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Chapter Text

[TOP SECRET — INTERPOL CASE FILE 001: OPERATION WHITE RABBIT]

Subject: KID, KAITŌ — Alias: “Kaito Kid”

Designation: International Criminal Priority Class S

Years Active: Unknown (Successor activity presumed following Kaito Kids longer disappearance)

Confirmed Heists: 47

Unconfirmed Sightings: 120+

Recovered Stolen Goods: 100%

Motive: Unknown

Most Recent Target: “The Mirror Diamond,” Tokyo Metropolitan Museum

Status: Active Threat

Internal Memo Excerpt

 

From: Commander Janek, Task Force Lead

To: Global Directorate, Interpol HQ

Subject: Launch of White Rabbit Protocol

 

He doesn’t steal to profit.

He doesn’t kill.

He gives back everything he takes—eventually.

 

And yet, every time he moves, the world watches.

 

We’ve thrown agents at him.

Systems. Algorithms. Former criminals.

 

He slips through like smoke.

 

This isn’t about security.

This is about control. And he’s making a joke of it.

Transcript Fragment – Task Force Briefing, Audio Recording 022

 

“How many has he slipped past?”

 

“Every single one.”

 

“And you think this new one will be different?”

 

“…he believes in the rules. Let’s see what happens when they break.”

They named it Operation: White Rabbit because chasing him meant falling into the impossible.

Some called him a myth. A phantom. A story children told each other in white silk and laughter. But in the halls of Interpol, the name Kaito Kid was written in red ink and capital letters.

No one had ever caught him. No one had ever even come close.

He announced his heists with poetry and panache. He arrived in white. He vanished in smoke. He left behind empty glass cases and flustered press statements. Never a trace. Never a fingerprint.

Interpol had tried everything.

Snipers. Profilers. Undercover agents.

They’d sent out traps made of code and concrete. He danced through them like it was all part of the show.

They weren’t chasing a man.

They were chasing a magician.

So, they changed their strategy.

They chose a new kind of operative.

Not a marksman. Not a brawler. Not a field veteran.

A profiler.

Young. Brilliant.

Fresh out of training. Eyes too sharp. Too clean. Too full of belief.

He believed everything could be broken down.

That even the world’s most elusive phantom could be understood. Predicted. Trapped.

His name was Alex Mori.

He collected books like other people collected weapons. He’d studied every known psychological model, mapped every high-profile case in Europe and Japan. He’d watched the footage. Read the notes. Dismantled criminal minds on whiteboards like puzzles waiting to be solved.

They told him this would be different.

He didn’t believe them.

He said: “Everyone leaves a pattern. Even ghosts.”

[Task Force Designation Update – OPWR-001]

Assigned Operative: Mori, Alex

Clearance Level: 5

Title: Psychological Consultant, Field Assignment

Deployment Zone: Tokyo Metropolitan Museum

Target Date: Exhibition Opening Gala – “The Mirror Diamond”

Field Status: ACTIVE

Expected Contact: Kaito Kid (within 48 hours of card delivery)

Operation: White Rabbit has begun. Let the game commence.

Chapter Text

Tokyo — Three days before the gala.

The museum smelled like polished stone and the memory of candlelight—old money dressed up as culture, with high ceilings and gold-trimmed railings that tried a little too hard to look effortless. Marble columns cast long shadows in the late afternoon sun, and every step Alex Mori took echoed a little too sharply off the floor.

He paused just inside the entrance to the main exhibit hall.

At the center of the room, beneath a dome of tempered glass and silent security cameras, the Mirror Diamond shimmered like a contained explosion. Even from here, Alex could see the way it caught and fractured light—dozens of reflections dancing along the surrounding walls, soft and ghost-like. Like it was already trying to disappear.

He adjusted his glasses.

“Pretty,” he murmured. “Almost a shame he’s going to steal it.”

A voice behind him snorted. “Almost.”

Detective Ayako Ishikawa didn’t bother with introductions. She was already ten steps past formalities and just barely tolerating Interpol’s involvement. Gray suit, tightly coiled bun, no visible patience.

“You’re the profiler?” she asked, voice clipped.

“Alex Mori,” he said. “Psychological Division.”

She gave him a look that suggested she’d expected someone taller. Or at least older.

“You believe you can stop Kaito Kid with psychology.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a judgment.

