In a dimly lit bar, shadows danced under the flicker of a dusty television screen.
On the other end of the bar, Gin and Vodka were seated in silence, watching the broadcast of "All Japan Detective Agency Unit". On screen, Hayashi Yoshiki spoke elegantly, his voice clear and steady as ever.
Gin scoffed lightly.
"Look at him," Vodka chuckled. "So popular now. Imagine how his fans would react if they knew he's killed someone."
"He hasn't," Gin said flatly, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. "Don't get it twisted, Vodka."
Vodka paused, then nodded. "Right... technically."
Indeed, Hayashi Yoshiki's killings had all been accidents—clean, bloodless, flawless. Not a single trace left behind. Gin, for all his paranoia and caution, couldn't deny he was impressed.
A crooked grin pulled at the edge of his mouth.
"He's valuable," Gin muttered. "Smart. Precise. Interesting... I'll test him again when the time is right. But for now—let him enjoy his little spotlight."
Vodka leaned forward. "By the way, about the smuggled weapons—"
"Forget it. Stick to the plan. We'll collect at Dorobiga Paradise Park," Gin replied without hesitation.
Vodka nodded. "I already made the call. They know to bring the money. A hundred million yen for the negatives… not bad."
They were blackmailing a company with smuggled arms caught on tape—standard fare. The goal was to extort cash and then take the company's land for a new lab. Clean. Brutal. Efficient.
Suddenly, Vodka tilted his head at the TV. "Hey, that woman in the ad's pretty."
Gin didn't respond.
Meanwhile, at the Nichimei TV studio, the stage crew announced the end of the commercial break.
Assistant host Ayako Nagai visibly relaxed, while Takashi Matsuo, the main host, clutched his abdomen.
"Oof... it's killing me..."
"What's wrong, Mr. Matsuo?"
"My stomach's been off since this morning," he said with a weak smile. Then he turned to a nearby staff member. "Can you check where Director Suwa is right now?"
"Of course."
A moment later, Matsuo received the answer: Director Michihiko Suwa was monitoring the program live from the fourth-floor mixing room.
Matsuo's eyes narrowed. His hand, still pressed to his stomach, clenched slightly.
(Perfect.)
All the pieces were in place.
Matsuo had poured years into the show. But now Suwa wanted him out—planned to replace him with some beauty starlet and sexualize the format to double ratings. Suwa had even said it aloud: "Enjoy your last show."
And so, Matsuo decided this really would be his final show—with Suwa.
He straightened his back and reset his expression.
"Welcome back to the All Japan Detective Agency Unit," he said on air, smiling like nothing had happened.
"Let's return to our conversation. Mr. Hayashi, as a mystery novelist, what kind of crime is the easiest to solve?"
"Under similar conditions," Hayashi replied calmly, "a shooting is usually the easiest."
"A shooting?" Matsuo asked, brows raised.
"Yes," Hayashi nodded. "Gunshots leave visible, unmistakable traces—muzzle burns, entry points. Compared to hidden methods or obscure poisons, it's much harder to cover up."
Matsuo swallowed hard.
"I see…"
For a moment, a flicker of unease crossed his face. But he quickly brushed it off.
Then came Ayako's cheerful voice: "Speaking of shooting, Mr. Matsuo is a total gun nerd! I heard he's as good as a pro."
Matsuo's pupils contracted.
"That's... an exaggeration," he chuckled awkwardly. "I did train overseas, but I'm no professional."
"Oh, come on," Ayako teased. "He's always bragging off camera!"
To lighten the mood, Matsuo playfully stood up, holding his fingers apart slightly. "Maybe I'm just this close to being a pro!"
The audience laughed.
Soon, the segment transitioned into the next game: "The Prisoner Is You", a 4-minute VCR where viewers guessed the identity of the murderer based on clues.
While it played, the studio hosts could finally rest.
Backstage, Ayako led Hayashi to a side screen to watch the short film together.
"The production team really went all-out," she commented as the VCR neared its end.
Hayashi didn't respond. His eyes remained calmly focused.
"By the way," he asked, "where's Mr. Matsuo?"
"Huh? Let me see—"
Before she could finish, Matsuo came jogging up, drenched in sweat, one hand still on his stomach.
"I'm here, I'm here! Still not feeling great, but I'm okay. Let's get ready to finish the show."