Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Ever since she could remember, Ran had always considered herself strong. Strong enough to throw a grown man across the dojo floor. Strong enough to chase down criminals, rush through dangerous situations, stand tall through emotional storms, and even stand by Shinichi’s side despite his endless absences. 

She was strong, she had a great stamina, an overflowing energy—there was no questions about it.

Which was why the first sign felt so easy to dismiss. 

It had been a crisp spring morning, the kind that usually filled her with a burst of energy, when she’d arrived at the dojo for her regular practice. She’d greeted the others with her usual grin, tied her hair back, and started her warm-up katas. 

But halfway through the second set of punches, her lungs burned as if she’d run a marathon, and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She paused, one hand on her knee, waiting for her strength to return.

“That’s odd,” she’d murmured to herself. She couldn’t remember the last time a warm-up had left her this winded. 

Maybe the air was too dry that morning. Maybe she hadn’t slept well. She’d shaken it off and finished the routine, determined not to let a little shortness of breath slow her down. 

But that feeling didn’t leave her. It followed her home, a subtle shadow she tried to ignore.

She noticed it again the next day as she carried grocery bags up the third floor of the Detective agency—their modest home. 

Usually, she could manage them all in one trip without a hassle. It was like a secret test of strength she’d always passed with flying colors. But halfway up, she found herself pausing on the landing, chest tight, heart hammering like she’d just sprinted a hundred meters. 

She’d laughed it off, telling herself she was just out of shape from skipping training a few times.

But deep down, it rattled her. She’d always been the one to carry the heavy load—groceries, her father’s paperwork, even other people’s worries. So why couldn’t she handle this?

She started to notice other small changes too: the way she had to stop to catch her breath after cleaning the agency’s floors, or how just a brisk walk to the train station left her with a faint ache in her chest. 

Then the cough came next—a dry, scratchy thing that wouldn’t go away. At first, she blamed the spring pollen, but the cough lingered long after the cherry blossoms had fallen. It was persistent and it hurt. 

One afternoon, Sonoko dragged her out shopping. Ran had tried to enjoy it—Sonoko's antics, gossips, the chatter as they enjoyed the dessert they bought at the café, the bright lights of the department store, the smell of new clothes.

But halfway through browsing a rack of dresses, she’d found herself leaning on the display, her vision swimming. Sonoko noticed immediately. 

“Ran, you okay?” she’d asked, worry creasing her brow. 

Ran forced a smile. “I’m fine, Sonoko. Just tired.” But her legs felt like lead, and every breath felt like a chore.

At home, she’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was happening to her. She’d always prided herself on her endurance. Karate tournaments, long adventures with Shinichi, cleaning the whole apartment top to bottom after one of Kogoro’s messes, even cleaning the massive Kudo mansion once in a while—she could handle anything. 

But now... Now her own body felt alien, like it was working against her.

She remembered a day when she was thirteen, running laps around the schoolyard with Shinichi. He’d teased her—“Hey, you trying to leave me in the dust, Ran?”—and she’d laughed, effortlessly outpacing him. She’d been so confident then, so sure of her own strength. She wondered now where that girl had gone.

The night before everything came crashing down, she’d tried to do a simple kata in her room—just a few moves to keep herself sharp. 

But after three punches, her chest seized. She doubled over, coughing and gasping. Tears pricked her eyes, half from the pain and half from the frustration. She sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, trying to catch her breath. Her body had always been her ally, but now it felt like a traitor.

The day it became impossible to ignore came one evening in the kitchen. She’d been chopping vegetables for dinner, humming to herself, Conan’s voice carrying from the living room as he helped her father organize case files. 

The smell of miso and soy sauce filled the air, a comforting scent she’d always loved. She felt proud, in a small way, that despite everything, she could still make sure Conan and Kogoro were taken care of.

Then the dizziness hit. 

A sudden wave of vertigo swept over her, and her knees buckled. The knife clattered to the counter, the wooden handle spinning. She grabbed the edge, knuckles white, struggling to draw in a breath that wouldn’t come. Her vision blurred at the edges.

“Ran-neechan?” Conan’s voice sliced through the haze. She felt his small hands on her arm, steadying her. “Ran-neechan, are you okay?”

She managed a shaky smile, though it felt fragile, like tissue paper. “I’m fine, Conan-kun,” she lied, voice trembling. “Just… just a little dizzy.”

Conan’s eyes widened, brows furrowed. “No, you’re not. Stay here.” His tone left no room for argument, his childish voice sounding so serious. 

A moment later, Kogoro appeared, all bombast and worry. But one look at her pale face and his bravado vanished.

“Ran, you look terrible. We’re going to the hospital. No arguments,” he barked, his voice rough but his eyes glistening.

She was too tired to protest.

At the hospital, the sterile smell wrapped around her like a shroud. Dr. Araide, kind and reliable as ever, greeted them with a calm smile that didn’t reach his eyes. She was glad that the one attending to her was at least someone familiar. 

He led them to an exam room and listened patiently as she listed her symptoms—the breathlessness, the fatigue, the stubborn cough, the dizziness.

When she finished, Kogoro crossed his arms and demanded, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner, Ran?! You’ve been carrying all this alone?!”

Ran looked down, her fingers knotting together in her lap, her chest tightening with a different reason. 

“I… I didn’t think it was a big deal, Dad,” she admitted softly. “I thought I was just… tired or something.”

Kogoro’s face darkened, torn between frustration and worry. “Ran…”

Dr. Araide placed a gentle hand on Kogoro’s arm, his calm voice breaking the tension. “Mouri-san, it’s very common for patients to dismiss early symptoms, especially when they’re young and otherwise healthy. Let’s focus on understanding what’s going on so we can help her.”

Kogoro grumbled under his breath but said nothing more.

Dr. Araide asked a few more questions, and Ran tried to answer each one honestly. “No chest pain,” she said. “No fever, no night sweats. Just… tired. And the cough. And sometimes… like my chest feels tight.”

The doctor hummed, concern etched in every line of his face. “We’ll run some tests,” he said gently, describing blood work, chest X-rays, high-resolution CT scans, and pulmonary function tests. “It’s probably nothing serious, but let’s be thorough.”

Ran nodded, though her gut twisted with unease. Nothing serious, he'd said. She wanted to believe him. She had to believe him.

That evening, they sat together in the agency living room. Conan was seated beside her on the couch, alert and attentive, while Kogoro paced restlessly. Ran held her phone in trembling hands. She’d dialed her mother’s number at least three times before finally pressing call.

“Ran? Is everything all right?” Eri's voice, even over the phone, carried a note of concern.

Ran forced a small, steady tone. “Hi, Mom. Um… I was at the hospital. They did some tests on me today. I’ve been… feeling a little sick, and Araide-sensei wanted to check it out.”

Eri’s tone shifted from concern to alarm. “Sick? Ran, why didn’t you tell me sooner? Are you alone? Where’s your father?”

“Dad and Conan-kun are here,” Ran said, glancing at Kogoro, who pretended to study the bookshelf but kept glancing at her. Conan’s gaze was fixed on her, worry etched in every line of his small face.

“We’re all here,” Kogoro’s voice rumbled in the background. “We want you to come with us when we get the results, Eri. We don’t want Ran going through this alone.”

Eri’s sigh crackled over the speaker. “Of course. I’ll be there. Text me when you know the time.”

Ran felt a small measure of relief at her mother’s steady tone. Eri always knew what to do, even when Ran felt completely lost.

Days blurred into a haze of tests, waiting rooms, and quiet moments staring at the ceiling at night. She tried to keep life normal—cooking dinner, making sure Conan didn't run off into some danger, chatting with Sonoko. 

But every time she climbed the stairs or carried a grocery bag, her body reminded her that something was wrong. Each time, the betrayal felt deeper.

When the results came in, they all gathered in Dr. Araide’s office: Her father, her mother, Conan—and Ran. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken fears, Ran's anxiety coming in constant waves. 

Dr. Araide entered with a solemn expression, furtherly adding weight to the growing tension in the room. 

“Ran-san,” he began gently. “The tests show that you have a condition called Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. It means the tissue in your lungs is becoming scarred and thickened. It’s progressive—meaning it worsens over time. We don’t fully understand why it happens, but it makes it harder for oxygen to pass into your bloodstream.”

Ran blinked, the words hitting her like a physical blow. “It worsens?” she repeated, almost dumbly.

“Yes,” Dr. Araide continued, gently but firmly. “It’s a progressive disease, meaning it worsens over time. We don’t know exactly why it happens—sometimes it’s genetic, sometimes it’s environmental—but it can make breathing increasingly difficult. There’s no known cure, but we can try to manage the symptoms and slow the progression.”

She felt the air leave her lungs, the irony not lost on her. All the times she’d run headfirst into danger, and now it was her own body turning on her. 

