Chapter Text
“Are you ready, sidekick?” Kaito asks, his typical grin plastered across his face.
“For the most part, yes.”
It’s a total lie, of course. Shuichi Saihara is certainly not ready for what is about to happen, nor will he ever be.
“For the most part?” Kaito punches him in the shoulder playfully, which hurts a lot more than what Shuichi would like to admit. “C’mon, this is our first major gig! Show some enthusiasm!”
Reluctantly, Shuichi returns Kaito’s smile. “Yeah…”
He swallows the lump in his throat as he follows Kaito towards the entrance to the neon-lit nightclub. The line seems to have already dissipated, leaving only an annoyed-looking bouncer with an odd-looking pompadour behind.
“Names?” the bouncer asks. His voice is a low grumble that sends a shiver down Shuichi’s spine.
Kaito and Shuichi exchange a glance. It’s slightly worrying for Shuichi; they didn’t put too much thought into their fake identities when they formulated this scheme.
“Harumaki and Shumai,” Kaito finally answers. Shuichi hopes that his confidence is enough to clear any suspicion clouding in the bouncer’s mind from their delayed response.
The bouncer raises a skeptical eyebrow as he glances at his list and then back to them. “List checks out,” he says before stepping to the side, evoking a much-needed feeling of relief in Shuichi’s heart.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Kaito thanks the bouncer and enters the nightclub, his gait self-assured enough to trick anyone into thinking he belongs there. Shuichi follows suit, though he fails to exude that same air of assertiveness.
Immediately, his corneas are assaulted by the multi-colored strobe lights that flash flicker across the room. He can feel the beat of the music pounding in his chest, and he nearly mistakes it for the pulse of his racing heart.
“There’s no turning back now,” Kaito remarks, just barely loud enough for Shuichi to hear over the deafening noise of the crowd.
Suddenly, the Beretta M-9 tucked beneath his jacket starts to seem heavier, carrying the weight of death in its chamber.
Suddenly, this considerably large room starts to seem smaller. The atmosphere is claustrophobic; suffocating.
“Don’t worry, our target isn’t in here anyway,” Kaito says, taking note of Shuichi’s discomfort.
“Then where?”
Kaito motions towards the door in the far corner of the room, near the bar. “The ‘rich old guy’ lounge. That’s where.”
Shuichi nods, though he doesn’t see it as much of an improvement. “So, do we—”
DING!
He is interrupted by the telltale chime of his phone. Once he turns it on, he finds out that he’s received a text from Maki. He opens it, tilting his phone so Kaito can see the message as well.
Those scumbags are in the middle of a game of poker, the text reads. The game should reach its peak in about five minutes, and that’s when our target will enter.
It’s official now.
Or, as Kaito would say:
There’s no turning back.
“What should we do until then?” Shuichi wonders, wishing he was anywhere else.
Kaito shrugs. “Not much we can do in five minutes.”
Shuichi sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. As his fingers graze the cold metal of his gun, he can’t help but wonder:
How did it end up like this?
He can’t help but feel like he’s bitten off far more than what he can chew by agreeing to this.
(Quickly, the minutes begin to tick down. Five, four, three, and two.)
This… this isn’t what I was supposed to do. This isn’t who I was meant to be.
Even if it’s for the greater good…
(One. Zero. )
“It’s time,” Kaito declares. There’s a glimmer of excitement in his eyes that confuses Shuichi.
Is this exciting to him?
“Wait,” Shuichi urges, placing his hand on Kaito’s shoulder to prevent him from leaving too soon. “Who’s going to, uh…”
“Fire the winning shot?” Kaito supplies surprisingly fast. Shuichi’s impressed; Kaito really doesn’t deserve all the grief Maki gives him about being ‘denser than a sack of bricks.’
Shuichi clears his throat. “Y-Yeah. That.”
“Probably just whoever gets his finger on the trigger first, then.”
Shuichi takes the tiniest amount of solace in that. At the very least, there’s a 50% chance that he won’t actually be killing anyone tonight—not directly, anyway.
A grim smile crosses his face momentarily.
A 50% chance that the blood won’t be on my hands, he thinks, but there’s a 100% chance I won’t be able to sleep at night once we’re done.
With nothing else left to do and nothing else left to say, Shuichi and Kaito begin their journey across the nightclub. It isn’t an easy task by any means—there are broken beer bottles littering the ground and the room is absolutely packed with partygoers. But, eventually, they reach the door.
DING!
It’s Maki again.