Alex smiled like he didn’t notice. “I don’t plan to stop him with psychology,” he said, stepping toward the exhibit. “I plan to stop him with preparation. Psychology just tells me where to start.”

The Mirror Diamond sat beneath three layers of bulletproof casing, framed in velvet and glass. According to the museum guide, it was one of the purest cuts in modern history—no flaws, no known equals, a centerpiece designed to impress. Alex barely glanced at the plaque. He didn’t need the diamond’s story. He needed the story Kid would write around it.

Mirrors everywhere.

Reflected light, distorted angles, polished floors.

A stage disguised as an exhibit.

“Security was doubled last week,” Ishikawa said, following his gaze. “Motion sensors. Infrared. Two guards on every exit and three at the vault.”

“And you still got a card,” Alex replied.

She didn’t answer.

He pulled a small notebook from his coat and turned to a blank page. In neat handwriting, he scrawled a single word:

Misdirection.

A shuffle of footsteps behind him. Someone younger, faster, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry! Sorry—I was told you were already here.”

Alex turned.

The man approaching looked barely old enough to drive, let alone be carrying Interpol credentials. He wore a lanyard that was half-twisted around his neck, a dress shirt that didn’t quite fit, and an expression that screamed he was trying very hard not to spill the coffee in his left hand or drop the tablet in his right.

“Daisuke Tanaka,” the man said, offering a hand once he’d freed it. “Junior analyst, field logistics.”

Alex shook his hand. “Mori. Profiling.”

Tanaka lit up. “Right! I—I read your thesis on behavior mirrors and performer ego loops. The application of stage theory to criminal performance? That was—uh, brilliant.”

Alex blinked. A bit startled. But not displeased.

“Thanks,” he said, tucking the notebook away.

“So, uh…” Tanaka looked around. “He’s really going to try it, isn’t he? With all this security?”

Alex turned back toward the Mirror Diamond. Watched the reflections move like dancers across the walls.

“Yes,” he said simply. “He wants us to be watching. That’s the point.”

“You sound… sure.”

“I am.”

And then, with a small tilt of his head, Alex added, “Besides—he left a calling card, didn’t he?”

Tanaka nodded slowly.

Ishikawa folded her arms. “You’re all insane.”

“Maybe,” Alex said. “But if he plays this like the others, I can break him down. Find the gaps.”

He turned away from the diamond, scanning the room—not for the jewel, but for what Kid would see. Where the reflections crossed. Where the shadows fell. Where the applause might land after the trick.

This wasn’t a crime scene.

It was a stage.

And somewhere, the phantom thief was already rehearsing.

The apartment smelled faintly of miso soup, engine oil, and burnt popcorn—standard fare for any evening at the Kuroba residence.

Kaito sprawled across the living room floor in a T-shirt and joggers, half-watching the museum’s livestream coverage on his tablet while idly flicking a playing card between his fingers. The coverage wasn’t official—just some bored YouTuber doing speculative commentary with poor lighting and worse opinions—but it had a perfect wide shot of the Mirror Diamond, and that was all he needed.

“You're not eating your noodles,” Jii called from the kitchen.

Kaito gave a vague wave in the direction of the steaming cup. “They’re cooling.”

“They’re congealing.”

He ignored that.

Onscreen, a museum drone panned dramatically over the exhibit. Kaito paused the video. Zoomed in.

There.

The reflection from the southern skylight. Right during the gala’s scheduled closing hour. Light would hit the diamond just so—and then scatter into a dozen copies across the far wall.

He grinned. “Oh, that’s pretty.”

The card in his hand disappeared with a flick. Reappeared in his other.

He wasn’t surprised Interpol had stepped in. He was surprised they’d sent a profiler. The last one they'd tried to use ended up chasing a decoy into a koi pond and needed four stitches. Good times.

Kaito flopped onto his back, letting the tablet rest on his chest.

“A profiler,” he mused aloud, staring at the ceiling. “That’s new.”

He reached over and grabbed his notebook—an old magician’s ledger repurposed for nonsense and doodles. Somewhere near the middle, wedged between a list of smoke bomb ingredients and a recipe for chocolate pancakes, he scribbled one word:

Mori.

He added a little stick figure beside it. Glasses, blazer, mildly judgy posture.

“You’re going to try and break me down, huh?” Kaito murmured. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

From the kitchen, Jii called again.

“You’re still not eating your noodles.”

“I’m fueling on drama,” Kaito called back.