She looked at Conan—his eyes impossibly wide, lips parted as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Kogoro had gone pale, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. Eri’s lips trembled, but she held Ran’s hand tightly, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

Then, Eri’s voice broke through the stunned silence, strong and clear. “Sensei, how will this affect Ran's daily life?” she asked, her lawyer’s tone steady, though her eyes shone with tears. “What do we need to do to help her?”

Dr. Araide met her gaze. “Fatigue will become more pronounced, and her breathing may worsen with exertion. She’ll need to avoid infections, pace herself, and listen to her body. Emotional support will be critical, as this is a life-changing diagnosis. We’ll work closely with a pulmonologist to manage her care.”

Ran’s mind felt like it had been plunged underwater. The doctor’s voice was muffled, drifting in and out of her thoughts as her parents asked more questions. 

Terminal. Progressive. No cure. 

She heard phrases like “oxygen therapy,” “possible lung transplant,” “medications to slow progression,” but it all blurred into a single, crushing truth: she was sick. Very sick. And nothing would ever be the same.

She wondered what would happen to her karate. Would she even be able to practice anymore? Would she have the strength to walk with Conan to school or to stand in the kitchen making dinner? Would she still be able to laugh with Sonoko over trivial things, or would every day be measured by how much oxygen she could pull into her lungs?

And Shinichi—what would he think? She’d always waited for him, always believed that one day they’d have their chance. But now she wondered if he’d even get the chance to say goodbye.

She felt the tears threatening to fall but forced them back. Not now. Not in front of everyone. 

She had to be strong—she’d always been strong. And yet, for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel strong at all. She felt fragile, as though the smallest breath might break her.

When Dr. Araide finished explaining, she nodded, thanked him politely, and tried to process the onslaught of information. Medications, oxygen, lung transplant lists. Every word felt heavy. The room felt too bright, too quiet, too cold.

Conan squeezed her hand, his small, warm fingers grounding her. "Ran-neechan," he called, voice almost cracking. In his eyes were a series of emotions too complicated for a child his age. 

Kogoro’s demeanor was uncharacteristically gentle when he asked, “Ran, are you okay?”

And Eri's composure showing a slight fracture as she held Ran's other hand. She didn't say anything but her presence, her closeness, soothed Ran's inner turmoil. 

She managed a smile—a small, fragile thing. “Yeah, Dad. I’m okay,” she lied, because it was easier than the truth. “I’m okay.”

Deep down, she knew nothing would ever be okay again. Her body had betrayed her, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure she could fight back.

There was a coldness in her heart that came with this thought. 

How would she deal with this? 

-

Chapter Text

-

Conan, though small in size, was currently feeling the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. 

The sterile scent of the hospital still clung to his clothes, even after he’d changed into pajamas. The hum of the night air was broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the occasional bark of a stray dog. He stood on the rooftop of the Mouri Detective Agency, the night breeze ruffling his hair.

He’d sneaked up here, needing a moment alone—away from Kogoro’s snoring, from Eri’s worried gaze, from Ran’s too-quiet smile.

He needed to hear her voice. Not the polite, too-calm voice she’d used in Dr. Araide’s office, but her voice—the one that made him feel like himself.

Pulling the red bow tie from his pocket, he adjusted the frequency and cleared his throat.

“Let’s do this,” he muttered, his voice dropping into the familiar rhythm of Kudo Shinichi.

He dialed her number, holding his breath until her soft, familiar voice answered.

“Hello?” she said, sounding just like she always did—warm, cheerful, like the world hadn’t shifted under their feet just hours ago. 

“Yo, Ran,” he said, his voice smooth, deep—Shinichi’s voice. “It’s me.”

“Shinichi?” she asked, brightening immediately. “It’s late—where are you calling from?”

Conan swallowed hard. “Ah… just, you know, somewhere with a decent signal.” He tried to keep it light, teasing. “Did I interrupt your beauty sleep, Miss Karate Queen?”

She laughed, that gentle, airy sound he always loved. “As if! You know I don’t get beauty sleep—natural charm and all that.”

He chuckled, leaning against the railing. For a moment, it felt almost normal. “Yeah, sure. I guess some people are just naturally gifted.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of trouble, you know,” she shot back, her tone teasing. “Besides, you owe me dinner and a movie after missing my birthday last year.”

He grinned despite the tightness in his chest. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll pay up when I get back. Promise.”

She sighed, and he could imagine her tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes soft. “So, how’s the case? Found the culprit yet?”

He shifted his weight, trying not to let the pain show. “Still working on it. You know me—no mystery too tough.”

She laughed again, and he closed his eyes, soaking in the sound. For a few precious seconds, he forgot about the hospital, about her pale face, about the words idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.

“Our classmates miss you,” she said after a beat. “Sonoko keeps asking when you’ll come back, and even Kishida-sensei was wondering how you were doing.”

He smirked. “Kishida-sensei? The Gorilla? The one who gave me detention for talking back in class?”

“Yup. He’s been asking about you, believe it or not.”

He hesitated, then, in a rare moment of boldness, his cheeks pink even in the darkness, he asked softly, “What about you, Ran? Do you… miss me too?”

The line went quiet, and his heart stuttered in his chest.

Then she answered, her voice so gentle it almost broke him. “Of course, Shinichi. I miss you.”

He drew in a breath, trying to steady himself. “I… I see.” A small smile curved his lips, though it felt fragile. “I miss you too, Ran.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft sounds of the city below. For a moment, everything else disappeared—no mysteries, no hospital tests, no fear. Just the two of them, a thousand miles apart, but somehow right next to each other.

Then Ran, possibly feeling embarrassed, took it upon herself to break the tension and added, “Hey, don’t get all sappy on me, Shinichi. I’m gonna have to start calling you Mr. Softie if you keep this up.”

He barked a laugh, grateful for the reprieve. “Mr. Softie? That’s a new one.”

“Maybe I’ll make a sign for you,” she teased. “Big letters and everything.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’ll just have to come back and tear it down,” he shot back, his grin widening.

“Try it,” she challenged, her voice light, but he could still hear the smile in it.

They talked like that for a while—light, easy, slipping back into the old rhythm like a well-worn dance. They discussed Sonoko’s latest shopping spree, the new movie that everyone at school was talking about, and even Kogoro’s latest case (which, predictably, had ended in yet another bar tab he’d forgotten to pay).

But never once did she mention the news from the hospital, or the word terminal, or the fear he’d seen in her eyes when Dr. Araide had explained everything.

Eventually, the conversation wound down, and Ran yawned. “I should let you go. It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Get some rest, Ran.”

“You too,” she murmured, her voice gentle. “And… be careful, okay?”

“Always,” he promised, even though he felt anything but.

She hung up, and the quiet of the night returned. Conan lowered the bow tie, staring at the moon above Tokyo’s skyline.

Why didn’t you tell me, Ran? he wondered, the question twisting in his chest like a knife. Why didn’t you tell Shinichi?

And then it hit him like a cold wind. This was the first time she hadn’t asked him when he’d be back, or why wasn't he coming home. She hadn’t pleaded, Come home soon, Shinichi.

He clenched his fists, the ache settling in his bones. He’d always thought she’d wait for him forever. Now he wondered if she even thought she could.

He stood there for a while, listening to the city breathe, until the stars blurred and his throat burned.

Then he turned back toward the apartment, determined to be strong for her—even if he didn’t know how.

-

The morning sunlight filtered in through the thin curtains of the Mouri home, dust motes dancing like tiny flecks of gold. Conan sat absentmindedly at the low table, legs folded underneath him as he stared into the half-empty teacup in front of him.

He’d slept poorly the night before, the weight of his late-night conversation with Ran still heavy on his chest. She hadn’t mentioned her illness once, even as they’d joked and teased like nothing was wrong.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

When was the first time I noticed her cough?

It wasn’t like it had appeared overnight. It had crept in slowly, almost imperceptibly, like a shadow at dusk.

At first, he’d heard it in the kitchen, as she’d stirred a pot of miso soup—a small, dry cough, barely noticeable. He’d asked her then, half-joking, if she was catching a cold, and she’d waved him off with a smile.

“It’s nothing,” she’d said, her voice breezy and light. “Probably just the change in weather.”

I should’ve known, Conan thought, his fingers curling around the cup. I should’ve pressed harder. Asked more questions.

The cough had grown more frequent after that. At the dojo, she’d paused during warm-ups, chest heaving, sweat beading on her forehead. She’d brushed it off again, blaming humidity or pollen or just being “out of practice.”

He’d believed her—because it was easier, because the alternative was something he hadn’t wanted to face.

After all, Ran had always been strong. She’d always bounced back from bruises and scrapes, from exhaustion and heartbreak. She was the one person who never seemed breakable.

