers hovered above the keypad. 4-8-6-9. The lock disengaged with a heavy click. The steel door slid open. Shiho braced herself for screaming, for the hiss-click of machines, for the smug baritone of Maraschino mocking her again. Instead—

The stench hit first. Metallic, thick, suffocating. Then the sight. The lab was painted red with blood. It streaked the walls, pooled on the tile, smeared across consoles. Machines sat silent, their casings splattered, blinking lights drowned in scarlet.

In the center stood Maraschino in his white coat, with his smile too wide. Beside him was a stretcher lined with instruments and vials, gleaming dully under the flickering light.

“Ah,” he said, spreading his arms. “You’ve arrived. Perfect timing. I’ve just finished preparing.”

Shiho took a step back, but Vermouth’s hand caught her shoulder, keeping her rooted to the spot.

“You’ve redecorated,” the older woman drawled. “I don’t recall blood being in the design specs.”

Maraschino’s laugh cracked. "You can’t clean a house without raising dust." His eyes found Shiho’s, fever-bright and gleaming with an excitement that turned her stomach. “And progress requires sacrifice.”

“Progress,” Vermouth echoed, her tone honeyed and sharp. “When none of your experiments lived long enough to be useful?”

He faltered. “They—they volunteered—” Then, with sudden brightness: “But perhaps it’s time to stop using borrowed material.”

Shiho’s head snapped toward him.

There was something ravenous in his smile. “Who better to test the culmination of our research than one of the minds that birthed it? You’ll be the final step.” He gestured toward the stretcher, the instruments gleaming under the light. “It’s poetic, don’t you think?”

Her throat tightened. “You’re insane.”

“Am I?” His voice softened, almost tender. “All this time, you’ve been afraid to finish what you started. To cross that last threshold. But together—”

He took a step toward her.

Vermouth laughed loudly. “Oh, Maraschino,” she purred, drawing out the syllables like silk. “You really don’t understand your place in the story, do you?”

He froze, confusion flashing across his face. “What are you—”

Vermouth’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You think she’s your subject?” She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re the experiment that failed.”

Maraschino blinked, the meaning sinking in too late.

Shiho hadn’t noticed Vermouth slip something cold and heavy into her palm. She looked down. A gun. Her breath hitched. “No.”

Vermouth’s hand closed over hers, steadying it, guiding the barrel upward until it pointed squarely at Maraschino’s chest. “Yes,” Vermouth murmured, her lips close to Shiho’s ear. “You allowed him to fail. You clean him up.”

Maraschino stumbled back, shaking his head, a strangled laugh escaping him. “No, listen to me,…this is absurd….she’s manipulating you—”

“Oh?” Vermouth tilted her head. “Did you not plan to dissect her before I arrived?”

His protest died on his tongue.

Shiho’s finger trembled on the trigger. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, feel the cold bite of metal against her skin. For one dizzy instant, she saw everything — the students who vanished, the ghosts of experiments gone wrong, the blood she’d tried to wash from her hands.

Akemi. Galliano. And Shinichi’s face, his blue eyes, too honest, too alive.

Her little self in the mirror, who tried to prove to everyone she was her parents’ daughter.

Maraschino’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

The shot was muffled, almost anticlimactic. He crumpled before the echo even died, collapsing beside the stretcher that had waited for someone else. Smoke curled from the barrel. Shiho stared at the body, her breath shallow, her hands trembling, but she didn’t drop the gun.

Her ears rang until Vermouth’s clap broke the stillness. “Well done, darling,” she murmured, brushing a lock of damp hair from Shiho’s face. “Nothing quite like your first kill to make a woman feel alive.”

Shiho’s voice was soft, hollow. “It’s not my first.”  No. She had killed before.

But Vermouth didn’t pay her any attention. She stepped over Maraschino’s corpse and retrieved a lighter. “Now, let’s make sure no one finds our little masterpiece.” She flicked the small, golden, hungry flame to life and tossed it into a spreading pool of ethanol.

Fire bloomed, and the lab began to burn. Sirens that hadn’t been there a moment before howled distantly, then very close. The lab’s redundant alarms screamed to life, half-choked by smoke. Flames skittered along wiring, licked a reagent shelf, found a puddle of something volatile, and took it with a bright, greedy hunger.

Shiho didn’t look back.

Something tickles her fingertips, tripping over her knuckles, and she thought it was an insect, a moth that got into the lab, but when she looked down, it was her shaking hands.

Shinichi told himself it was for the academics—the prestige, the challenge, the doors it might open.

Harvard had been a logical choice, an impressive line on the résumé, a step forward in every way that mattered.

Lies, of course.

But he had gotten good at those lately. Good enough to almost believe them. Good enough to swallow the quiet ache in his chest and name it ambition instead.

It wasn’t until weeks after he returned to Japan that he saw the news.

A fire at the biology research building. The same one Ai had sat in front of when he first saw her there.

At first, the reports were brief. A lab accident. Equipment malfunction. Contained, under investigation.

Then, more details surfaced.

When firefighters breached the lower levels, they found bodies.

Dozens of them. Hidden behind reinforced doors deep underground. A professor and a dozen students, who had simplyvanished over the past months.

The police called it a tragedy.

A professor conducting a high-security research project with students who had failed to keep in contact with their supervisors was declared missing only after it was too late.

An illogical explanation, riddled with question marks. Especially when reports resurfaced of a nearly identical incident at a research lab in Vienna, also under Professor LaRouche’s direction.

And yet, the world accepted it.

The university issued condolences, promised memorials, and the headlines moved on.

Shinichi tried to do the same.

He told himself she had nothing to do with it.

Told himself she was safe, that she’d simply transferred, changed her name, started over somewhere else.

But every night, that quiet certainty eroded a little more.

The air in his lungs felt too sharp, too heavy.

He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop seeing the glow of that fire reflected in her eyes.

He reached out—emailed professors, assistants, anyone connected to the program.

He combed through student directories, faculty lists, and research archives.

But every reply was the same.

There was no record of an Ai Haibara ever being enrolled at Harvard.