And with that, he hit play on the livestream again—smiling as the Mirror Diamond refracted light like it was already clapping.

Alex stood beneath the arched ceiling, eyes narrowed slightly, cataloging angles, reflections, lines of sight. Everything in this room was sharp—gleaming, pristine, deliberate. It didn’t feel like a secure vault.

It felt like a performance space.

He made another note in his book: Stage design matters. So does the audience.

Behind him, Detective Ishikawa tapped the toe of her boot once against the marble floor. Impatient. Impenetrable.

“You want time with the floor plans?” she asked.

“Yes. And the lighting grid. Security feeds, patrol patterns, event schedule, guest list.” He paused. “Also, the menu.”

“The… menu?”

“It’s a gala. He loves distractions.”

She blinked. “You think he’s going to steal a shrimp cocktail?”

Alex didn’t look up. “I think if someone drops one, and everyone turns their head, we lose visual contact for three seconds. That’s all he needs.”

Her silence was pointed.

Tanaka, still catching his breath, tried to recover. “We’ve got most of that data already. I can pull it into one system for you, if you want a dedicated profile suite?”

“Please.”

The junior agent practically glowed at being useful. He fumbled for his tablet, then caught it with a quiet “ha!” when it slipped. Alex didn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth moved.

They spent the next hour walking the museum, tracing guard patrol paths, checking potential blind spots, and assessing the routes Kid might use if he wanted to go flashy—or quiet. Either was possible. Both were likely.

That was the problem.

Kid didn’t favor one strategy. He favored surprise.

Alex stopped in the hallway leading to the service corridor. A mirror sculpture lined the left wall—modern, abstract, all jagged edges and polished glass. The reflections fractured everything. His own face stared back at him a dozen different ways, elongated, distorted, scattered.

He wrote: Too many angles. Too much misdirection. He’ll love this.

And underneath it: I don’t.

He stepped back. Turned slowly. Tried to imagine the path Kid would take—not just through the building, but in his mind.

Would he go for the diamond directly?

No. Too obvious. Too soon.

He’d dance first. Let them believe they had him. Make them look the wrong way.

And then vanish.

Kid wasn’t just a thief. He was a storyteller. Each heist was a plot. Each escape, a punchline. The real trick wasn’t catching him. It was guessing the shape of his narrative before the final act.

Alex flipped the page. Wrote in bold strokes:

Narrative Projection:

 

Opening distraction?

 

High-stakes misdirection?

 

Escape as finale?

 

Themes: Illusion. Performance. Control.

 

Target audience: Interpol. Me?

He tapped the pen against the page once. Twice. Stopped.

Was this a show?

Or a challenge?

The hotel Interpol had booked was serviceable, in a neutral beige kind of way. The temporary task room they'd set up smelled like weak coffee and newer stress.

Alex sat at the head of a narrow conference table, a mess of printouts spread before him: past heists, stills of Kid’s appearances, psychological theory notes, a list of gala guests, and a hastily scanned image of the calling card.

It was elegant, as expected. Scripted in sweeping ink, signed with the iconic K, and quoting a line from a magician’s memoir most people had never read.

He held it up to the light.

“A mirror never lies—but it never shows the truth either. Shall we see what you reflect?”

Alex turned the card over. Blank.

He looked to Tanaka, who was still pecking away at his tablet, pulling security schematics into 3D renderings. Ishikawa was out coordinating with local enforcement, likely still grumbling about “the profiler and the poet thief.”

He didn’t mind. He wasn’t here to win popularity.

He was here to win.

Alex picked up his pen and drew a square around the final note on the page:

Showtime in three days.
Break the magician’s rhythm.
Make him slip.

He closed the notebook and leaned back in his chair.

Just for a moment, he allowed himself to think—

What if I actually catch him?

Then he shook the thought away.

The curtain hadn't even gone up yet.

Chapter Text

The screen flickered in the low light, casting thin blue reflections across the table, the floor, and the lenses of Alex Mori’s glasses. He sat forward, elbows on the edge of the desk, face bathed in the pale glow of an open security feed. The footage stuttered for a moment—then resumed, frame by frame, as a familiar white silhouette appeared in a cloud of smoke.

It was an old clip. Vienna. Six months ago. The Van Elster Emerald job. A rooftop gala, a velvet rope crowd, three different security agencies—and still, the only thing they managed to catch was applause.