But if I’d asked more questions back then… would it have changed anything?

The thought twisted in his chest. Even if he’d insisted on taking her to the hospital earlier, even if he’d recognized the signs—would it have changed the fact that IPF was a disease with no cure? That it was terminal, unpredictable, relentless?

It felt unfair. Of all the illnesses in the world, why this one? Why something that stole breath itself from a girl whose laughter could fill a room?

He clenched his fists, trying to shove the thought aside. She was sick—very sick—and he’d have to find a way to help her. He couldn’t think about the rest yet.

A clatter from the living room startled him. Kisaki Eri, clad in a crisp cream blouse and tailored pants, was setting down a stack of bags and boxes on the low table, a determined glint in her eyes.

“Honestly,” she huffed, “you could’ve at least offered to help me carry these upstairs.”

Kogoro, sprawled on the couch like a lazy cat, yawned and waved a dismissive hand. “You brought enough stuff to move in permanently! What am I, your personal bellboy?”

Eri sniffed, adjusting her glasses with a sharp glare. “I’m here to help Ran, unlike some people who’d rather lounge around drinking beer.”

Kogoro bristled, his mustache twitching. “Oi! I work hard! And you being here just means I’ll be stressed out twenty-four-seven with your nagging!”

Eri placed a hand on her hip. “Oh, please. I’d like to see you last a day without me telling you to change your socks and not drink from the milk carton.”

Conan, trying no to get caught in the crossfire, couldn’t help the small, amused smile that tugged at his lips as he moved toward the kitchen. Their banter was like a stage play he’d seen a thousand times—predictable, loud, but weirdly comforting.

Ran, leaning against the kitchen counter, was laughing too. She pressed a hand to her chest, stifling a giggle that made her eyes crinkle. Even after everything, even after that devastating diagnosis, she still found a way to laugh.

“Mom, Dad—come on,” she teased, her voice warm and light. “Don’t fight on your first day together.”

Eri turned to her, her face softening as she reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Ran’s ear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not here to pick fights. I just want to help out and make sure you can focus on resting, okay?”

Ran’s smile faltered for just a second—so quick even Conan might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her so closely—but then she nodded. “Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate it.”

Kogoro huffed but didn’t argue, his arms folded across his chest. “Yeah, well… try not to rearrange the whole apartment while you’re at it. I like knowing where my things are.”

Eri rolled her eyes. “Your things? You mean your empty beer cans and those wrinkled magazines? I’ll see to it that this place doesn’t look like a crime scene, thank you very much.”

Ran covered her mouth to stifle another laugh, her eyes sparkling as she turned to Conan, who was now openly grinning.

It was chaotic, noisy, and a little messy—just like always. But right then, Conan felt a small measure of relief settle over his heart. Maybe it wasn’t all so bleak, not yet.

He knew the future would be hard. He knew Ran’s illness was serious, that the word terminal loomed over their heads like a guillotine. But at least, in this moment, their home felt alive.

He watched Eri fuss over the kitchen, Ran’s laughter filling the air, and Kogoro’s mock scowls—this was what they’d fight for. This was what they’d hold on to.

And maybe, just maybe, laughter could buy them a little more time.

-

The sky had long since shifted from blue to deep indigo by the time Conan left the bustling warmth of the Mouri Detective Agency. The apartment felt more alive than ever with Eri bustling around and Kogoro’s half-hearted complaints, but that noise only made the knot in his chest tighter.

He slipped out quietly, telling them he was heading to Professor Agasa’s house to “play,” a line so well-rehearsed even he believed it for a moment. But instead of going to Agasa's house, he went straight to its neighbor, the Kudo mansion.

The mansion loomed with its usual mix of grandeur and emptiness. It had always felt like a relic of his other life—Shinichi’s life—a place frozen in time. But tonight, it felt like the only place where he could breathe, where he could think without the weight of worried eyes.

He let himself in with the spare key he’d hidden in the mailbox years ago, the old wooden door creaking just enough to make him flinch. He padded quietly through the hall, bypassing the living room, the kitchen, the memories of laughter and warm dinners that now felt like a different lifetime.

With purposeful steps, he walked toward his father’s study—a room that smelled of old books, leather, and just a faint trace of his father’s cologne. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, each one stuffed with books ranging from mystery novels to medical journals to ancient encyclopedias.

He headed straight for the section marked “Medical” and began pulling books from the shelves in frantic, desperate handfuls. Lung diseases. Pulmonary fibrosis. Autoimmune disorders. Anything that might mention IPF.

He flipped through pages, scanning diagrams and paragraphs until the words started to blur. Every so often, he’d come across phrases like “progressive scarring of the lungs,” “unknown cause,” “no known cure.” His heart clenched every time.

He turned on his father’s computer and typed in search terms: Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, treatment, prognosis, cure. One search after another. Each one ending in the same grim conclusion: no cure.

He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. The air felt heavy in his chest, as if he’d inhaled all of Ran’s fear and uncertainty.

No cure. No known way to reverse the scarring. No known way to stop the progression completely.

His fingers drummed nervously on the desk. He’d solved murders with fewer clues than this, but now he was up against something that no deduction, no brilliant leap of logic, could fix.

His eyes burned, and he realized he’d been holding his breath.

He reached for the phone, hesitating only briefly before dialing his father’s number overseas. It rang twice before his father’s deep, calm voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Dad,” Conan said, his voice low, uncertain. “It’s me.”

“Shinichi,” Yuusaku replied, his tone warm but instantly alert. “What’s the matter? Calling this late—”

“It’s… it’s about Ran,” Conan interrupted, the words tumbling out too quickly. He paused, trying to steady his voice. “She… she’s sick.”

There was a pause on the other end. “What kind of sick?”

Conan took a shaky breath. “IPF. Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. Have you heard of it?”

Yuusaku’s voice was gentle but grave. “Yes. I have.”

Conan felt his stomach twist. He could hear Yukiko’s voice in the background—soft, worried—asking, “What’s wrong? Is it Ran-chan?”

Yuusaku must have covered the mouthpiece for a moment to speak to her. Then he came back on the line. “Shinichi,” he said slowly, “IPF is… it’s a very serious illness. It’s progressive. The scarring in the lungs makes it hard to breathe. There’s no cure.”

Conan had read that himself—again and again—but hearing it in his father’s voice made it feel final. Like a judge’s gavel striking down.

“Are you sure it’s IPF?” Yuusaku asked.

Conan nodded, even though his father couldn’t see. “Yeah. Araide-sensei did the tests. He’s sure.”

There was another long pause. “I’m so sorry, Shinichi,” Yuusaku said quietly, and in that moment, Conan heard not just the efficient detective, not the award-winning mystery novelist, but the father. “I know how much she means to you. I wish there was more I could do.”

Yukiko’s voice came closer to the receiver. “Sweetheart,” she said, her voice trembling, “are you okay? I know this must be so hard for you…”

Conan swallowed hard. He tried to find the right words but all that came out was, “I’m… I’m okay.”

It was a lie. All three of them knew it.

Yukiko’s voice turned soft, almost motherly in a way that made his chest ache. “We’re always here for you, you know that, right? You’re not alone in this.”

Conan’s throat felt tight. He nodded again. “Yeah. I know.”

Yuusaku spoke again, his voice as steady as ever. “Listen, Shinichi. I know how helpless this must feel. I wish I could tell you there was a cure or some miracle treatment. But right now, the best thing you can do is be there for her. Support her. Let her know she’s not alone either.”

Conan closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

After a moment, Yukiko added softly, “And don’t forget to take care of yourself too, okay? We’ll get through this together, all of us.”

Conan tried to smile. “Thanks, Mom. Dad.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up, and the silence in the study felt cavernous. He set the phone down, his hands trembling just slightly.

No cure.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, breathing slowly, as if that could slow the avalanche of thoughts crashing through him. Ran’s bright smile, the way she’d teased him on the phone, her laughter echoing in his mind—it all felt so fragile now.

What if she doesn’t… what if I can’t…

He clenched his fists, shutting his eyes.

No. Not yet. She’s still here. She’s still laughing. And I have to find a way to help her. Even if it’s just being there.

But even as he tried to steel himself, he couldn’t deny the tremor of despair that had started to creep in. For the first time, the possibility of losing her didn’t feel like a distant nightmare. It felt like something real. Something coming.

And as the night stretched on, Conan—Shinichi—sat alone in his father’s study, the weight of the diagnosis pressing down on him like a lead weight, knowing that no deduction could change the truth:

Ran was sick. And no amount of detective work could save her from the betrayal of her own body.

-

The days after Ran’s diagnosis blurred together in a haze of worry and forced normalcy. Conan found himself on constant watch, his eyes drawn to every movement Ran made.