By the way, that private lounge is probably going to be locked, the latest text reads. Also, Kaito, if you’re whining about that right now, quit it. All you have to do is wait for the target’s security clearance.
Shuichi glanced up at his partner, who—as expected—did look like he was about to start whining.
“How long are we gonna have to wait for that to happen, huh?” Kaito demands, his arms crossed in annoyance.“This is so lame!”
“Patience is a virtue,” Shuichi mutters under his breath.
Even if it’s for the greater good…
I’m still a criminal.
Kokichi Ouma is bored.
But you really can’t blame him, of course, because everything is simply too boring. It’s nothing new, really.
( And that’s exactly the problem. There is nothing new; nothing exciting and unpredictable and dangerously enticing .)
It’s sad, because the only factor that made him become a detective in the first place is what he’s currently lacking in his life.
Fun.
Through the eyeholes of his mask, he can see a comically overweight man toss his hideous fedora to the ground in anger as the cards on the table are revealed. Ace, two, seven, jack, five. He vaguely recalls witnessing the man puff up his chest in confidence with the exposure of the flop, though it appears that the turn and river have made a considerable change in his circumstances.
Games are fun, Kokichi reckons as he watches the crowd buzz in excitement, but gambling isn’t. It’s people either betting money they don’t have or wasting away the money they do.
He continues to watch as the second round begins and the cards are dealt, however, before the first bet can even be made, the sound of the door opening serves as an interruption.
Kokichi squints at the woman who enters the den, followed by two other men who just blend into the background.
Her again?
Celestia Ludenberg’s appearance is as extravagant as ever, with her jet-black hair tied up into her signature pair of twin drills and a tulle dress the color of wine hugging her body in all the right places.
Her ruby-red eyes sweep across the room; ever sharp and calculating. After ambitiously taking on the Russian Roulette murder incident at the Ludenberg Gambling Hall from earlier that October, Kokichi isn’t particularly keen on spending more time with Celestia than what’s necessary. For that reason, he’s thankful for his mask, however ridiculous it might look.
She clears her throat as if her mere presence isn’t enough to demand everyone’s utmost attention.
“Cease the dealing,” Celestia demands calmly, her chin resting on her fist. Immediately, the dealer complies. “I’d like to partake in this round, so would you be so kind as to reshuffle the deck for me?”
The players look like they want to object, but they don’t. So, with a slight tremor in his hands, the dealer collects the cards that have been already dealt and begins to reshuffle the entire deck.
Once Celestia takes a seat, Kokichi loses investment in what’s going on at the table. His eyes begin to wander, roaming around the dim-lit den, scavenging for something interesting. Something out of the ordinary.
And, much to his own excitement, he quickly finds it.
Looks like I’ve caught you, little mouse, he muses with the ghost of a smile lurking on his concealed face. But I’ve got to hand it to you. Nobody would have noticed it—not unless they knew what to look for, of course.
His mouse—is it really fair to continue comparing him to a rodent, though? He isn’t unattractive by any means, and his awkwardness somehow contributes even further to his appeal—seems to have taken notice of Kokichi’s odd appearance, doing a double-take at the mask that looks like it should belong at a Halloween party instead of a semi-formal gathering.
But the timid stranger doesn’t look like he should be playing this part; he doesn’t look like he belongs in a place like this.
Really, our roles oughta be reversed.
Kokichi feels the tempo of his heartbeat increasing slowly, a feeling that’s becoming increasingly more difficult for him to encounter.
And the moment the first chips are laid on the table, the pistol goes off with a resounding BANG.
And, as it so appears, Celestia Ludenberg now has a brand new hole in her head.
The silence that follows is eerie. No one dares to speak, move, or even blink.
Finally, once it breaks, absolute chaos erupts.
Playing cards go flying—jacks, queens, kings, and all—and people are screaming and running and panicking.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The pistol is fired several more times, though as far as Kokichi can tell, none of them were aimed at anyone in particular.
A diversion tactic, he recognizes, a twinge of nostalgia tickling his heart. I’ve probably pulled something like that before.
In order to avoid being hit by a stray bullet—it’s happened once before, and he’s determined to make sure it never happens again—Kokichi ducks underneath the velvet loveseat that is occupying most of the corner.
His chest rises and falls in rapid breaths. He hasn’t had more than half a glass of scotch to drink, but he’s beginning to feel intoxicated by the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the aroma of danger.
But… I should be trying to stop this.
‘Cause, no matter what I’ve done, what I do, and why I do it…
I’m still a detective.
A grim smile spreads across his face as he suppresses the urge to laugh.
A defective detective.