Alex wasn’t watching the theft.

He was watching the pause.

The moment right before.

There—on screen—Kaito Kid landed lightly atop a grand piano, one hand held out as if greeting the orchestra, the other tucked behind his back. A smirk tilted his mouth. He bowed.

And for one breathless second, he was utterly still.

Alex paused the video.

Not many people noticed that moment. The breath before the trick. The silence before the spectacle. But it was always there.

He reached for his pen—an old black roller with the clip missing—and clicked it twice before scribbling a line into his notebook.

“Performer’s beat.” Consistent hesitation before major action. Learn the rhythm. Interrupt it.

He clicked the pen again. Rewound the footage.

The rhythm was there in every job. Paris, London, Sydney. Kid always left a card. Always gave notice. He arrived with style, stole with flair, vanished with elegance. His entrances were clean. His exits cleaner. But in every performance—every act—there was that same beat. Like a conductor lifting the baton before the downstroke.

A tell.

Alex sat back, eyes narrowed.

“He’s not just a magician,” he murmured to the empty room. “He’s a storyteller.”

“Every heist he’s pulled off in the last five years has followed the same core structure.”

Alex stood beside the whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, a black marker in hand. Behind him, the board was neatly divided into three segments, each labeled in careful block print:

ACT I — ARRIVAL

ACT II — DISTRACTION

ACT III — ESCAPE

“Not just in actions,” he continued. “In tone. In rhythm. He follows a performance structure. First, the spectacle—he lets us see him. Second, the chaos—usually visual or emotional, something to pull attention. And finally, the exit—clean, sudden, final. Curtain closed.”

Detective Ishikawa leaned against the windowsill, arms folded, watching with a skeptical expression that hadn’t changed since the day they met. At the conference table, Tanaka was hunched over his tablet, taking frantic notes and nodding along like he was in the world’s most intense lecture.

Alex clicked a button on the remote. The screen behind him changed to a split panel of past heists—Kid leaping from a glass skylight, vanishing behind fireworks, diving into a sea of mirror illusions. Same arc. Same flow. Different dressing.

“This isn’t arrogance,” Alex said. “It’s not ego. It’s structure. Every heist is a crafted narrative. He understands his audience. He knows what they expect.”

Ishikawa raised an eyebrow. “And you think you can out-direct him?”

“I don’t need to. I just need to change the script.”

He clicked the remote again. A floor plan of the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum filled the screen.

“Kid’s calling card gave us a time window,” Alex continued, gesturing to the map. “He’ll act during the gala. Specifically, during the mirror light show near the finale. The diamond will be fully exposed under a direct beam to showcase its inner cuts—twelve angles, scattered reflections, a field of perfect misdirection.”

He paused.

“It’s too perfect.”

Ishikawa frowned. “You think it’s a trap?”

“No. I think it’s a show. Which means that’s not when he’ll strike.”

Alex clicked to a new slide. This one was a 3D model Tanaka had assembled from floor schematics. The lighting rig above the diamond, the elevated security perches, the catering path.

“He wants us watching the moment he doesn’t move. We’ll let him think we are. Meanwhile, we watch everything else.”

Tanaka looked up. “So… reverse stage magic. Watch the hands he hides, not the ones he waves.”

Alex gave him a small smile. “Exactly.”

“I’ll be on the floor,” Alex added, stepping back. “He knows I’m here. Interpol made sure of that. He’ll want to see what I do. Test how I react. I’ll let him.”

Ishikawa pushed off from the wall. “You're volunteering to be the distraction.”

Alex shrugged. “I’m the profiler. Let him try to read me back.”

He didn’t say it, but part of him hoped Kid would. If everything Alex suspected was true—if the thief really was crafting these heists like performances—then having an audience that understood the narrative would change the game.

They wouldn’t just be watching each other.

They’d be playing.

The city outside the window pulsed with soft light, blurred by the condensation on the glass. Alex sat cross-legged in the armchair by the window, his notebook open across one knee, pen tapping slowly against the edge of the paper.

He’d built the plan. Not from weapons or muscle or brute force. But from timing. Flow. Human expectation.

Kid performed because he wanted to be watched.

So Alex would watch him back.

And when the moment came—the hesitation, the breath, the beat—

He’d be ready.

He drew a box around his final line of the night:

Don’t chase the illusion. Break the rhythm.

Let him fall into silence. Then close the trap.