It wasn’t that she was obviously different—she still smiled at him in the morning, still greeted him with her usual gentle cheer—but beneath that smile, Conan noticed the small shifts.

Sometimes she’d pause mid-step, pressing a hand lightly against her chest, as if to catch her breath. Other times, when she was washing dishes, he’d see her shoulders sag ever so slightly, as if the simple chore had become a quiet battle she didn’t want anyone to see.

Conan was always nearby—pretending to help with homework, playing with the Detective Boys, or just reading in the living room—always with half his attention on Ran. Each time she coughed, his heart would clench.

He remembered again, with painful clarity, the first time he’d noticed her cough weeks ago. Back then, he’d shrugged it off, assuming it was just a cold. How naïve he’d been. If he’d known then what he knew now, would it have changed anything? Could he have done something, anything, to spare her from this?

The questions haunted him even as he watched her now.

He saw the way her breathing grew shallow after her karate practice. How she sometimes paused at the sink to steady herself. How she’d catch her breath while walking up the stairs.

Each time she faltered, he would rush to her side, pretending it was just to ask about dinner or some other trivial things. He’d offer to help carry her bag, or bring her water. She always laughed and waved him off—“I’m fine, Conan-kun, I promise”—but he saw the gratitude in her eyes.

One afternoon, he came home from school, his backpack still slung over his shoulder, and paused in surprise at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the detective agency.

Ran was sitting there, still in her Teitan High uniform, her bag resting on the step beside her.

Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and her gaze was soft but distant, like she was gathering her strength.

Conan’s heart lurched.

“Ran-neechan?” he called, his voice too loud in the quiet stairwell. “What are you doing here?”

She looked up, startled at first, then smiled at him—one of those bright, warm smiles that made him want to believe everything would be okay.

“Ah, Conan-kun! I’m just… taking a break,” she said lightly.

He approached slowly, his steps hesitant. “A break?”

She nodded, placing her palms on her side as she leaned back a fraction. “Yeah. Just a little one.”

He forced a smile, shoving down the worry clawing at his chest. He knew what that break meant. Her lungs were protesting again.

“Then I’ll take a break too,” he said, plopping down beside her.

She laughed softly, the sound like music, even if it carried a faint rasp that hadn’t been there before. “Oh? You’re tired from school already?”

He grinned at her, as bright and mischievous as he could manage. “Nope! But if you’re taking a break, then I’m taking one too. That’s the rule.”

She let out a giggle, her eyes twinkling. “I see. So, how was school today?”

He launched into a story about Ayumi getting a question right in class and Genta’s complaints about lunch, weaving a tale of childish mischief that made Ran giggle, her eyes crinkling with warmth.

Then, her smile turned soft.

“Conan-kun,” she said, “you haven’t been playing outside as much lately. Don’t you want to go play soccer with your friends?”

His grin faltered, just for a moment.

“Well,” he began, then squared his shoulders and gave her the brightest, most determined smile he could muster. “I’d rather stay by your side, Ran-neechan. This way, I can act as your cane if you get tired. And maybe I can help you carry things if you need it.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she just looked at him, surprised. Then her gaze softened, and she reached out to ruffle his hair, her touch as gentle as always. “You’re very sweet, Conan-kun,” she whispered.

He laughed, though his chest felt tight. “Of course! That’s what detectives are for, right? Helping people.”

She smiled at that—really smiled—and the sight of it made something inside him ache.

After a moment, she stood up slowly, her movements a little more careful than before. “I feel better now,” she said, as if to reassure him. “Shall we head upstairs?”

He nodded, jumping to his feet. “Yeah! I’ll carry your bag.” He picked up her school bag, slinging it over his small shoulder with exaggerated determination.

She laughed again, the sound warm and light, and together they began to climb the stairs.

Conan’s grin was big and childish, but inside, his thoughts were a storm.

I’ll carry everything for you, Ran. Your bag, your worries, your pain—anything you need me to carry.

I’ll make this journey easier for you. I promise.

But even as he walked beside her, his hand gripping the strap of her bag, he couldn’t shake the hollow feeling that no matter how many cases he solved, no matter how many puzzles he unraveled, there were still some things he couldn’t fix.

I call myself a great detective, but I can’t solve this.

The thought sat like a stone in his chest as he watched Ran climb the stairs, one careful step at a time. And with every step, he vowed—over and over again—that he’d be there for her. No matter what.

-

That night, Conan climbed up to the rooftop, the air cool against his face as the city lights shimmered below. He clutched his voice-changing bow tie in his small hand, heart pounding as he dialed Ran’s number.

The phone rang, each tone echoing a mix of dread and hope. When she picked up, her voice was as warm as ever, bright and gentle like a summer breeze.

“Hello?”

“Yo, Ran,” he said, his voice steady in Shinichi’s familiar tone.

“Oh, Shinichi!” Her voice lifted, and he could almost hear her smile. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

He chuckled softly, imagining her sitting on the edge of her bed in her pajamas, hair still a little damp from her evening shower. “Yeah… I guess I’ve been busy.”

“Busy chasing cases, I bet,” she teased lightly.

“Something like that,” he said. “How’s everything over there?”

She let out a small laugh. “Same old. Dad’s still messing up dinner, and I’m still cleaning up after him.”

He grinned. “Sounds about right.”

He hesitated, the laughter dying on his lips. “Hey… Ran,” he started, trying to keep his tone casual, “you sound a little different tonight. Like your voice is… softer. You okay?”

She paused for a beat, and then gave a small, dismissive laugh. “Oh, that? Just a little cough. Nothing to worry about.”

Conan felt a sharp pang, his hand tightening around the bow tie. A little cough, he repeated silently, his chest tightening. If only it's really just a little cough. 

Maybe she’s running from it, he thought, swallowing hard. Maybe… maybe this is her way of pretending everything’s normal. When she talks to Shinichi, she can just be Ran—no sickness, no hospitals, no worry.

His heart clenched, and he felt a wave of tenderness so fierce it almost hurt.

If that’s what she needs, then I’ll be that for her. I’ll be her refuge.

He pushed aside the ache, forcing a smile into his voice. “Just a cough, huh? Well, make sure you rest, okay? Don’t let the old man run you ragged.”

She laughed, softer this time. “I’ll be fine. You know me—I’m tough.”

“Yeah, you always are,” he said quietly.

A silence settled between them, comfortable and warm, yet threaded with unspoken words.

She started to talk about school—how Sonoko was suggesting something about new hair color, how the teacher assigned them a group project that made everyone groan—and Conan listened intently, every word sinking into his heart.

He laughed at her stories, teased her back with old jokes, and let himself be carried by the easy rhythm of their conversation.

For a while, he let himself pretend too—that everything was normal, that she was just tired from schoolwork, that tomorrow would be another ordinary day.

And then he noticed it—how she never once asked him where he was or when he would come back.

She used to always ask that. When are you coming home? When can we see each other again?

But tonight, just like the last time they talked, she didn’t.

She wants to ask me, he thought, a bittersweet ache spreading through his chest. She wants me to come back to her, but she’s holding herself back because she knows I can’t. Because she doesn’t want to burden me.

He wished he could reach through the phone, take her hand, and tell her he’d be there soon. That everything would be alright. That he’d never leave her side again.

If only I could go back to being Shinichi…

But he couldn’t. Not yet. And so he swallowed the ache and let his voice remain light.

They talked a little longer, until the conversation naturally drifted to a close.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” he said, his voice warm but trembling just beneath the surface.

“I will,” she promised softly.

They said their goodnights, and the call ended, leaving Conan alone on the rooftop.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the sky.

I’ll be her refuge, he vowed silently. If she wants to pretend she’s not sick, I’ll let her. I’ll be the place where she can laugh and smile without fear.

And in that quiet night, with the city lights stretching out before him like fragile stars, Conan promised himself he’d do whatever it took to make her days a little brighter—no matter how heavy the darkness pressed in on them.

-

Chapter Text

-

Kogoro leaned against the doorframe of the agency's living room, arms crossed, as he watched Ran bustling around in her school uniform. She was checking her bag for the third time, making sure her notebooks were in order, her lunch neatly packed, and her gym clothes folded. 

Every movement was deliberate, like she was determined to leave nothing to chance.

Conan, backpack slung over one shoulder, hovered nearby, eyes sharp behind his glasses. He’d been sticking close to Ran’s side lately, and Kogoro couldn’t blame him.

He’d caught Conan watching her like a hawk during meals, when she got up too quickly, or when she laughed a little too hard—like the boy was determined to memorize every detail of her, just in case.

Kogoro cleared his throat, pushing aside the tightness that had taken up residence there ever since Ran’s diagnosis. 

“Ran,” he called, his voice loud and bright. “You’re looking sharp this morning. Ready to take on the world?”