He capped the pen. Shut the book. Closed his eyes, just for a moment.

The magician was coming.

And this time, the stage wasn’t his alone.

Alex stepped out onto the narrow rooftop terrace connected to the hotel’s top floor. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality, cutting off the quiet hum of electronics from the war room they'd turned the conference suite into.

The city stretched around him, glittering with artificial light. Tokyo at night looked like a circuit board come to life—cars like electrons, neon signage like pulses of information. Everything in motion. Everything connected. He liked that.

Footsteps behind him.

“You look like someone trying to outstare a skyline,” said Tanaka’s voice. Lighter than usual. Careful, like he wasn’t sure if this was a moment he was allowed to enter.

Alex didn’t turn. “Trying to figure out if it’s moving too fast, or if I am.”

Tanaka joined him at the railing, hands stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his coat. “You ever done one of these before? Like… a live field trap?”

Alex shook his head. “Not like this.”

There was a long pause before Tanaka replied. “You don’t seem nervous.”

“I am,” Alex said. “But I’ve learned to put that somewhere else until it’s useful.”

That earned a small laugh. “Is that from one of your books?”

“No,” Alex said. “That one I had to learn the hard way.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The city breathed beneath them.

“Do you really think you can outmaneuver him?” Tanaka asked. It wasn’t skeptical. Just curious. Honest.

“I think I can make him hesitate,” Alex said softly. “And maybe that’s enough.”

He hesitated himself, then added, “I’ve spent years studying people who run from things. Regret. Shame. Fear. But Kid doesn’t run from anything. He runs toward it. Into the spotlight. Into the danger. It’s not ego—it’s art. That’s what makes him dangerous.”

Tanaka nodded slowly. “And what makes you think he’ll slip?”

Alex looked out over the lights.

“Everyone does,” he said. “Eventually.”

He couldn’t sleep.

Back in his hotel room, Alex spread out the materials again. Notes. Floor plans. Timing charts. A color-coded guest list sorted by proximity to the diamond.

He checked the lighting angles again—twice.

Every second had to line up.

He needed Kid to believe he was in control. Needed him to feel the tempo. Needed him to think he knew how this would end.

He reached for his pen again. The ink was starting to run dry, but it didn’t matter.

Let him feel the rhythm. Then take it away.

He sat back, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the ceiling like the answers might be written in the drywall.

He’s going to walk right past me.

That was the part he couldn’t shake.

Somewhere, in the middle of all the lights and mirrors and music and eyes—Kid would pass through the crowd like mist.

Alex wouldn’t see him coming.

But he’d feel it.

And he was betting everything that that would be enough.

The workshop smelled like sawdust and stage paint.

It always did, no matter how often Jii opened the windows. Hidden beneath a shuttered repair shop on the city’s edge, the room was cluttered with props in progress—folding mirrors, smoke canisters, weighted playing cards, half-finished gliders hanging from the ceiling like metal bats.

Kaito adjusted the fake cuffs on his gala uniform in the mirror. The reflection showed a phantom in progress: half costumed, half himself, all motion. He tilted his head left, then right, checking how the fabric moved under the lights.

“Too stiff,” he muttered.

“I told you,” Jii said from behind a pile of foam bricks and silver paint. “You went too heavy on the starch.”

“It’s supposed to snap dramatically when I spin, not try to murder my shoulders.”

“You wanted dramatic. I made dramatic.”

Kaito sighed, peeling off the coat. “Remind me why I gave you creative input again?”

“Because you can’t sew a straight line to save your life.”

Fair.

He laid the coat aside and moved toward the table. The floor plan of the museum was spread out like a puzzle—every hallway, vent, skylight, shadow, and blind spot marked in fine red pen. Beside it sat the mock-up diamond: a perfect glass replica, slightly heavier than the real one to offset the escape route’s incline.

He glanced at the plan.

Then at the mirror beside it.

The real trick wouldn’t be stealing the jewel. That was easy. Almost boring.

The trick would be stealing the moment. Owning the story before the profiler could finish writing his version of it.

He picked up a card—sleek, white, monogrammed with the familiar K—and flipped it across his knuckles. Then he set it down gently on the corner of the map, like a signature.

“You think this Mori guy will be interesting?” Jii asked, peering over his glasses.

Kaito shrugged, eyes still on the mirror.

“He’s setting a stage,” he said. “So I guess I should give him a show.”