Ran turned, adjusting the strap of her bag, and offered him a small, tired smile. “Thanks, Dad. I’m… I’m okay.” She hesitated, then bit her lip before continuing, “Actually, Dad, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He arched a bushy eyebrow. “Oh? Something serious?”

Ran took a breath. “I’ve decided to take a break from the Karate Club for a while. It’s just… sometimes I get tired so easily now, and I don’t want to overdo it.” She gave a shaky little laugh. “I think I need to focus on school and my health for now.”

Kogoro’s grin softened into something more serious, though he kept it bright for her sake. “That’s a smart move, Ran. No shame in knowing your limits. You can always go back to it when you’re stronger.”

Ran nodded, eyes darting to Conan, who gave her an encouraging nod. Then she looked back at Kogoro. 

“Also… I’m going to tell my friends today. About… everything.” She swallowed. “I haven’t told them yet, even Sonoko, and it feels wrong to keep hiding it. But I’m… I’m scared, Dad. What if they treat me differently? What if they pity me? I don’t want that.”

Kogoro’s heart twisted. He stepped closer, placing a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder. 

They had informed the Teitan High faculty regarding Ran's situation, for those times she needed a break and long absence from school due to medical examinations and treatments.

But Ran had refrained from telling others yet, and Kogoro and Eri had decided that they would follow Ran's own pace with this and wait until she was ready. 

Today was perhaps that day. 

“Ran, listen to me.” His voice was softer now, lower, the bluster gone. “You’re the same person you’ve always been. Your friends—if they’re real friends—will see that. And if they treat you different, it’s only because they care. Give them a chance.”

Ran’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked rapidly and nodded. 

“The teachers and the principal were so understanding, They even said they couls adjust my curriculum if needed be. I just… I hope my friends will understand too.”

Kogoro gave a reassuring squeeze to her shoulder. “They will, Ran. They’d be fools not to. And hey—if anyone gives you trouble, just send them my way. I’ll sort ‘em out.” He straightened, puffing his chest with mock bravado. “Mouri Kogoro, the World’s Greatest Detective—and the World’s Greatest Dad!”

Ran let out a soft laugh, the tension easing a little from her shoulders. “Dad, you’re too much sometimes.”

Conan snorted. “Yeah, too much of everything.”

Kogoro gave Conan a playful glare but didn’t push it. Instead, he turned his gaze back to Ran, his smile softening. “Listen, Ran, you’re stronger than you think. And even on the days you don’t feel strong, you’ve got us. We’ll fight this together, every step of the way.”

Ran’s eyes grew misty, but she blinked quickly and smiled, her resolve clear. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Alright,” Kogoro said, clapping his hands together, voice regaining its usual volume. “Enough of this sappy stuff. You’d better hurry or you’ll be late. And don’t forget—no slacking off just because of a little thing like this!”

Ran rolled her eyes but smiled genuinely this time. “Yes, yes, Dad.” She glanced at Conan. “Come on, Conan-kun.”

“Coming!” Conan replied, grabbing his bag.

They headed for the door, Ran pausing to wave at Kogoro, who watched them go with his grin firmly in place until the door closed behind them.

As soon as the latch clicked shut, Kogoro’s smile faded. He moved to the window, eyes fixed on Ran and Conan as they made their way down the street, the morning sunlight reflecting on Ran's long hair.

He’d put that bright smile on for her, but the worry gnawed at his insides like a slow poison.

He thought back to the day before, when Ran had suddenly stopped halfway through a conversation. One moment she was laughing at a silly remark he’d made about some useless TV drama, the next her breath caught in her throat, and she’d leaned against the wall, hand pressed to her chest, eyes squeezed shut. 

It had lasted only a moment, but it felt like a lifetime. She’d brushed it off, said it was nothing, but he’d seen the tremor in her fingers and the fear in her eyes before she’d hidden it behind a smile.

He cursed under his breath.

She’s too young for this. Too young to carry this kind of burden.

He’d always thought of himself as a sturdy guy, the kind who could fix anything with a loud laugh and a good meal. But this—this he couldn’t fix.

The door creaked open behind him, and he turned to see Eri entering the agency. She carried a cup of coffee, her hair pinned up in a loose bun, eyes rimmed with weariness. She moved to the couch usually reserved for clients and sank into it, setting the coffee down with a quiet sigh.

Kogoro watched her a moment, then crossed the room to stand beside her. With Ran gone, neither of them felt the need for masks.

“You heard?” he asked, his voice rough.

Eri nodded, folding her hands in her lap. “I did. She’s stronger than I ever was at her age.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining as if she’d been crying—but she hadn’t shed a single tear, not yet. “Anata… I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should get a second opinion. I know the doctors explained everything, but sometimes they miss things, and—”

“I know,” Kogoro interrupted, his tone gentle. He sat down beside her, elbows resting on his knees. “I’m not against it. Hell, if it means even a slim chance of something different, I’d fly her to the ends of the earth. But…” He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Ran’s the one who has to make that call. It’s her fight. We… we can’t force her.”

Eri nodded slowly, the strength draining from her posture.

“You’re right. Let's ask her tonight.” Her voice cracked just a little, and her lips trembled. She let out a sigh, short yet suffering. "Ran has such a tremendous luck when it comes to lotteries and raffle draws. Isn't it so cruel that when it matters the most, her luck just suddenly runs out?" 

Kogoro reached out, his large, rough hand hovering above hers before he finally laid it gently over them. “Yeah. I know.”

For a long moment they sat like that—no words, just the steady ache of two parents trying to hold each other together.

He thought about his own guilt—how many cigarettes he’d smoked over the years, filling the apartment with secondhand smoke. Logically, he knew the doctors had said it was idiopathic, no known cause.

But logic didn’t help the way his heart clenched every time he thought about it.

If only it was me, he thought, staring down at their joined hands. If only I could take this from her, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

Beside him, Eri’s expression was one of silent heartbreak. He longed to say something, to offer some perfect words that would make it all better—but he didn’t know what those words were. So instead, he stayed by her side, their hands clasped together in the quiet morning light.

Together, they would fight for their daughter. And maybe—just maybe—that would be enough.

-

The agency felt a little too quiet after Eri left for her office. Her lingering perfume mixed with the faint, stale smell of cigarette smoke that clung to the walls like a stubborn ghost. Kogoro stood in the middle of the living room, his hands on his hips, taking in the clutter that had become as much a part of him as the creak of the floorboards.

He let out a long breath, his gaze falling on the battered ashtray on the table—a grimy little thing that had been his companion for years. He could picture himself here every evening: cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling upward in lazy swirls as he barked at the TV, listened at his radio.

But things were different now.

Ran’s sick. And I’m her father.

He clenched his jaw and turned on his heel, determined. He’d spent too long hiding behind habits, excuses, and bravado. If there was even the slightest chance that changing himself—no matter how small—could make things easier for Ran, he’d do it.

First, the cigarettes. He knew every hiding spot in the agency: behind the couch cushions, inside the drawer beneath the sink, even the old teapot on the high shelf that hadn’t seen tea in a decade.

He gathered them all—packs half-finished, loose sticks wrapped in crumpled receipts, even a few flattened boxes he’d kept “just in case.” Every lighter, every ashtray—he collected them in an old grocery bag, the plastic rustling accusingly with every addition.

He tied the bag closed with a firm knot and tossed it in the trash. For good measure, he picked up the trash bag itself and carried it downstairs to the main building’s garbage bin. The scent of stale smoke lingered on his fingers, but he refused to let himself pause.

Back in the agency, he stood in front of the liquor cabinet. Beer bottles lined up like soldiers on parade. A half-empty whiskey bottle. A cheap brand of sake he’d won in a raffle.

He couldn’t quit drinking entirely—not yet—but he’d cut it down to emergencies or when it was truly needed. No more late-night sessions that left him with a headache and a short fuse. He gathered the bottles and set them in a cardboard box, carrying them to the closet in the far corner of the room.

Then he turned back to the living space, scanning the mess that had built up around him over the years: papers stacked precariously on the coffee table, magazines from years ago gathering dust under the couch, empty ramen cups, old newspapers, and the stubborn clutter of an untidy man who’d stopped paying attention long ago.

No more excuses.

He rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He gathered the newspapers and stacked them neatly for recycling. He cleaned the coffee table with a damp rag, clearing away the faint ring stains from long-forgotten drinks. He picked up the magazines and stacked them in a neat pile by the door—some were too outdated to keep, and he’d toss them later.

He tackled his own room next—clothes that should have been in the hamper, socks that had found their way under the bed, a tangle of ties he’d never worn but kept “just in case.”

He vacuumed, swept, and even scrubbed the baseboards. He made a vow then: from now on, he’d be the one to keep this place clean. Ran had enough on her plate without worrying about her father’s mess.

Returning to the office space, he sat down heavily at his desk, eyeing the tower of case files that loomed on the corner. Papers that had yellowed at the edges, receipts for expenses he couldn’t even remember.

He began to sort them—open cases, closed cases, bills to pay—and threw away anything that had no place in a working office.

His Okino Yoko DVDs caught his eye. A small grin tugged at his lips, despite the weight on his chest. He couldn’t throw them out—Ran would notice, and she’d worry. He needed to preserve the sense of normalcy, the illusion that nothing had changed, even if everything had.

He set the DVDs aside, arranging them neatly on the shelf. He’d keep them around, because even a detective needed a harmless escape sometimes.

Then, the most important task: the files. He flipped through each folder with a scrutinizing eye, looking for cases he might have ignored or put off because they seemed too trivial, or too much of a bother. But he couldn’t afford to be selective anymore.

Every case meant income—and every yen counted. Ran’s treatments, tests, hospital bills—they’d come like a wave. He needed to be ready.

She’s always so worried about burdening us, he thought bitterly. But I’ll make sure she doesn’t have to.

As he worked, Kogoro thought about the change he was making. It couldn’t be too drastic; Ran would notice. And she’d blame herself. That was the last thing he wanted.

If he suddenly gave up every little pleasure in his life, she’d think she’d taken something from him. No—he needed to be steady, familiar. Even if everything else was different, home had to feel the same.

That was his job now: to hold the line, to be the lighthouse in the storm. If Ran came home from a day at school—tired, or scared, or even just a little sad—she’d find the same goofy, stubborn father she’d always known.

And maybe, just maybe, that would make her feel like it was all going to be okay.

Kogoro leaned back in his chair, taking in the newly organized desk, the neat stacks of files, the faint scent of cleaning solution still lingering in the air. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long, slow breath.

This is just the beginning, he thought. For her, I’ll change. Even if it’s piece by piece.

And as the morning sun slanted through the office window, Kogoro—detective, father, and stubborn old fool—made a vow to himself: he would do whatever it took to ease Ran’s burden. Even if it meant changing everything he’d known.

-

Kogoro wandered the aisles of the department store with a determined frown etched into his face. He’d already flagged a handful of small cases he’d follow up on later—petty thefts, a suspicious missing wallet—but for now, he had more pressing business.

Standing in front of the shelf of air fresheners, he scanned the bright labels: Ocean Breeze, Citrus Burst, Cherry Blossom… all sharp, cloying scents that practically punched you in the face.

Ran’s cough sometimes got worse with strong perfumes or heavy cleaning sprays—he’d seen it happen enough times to know better. His eyes drifted to a small, pale-blue canister labeled “Mild Cotton.” The clerk said it was the lightest they had, meant to just freshen the air without overwhelming it.

He picked it up, weighing it in his hand, and sighed. We need to get rid of anything too strong, he thought grimly. Everything. Candles, sprays, even that old cologne I’ve barely worn in years.

Ran liked spending time in his office—more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Sometimes she’d help him accommodate clients, serving them tea or coffee with that warm smile of hers that made even the grumpiest of them melt. Other times, she’d stretch out on the office couch with Conan, flipping through magazines or reading, her presence brightening the place in a way no renovation could.

He’d come to treasure those moments, her laughter, the way she’d peek up from behind Conan’s head with a teasing grin.

She deserves a place that’s safe for her lungs, too, he resolved. A place where she can just be Ran—no masks, no apologies.

A bright red “No Smoking” sign caught his eye—unmistakable in its design. He reached for it with no hesitation. The agency will be completely non-smoking from now on, he decided firmly. If a client can’t abide that, they can take their business elsewhere.

Down another aisle, sleek white air purifiers lined up like futuristic sentinels. He stopped, frowning, uncertain. Eri had probably mentioned these once or twice, but he’d never cared to listen.

Now, though, the thought of filtered, clean air struck him as essential, especially with the damage he’d already done.

A store clerk appeared at his elbow, polite and efficient. “Can I help you with anything, sir?”

“Yeah,” Kogoro grunted, nodding toward the machines. “Do these really work?”

“Absolutely,” the clerk said, brightening. “They’re great for removing dust, allergens, and smoke particles—really good for anyone with respiratory issues. A lot of families get them if someone’s sick or recovering from an illness.”

Sick. Ran’s face flashed in his mind—her hand pressed lightly against her chest, her small, stubborn cough, that fragile strength in her eyes.

“I’ll take two,” he said, before doubt could cloud his resolve. “One for the office, one for home.”

“Excellent choice,” the clerk chirped.

Kogoro added the units to his cart, ignoring the growing weight in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought something for the house that wasn’t cheap beer or instant curry.

Nearby, a display of small humidifiers caught his eye.

“Those help too?” he asked, voice gruff.

“They add moisture to the air,” the clerk explained patiently. “Great for easing dry throats, coughs, and general comfort. A small one would be perfect for a bedroom.”

“Yeah,” Kogoro murmured. Ran’s room.

He picked the smallest, simplest one. He wanted it to be something she wouldn’t fuss about—no fancy buttons, no complicated settings. Just a small comfort he could offer without making her feel like she was living in a hospital.

Satisfied with the essentials, he pushed his cart toward the grocery section. Hydration. That was another thing Eri had reminded him about. He’d overheard the doctor mention it, too.

He grabbed mild bottled herbal teas—barely sweetened, easy to drink—and a few fruit juices to give her something refreshing on a bad day. He threw in some mineral water, figuring that if she didn’t want anything sweet, at least she’d have an option.

At the register, the cashier gave his purchases a curious glance: air purifiers, humidifier, air fresheners, a stack of drinks. “Big cleaning project?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

He pulled out his wallet, and as he was counting the bills, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Mouri-sensei!”

He turned sharply, finding Amuro Tooru standing there, all polite smiles and crisp café uniform, a small grocery bag hanging from one hand. Kogoro couldn’t help but grin at the kid’s timing.

“Ah, Amuro-kun,” he said, a warmth in his tone he didn’t always show. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

Amuro gave a light laugh. “Well, even waiters need groceries, you know. But wow—” He gestured to Kogoro’s overfilled cart. “That’s quite the haul. Big plans?”

Kogoro scratched the back of his head. “Heh. Yeah, I guess you could say that. Didn’t think I’d be buying so much.”

Amuro’s eyes crinkled in that easy smile of his. “You’re going to have a hard time getting that all home on foot.”

“Yeah,” Kogoro admitted, “I didn’t really think that far ahead.”

“Well, I’ve got my car parked right outside,” Amuro said brightly. “And since we’re headed the same way—Poirot’s just under your agency—I can give you a ride. No problem at all.”

Kogoro blinked. “You’d do that? Really?”

“Of course,” Amuro replied, eyes warm. “It’s no trouble. Let’s get this loaded up.”

They finished checking out, and Amuro helped him wrestle the boxes and bags into his small car. As they drove, Kogoro found himself watching Amuro’s profile, thoughtful.

"You know,” Amuro began once they were on the road, “I’ve noticed Ran-san sometimes sitting on the staircase, looking… well, tired. She always smiles at me, but I can tell something’s off.” He paused, glancing at Kogoro carefully. “I don’t mean to pry, but… is she alright?”

Kogoro hesitated. The words were heavy in his throat. He’d never intended to burden strangers with his family’s struggles. But Amuro—he’d always been polite, helpful, and more observant than most. He'd even asked to be Kogoro's apprentice. 

And now, thinking of how easily he’d offered to help without asking anything in return, Kogoro found himself wanting to trust him.

“She’s… she’s not exactly alright,” he finally admitted. “Ran’s sick. It’s… it’s called Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. It’s a lung disease.” His voice cracked, but he pushed on. “It’s not contagious or anything like that. It just… happens. And it’s getting worse.”

Amuro’s eyes softened with genuine concern. “I’m so sorry. I know a little about IPF—progressive scarring of the lung tissue, right? No real cure.”

Kogoro’s throat closed around the words, but he forced them out. “Yeah. The doctor said there’s no cure. Treatments can slow it down, but…” He trailed off, staring at his own hands. “She’s trying so hard to stay normal, you know? She still helps me at the agency—serving tea to the clients, helping me keep the files organized. She even lounges around with Conan like nothing’s wrong. I want her to have that—normal. That’s why I’m doing all this. The air purifiers, the cleaning. I just… I want her to feel safe.”

Amuro reached over, his voice calm but resolute. “Mouri-sensei, I’ll do whatever I can to help. Ran-san is… she’s a remarkable girl. Always so polite, always thinking of others. If there’s any way I can make things easier for her—or for you—I will. Even if it’s just making sure she has a place to rest at Poirot, or a warm drink when she needs it.”

Kogoro felt something inside him ease, just a fraction. “Thanks, kid. That… that means a lot.”

Amuro gave a solemn nod. “You’re not alone in this. And you shouldn’t have to be.”

Kogoro stared out the windshield, his mind wandering to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Inspector Megure—he’d known Ran since she was a little girl. Megure had always ruffled her hair, bought her sweets when she’d come by the station with him. Like family.

Sato, too, had a soft spot for Ran—always fussing over her, asking if she needed a ride home.

And Takagi—he’d run into that kid more times than he could count, all those cases. Takagi had practically become a family friend, always polite, always concerned for Ran’s well-being.

How will they react? he wondered. Will they pity her? Will they treat her differently? Or will they just… be there for her? Like they always have.

He swallowed hard, thinking of Megure’s deep voice, the way the old inspector had always treated him like a younger brother. He’d want to know. And maybe… maybe they’ll have some answers, or at least watch over her when I can’t.

As Amuro pulled up in front of Poirot Café, Kogoro turned to him with a grateful smile. “Thanks again, Amuro-kun. You’ve really helped me today.”

“Anytime, Mouri-sensei,” Amuro replied warmly. “And please—give Ran-san my best.”

Kogoro nodded, his throat thick. “I will.”

As he unloaded the boxes, he glanced up at the agency window, the afternoon light catching the sign.

For her, I’ll do anything, he thought fiercely. Even ask for help.

And with that, he resolved that tomorrow—maybe—he’d talk to Megure and the others. Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that family didn’t stop at blood.

-

-

"I'm sick, Sonoko."

Ran’s voice was quiet but steady, and even though it wasn’t loud, the words seemed to echo in the hallway. Sonoko blinked at her, momentarily thrown off by the seriousness in her best friend’s tone.

They were standing in a quiet corner of the second-floor hallway, near the windows where the morning sun poured in, dust motes floating like lazy confetti. Ran had practically dragged her here right after they’d stepped into the building, right after Sonoko had been busy gossiping about the latest drama in the class group chat.

Ran’s fingers were wrapped tight around Sonoko’s wrist—tight enough that Sonoko could feel her pulse racing beneath her warm skin.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Sonoko said, her voice bright and casual, pushing away the tension she felt building in the air. “You’ve been coughing like crazy. I mean, honestly, Ran, you didn’t even come with me to that new bubble tea place last week!”

She gave a little laugh to break the tension, but Ran didn’t even crack a smile. Her eyes were wide, earnest, fixed on Sonoko’s face with a gravity that made Sonoko shift uncomfortably.

“And you’ve been looking so pale,” Sonoko continued, determined to brush this off as just another one of Ran’s colds. “Like you haven’t been sleeping well. And I swear, you didn’t even get excited when I showed you that new dress I bought—that’s when I knew something was off.” She laughed again, her voice too bright, too forced. “So? Did you take anything yet? Cough syrup? Honey lemon tea? What’s going on?”

Ran’s hands trembled slightly as she let go of Sonoko’s wrist. She shifted her school bag higher on her shoulder, her gaze dropping to the floor for a second before returning to Sonoko’s.

“Sonoko,” she said again, her voice firmer now, laced with urgency. “This isn’t like that. This isn’t just a cold.”

Sonoko’s brows furrowed. “Huh? Then what is it? Some kind of pneumonia? You sound so serious—” She laughed nervously, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

The sound of students’ chatter floated down the hallway, blending with the rhythmic squeak of shoes on linoleum. A couple of first-years giggled as they passed by, glancing at them curiously before moving on.

Ran took a deep breath, the kind that sounded like it cost her a little too much effort. “It’s… it’s different,” she said, her voice dropping even lower, barely above a whisper. “I really needed to talk to you about it—first thing this morning, before class started. It's important that I tell you first."

Sonoko felt something cold coil in her stomach. She was suddenly aware of the thin film of dust on the window ledge, the way the glass reflected the blue sky and the cherry trees in the courtyard below.

Ran’s face was framed by the soft sunlight, but her expression was shadowed by something Sonoko couldn’t quite name.

“Different?” Sonoko echoed, her mouth dry. “Ran, seriously, you’re scaring me. Just tell me what’s going on. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it—” She forced a smile. “Like, I can totally come with you to the doctor if that’s what you want.”

Ran’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t look away. “I’m really sick, Sonoko.” Her voice trembled now, but she pushed through. “I’ve been diagnosed with something called idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. It’s… it’s a lung disease. It causes scarring of the lungs, and it makes it harder and harder to breathe.”

Sonoko’s heart skipped a beat. The words didn’t fully register at first, too foreign, too medical. She stared at Ran, blinking like an idiot, feeling the blood drain from her face.

“Pulmo… what?” she stammered, her voice cracking. “Fibrosis? That sounds… serious.”

Ran’s hands twisted together, and her breath hitched slightly, like even talking about it took effort. “It’s… it’s progressive,” she said. “It means it gets worse over time. The doctors are giving me treatment to slow it down, but… but there’s no cure.”

No cure. 

Sonoko’s head swam. She reached out for the windowsill, steadying herself. Her mind buzzed with images from medical dramas—oxygen tanks, tearful goodbyes, sad piano music—but this was real. This was Ran.

“Wait—” she croaked, “no cure? Like… not even with all the fancy treatments and stuff? But you’re young! You’re, like, the healthiest person I know!”

Ran’s lips trembled in a sad smile, her eyes shining in the morning light. “I know it’s a lot,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to find out from someone else. You're my best friend, Sonoko. I figured I have to tell you.”

Sonoko’s breath caught. Best friend. The words made her chest ache.

She reached out, grabbing Ran’s hands and holding them tightly. “Ran… I… okay, but there’s gotta be something they can do, right? Like a surgery, or some miracle medicine? I mean, I watch all those doctor shows—someone always survives!” She gave a watery laugh, but even to her own ears it sounded desperate.

Ran’s expression softened, and she squeezed Sonoko’s hands. “I’m telling the others today too, but I needed you to know first.”

Sonoko’s eyes filled with tears. She felt them spill over, hot and unfamiliar on her cheeks. She wasn't usually like this. She was Suzuki Sonoko—loud, cheerful, always in control. But right now, everything felt like it was falling apart.

She tried to speak but only a strangled sound came out. Ran leaned in and pressed her forehead gently against Sonoko’s. “It’s okay,” Ran whispered, her breath warm against her skin. “Maybe you need time for it to sink in.”

Sonoko closed her eyes, clinging to Ran’s warmth like a lifeline.

The bell rang then, shattering the fragile moment. The hallways filled with voices, footsteps, laughter that felt suddenly too bright, too loud. Sonoko let Ran’s hands slip from hers, her own arms dropping to her sides like dead weight.

All through the day, Sonoko drifted through classes in a daze. The teachers’ voices blurred into background noise, and the words progressive and no cure buzzed in her head like a cruel mantra.

She found herself glancing at Ran over and over, watching as she smiled and chatted with their friends like nothing was wrong.

During lunch, Sonoko sat apart, staring at her untouched food, her appetite gone. She watched Ran from afar, watched how she gathered their small circle of friends to talk. Ran said she probably wouldn't go into details when she'd tell them, but even hearing just the gist of it, they were bound to be surprised. 

Sonoko watched, and yet she couldn't see how they were reacting. She couldn't process what was going on around her. Her mind was still overloaded with medical terms she'd rather not dwell on. 

When the final bell rang, Sonoko moved automatically, gathering her things, stuffing them into her bag. The hallway felt surreal—like she was walking underwater.

At the school gate, Ran was waiting for her, that same gentle smile on her face. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” she said softly. “Call me if you want to talk, or if you have any questions… or even if you just want to hear my voice.”

Sonoko’s lips trembled. She nodded, managing a weak, “Yeah. Of course.”

Ran turned then, and there he was—Conan—standing a little way down the sidewalk, arms crossed, eyes bright. Ran’s face lit up when she saw him. “Conan-kun! What are you doing here?”

Conan grinned. “I was at the park earlier,” he said, his voice casual. “I thought I’d come meet you so we could walk home together.”

Normally, Sonoko would have teased him about being so clingy—called him Ran’s little puppy or something—but her mouth felt dry. She just stood there, staring at him blankly.

Conan’s grin faltered. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for the usual tease. When it didn’t come, his eyes darted to Ran, then back to Sonoko, a flicker of realization crossing his face.

Ran gave Sonoko a small, understanding smile, then turned to walk with Conan. Sonoko watched them go, her best friend’s ponytail swinging gently in the afternoon breeze, Conan’s small frame at her side like a loyal shadow.

Sonoko stood there, the sounds of the city washing over her in a blur. The name of Ran’s illness circled her thoughts like a dark cloud, but all she could hear were the words Ran had spoken, echoing in her mind like a final verdict.

My illness... it's terminal.

-

The polished marble floors of the grand Suzuki estate glistened in the late afternoon sun, their usual shine a comforting welcome after a long day.

But as Sonoko stepped inside, her steps felt heavy, as though the weight of the entire world had settled on her shoulders.

The butler, Tanaka, greeted her with a respectful bow, his white gloves folded neatly over each other. “Welcome home, Sonoko-sama.”

Normally, she’d greet him back with a bright grin, maybe a playful quip or an update on her day. But today her lips wouldn’t move, her mind was elsewhere—stuck in that hallway at school where Ran’s words had hit her like a bullet.

Her knees trembled, and the echo of her best friend’s voice filled her head. I’m sick, Sonoko.

The world blurred. She stumbled forward, her breath catching as if she couldn’t fill her lungs. A sob lodged in her throat. She pressed a hand to the polished wooden doorframe, but her legs gave out beneath her, sending her crumpling to the floor of the genkan.

“Sonoko-sama!” Tanaka’s voice rang out in alarm, but she couldn’t respond.

All she could do was curl into herself, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ran is sick, she thought, her heart breaking all over again. Ran is sick.

Before she could even comprehend her surroundings, a familiar, comforting hand rested on her shoulder. She looked up, vision swimming, and saw her father, his eyes wide with worry.

“Sonoko,” he murmured, his voice gentle, the same tone he’d used when she was a little girl with scraped knees. “What’s happened, sweetheart?”

“Papa…” she croaked, unable to find the words.

He didn’t press her. He simply knelt beside her, gathering her into his arms and lifting her effortlessly. He carried her down the long hallway toward the living room, his steady footsteps grounding her in the midst of the chaos in her head.

The living room felt colder than usual, the late-day sun casting long shadows across the plush cream carpet and the elegant, old-world furniture.

Her mother sat with perfect posture on the cream sofa, a porcelain teacup balanced delicately between her manicured fingers. She looked up sharply at the sight of her husband carrying Sonoko, her brow furrowing in concern.

“What is going on?” she demanded, her tone brisk but not unkind.

Sonoko’s father lowered her gently onto the sofa beside her mother, then perched on the edge of the coffee table, his eyes filled with quiet worry.

“Sonoko,” her mother urged, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

The words tumbled from her lips, ragged and raw. “Ran… Ran is sick,” she said, her voice trembling. “A lung disease—IPF, I think. She… she said there’s no cure.”

Her mother’s eyes widened slightly. Her father inhaled sharply, his own expression darkening. They exchanged a look—a silent conversation that Sonoko knew all too well from years of watching them navigate business deals and family crises.

They spoke quietly then, voices low and measured, asking Tanaka to confirm details, to contact medical resources if needed. Sonoko barely registered their words. It felt like she was underwater, their voices muffled and indistinct. Her heart pounded so hard it made her ears ring.

All that mattered was the one question burning in her chest.

When her parents had finished talking, she wiped her eyes with trembling fingers and turned to Tanaka, her voice breaking as she asked, “Is it true? There’s really no cure?”

Tanaka’s eyes softened. “I’m afraid so, Sonoko-sama,” he said, his voice low and respectful.

A sob tore from her throat, ragged and uncontrollable. She slumped forward, her hair falling into her face, and her mother’s arm immediately wrapped around her shoulders.

“It’s all right, Sonoko,” her mother murmured, her usually strict tone softened by genuine concern. “It’s all right to cry. It’s all right to be angry, or afraid. But you have to remember: Ran-chan is your best friend. She needs you now more than ever.”

Sonoko clutched her mother’s hand, her tears staining her uniform’s sleeves. “I know… I know she does.”

Her father leaned forward, his own eyes glistening with emotion. “When you see Ran-chan again, you tell her family—the Mouri family, and especially Eri—that the Suzuki family has their backs. Whatever they need, they shouldn’t hesitate to ask. Ran-chan is like family to us, and we’ll do whatever we can to help her.”

Sonoko nodded, her heart aching with a bittersweet gratitude.

As her parents comforted her, she let her mind drift back through years of memories.

She and Ran had been best friends since they were little kids—kindergarten days spent drawing clumsy pictures, chasing each other around the playground, and sharing secrets over juice boxes. Ran had always been her rock, the one person she could count on no matter what.

And she’d always been the protector, too. Whenever danger reared its head—kidnappers, suspicious strangers, criminals—Ran was the first to step between her and the threat. Sonoko could still picture her best friend’s determined eyes, the way she’d push Sonoko behind her without a second thought, ready to face anything.

Even in high school, Ran had shielded her from bomb threats, crime scenes, and more than one deranged attacker.

Ran had never hesitated to put her own life on the line for Sonoko, and now, Sonoko couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to do the same for her. She needed to be strong for Ran, to give back even a fraction of the unwavering loyalty and love that Ran had always shown her.

She wiped her tears, her resolve hardening. Ran needed her—now more than ever.

She remembered Ran’s words: Call me when you’re ready.

Her hands were still trembling, but she picked up her phone from the table. She dialed Ran’s number, pressing the call button with a mixture of dread and determination.

The phone rang once, twice—and then Ran’s familiar, gentle voice came through, warm and steady despite everything.

“Sonoko?”

-

-

The moment Eri stepped into the detective agency, she felt it: something subtle yet undeniable had changed.

The air felt lighter somehow, cleaner, as though the place had been infused with a quiet reverence. She paused in the doorway, scanning the small office. The clutter on Kogoro’s desk was still there—a haphazard mountain of case files, notebooks, and empty coffee cups—but everything else was as she remembered it. The flooring was swept clean, the curtains had been freshly washed, and even the corners that so often gathered dust were now free of cobwebs.

It wasn’t that the place had ever been neglected. Ran’s diligent hands had always ensured that this space, chaotic as it was, never truly fell into disarray.

But this was different.

There was an air purifier in the corner now, its gentle hum blending with the sound of the street outside. A mild, floral scent drifted from a discreetly placed air freshener—something soft and non-intrusive. Eri took a slow breath, and the cool, clean scent settled into her lungs like a balm.

She let out a small sigh, easing the tension from her shoulders.

“I’m home,” she called softly, her voice carrying a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Welcome home,” came Kogoro’s familiar reply, his voice steady but touched with a hint of something softer than usual.

The words wrapped around her like an embrace, and she found herself standing there, just letting the moment sink in. Welcome home. How long had it been since someone had said that to her, since someone had made her feel like she had a place to come back to?

She stepped further inside, setting down her briefcase with a quiet thump. “You’ve been taking good care of the place,” she said, her voice thoughtful. She gestured toward the air purifier. “Even an air purifier? That’s… new.”

Kogoro scratched the back of his neck, a faint pink creeping into his cheeks. “Ah, well, Ran’s lungs… I figured she’d need fresh air, so I thought I’d make it easier on her. Got rid of the old strong-scented stuff. Bought that thing.” He waved a hand at the purifier like it was some kind of trophy.

Eri’s chest tightened with gratitude and love. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Your thoughtfulness means more than you know.”

Kogoro grunted, trying to wave her off, but he couldn’t hide the flush of embarrassment—or the quiet pride in his eyes. “If it’s for Ran, I’ll do anything,” he muttered.

Eri’s smile grew. “I can see that.”

She moved toward the small kitchenette, drawn by a sudden thirst. As she opened the refrigerator, she was met with a neatly arranged display of drinks: juices, bottled water, yogurt drinks—each one a small testament to Ran’s tastes and needs.

It was like a collection of tiny comforts, gathered one by one by a father desperate to ease his daughter’s pain.

She felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes and quickly blinked them away. She made tea for both herself and Kogoro, steadying her hands as she poured. Every movement felt deliberate now—every breath a silent prayer that Ran would walk through that door and smile at them like she always had.

She carried the tea back to the couch and handed Kogoro his cup, settling beside him. For a long moment, they both sat in silence, the warm steam from their cups curling between them.

“I’ve been looking into specialists,” Eri finally said, her voice trembling with the weight of unspoken fears. “I know it’s ultimately Ran’s decision, but I want to be prepared. Just in case she wants to explore every option.”

Kogoro nodded, staring into his tea. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ve been seeing it too. She’s always been strong—always putting on that smile so no one worries. But lately… she’s been more tired. She gets winded just climbing the stairs. I saw her catch her breath the other day just walking to the station.” His brow furrowed. “And the way she rubs her chest when she thinks no one’s looking… I can’t stand it, Eri. She shouldn’t have to fight this alone.”

Eri felt her heart shatter a little more at each detail. She remembered the other small changes too: Ran’s laugh that sometimes ended in a faint cough, the way she’d started carrying tissues in her pocket, her habit of pausing mid-sentence to gather enough breath.

Even the sparkle in her eyes, once so constant, now sometimes dimmed—like a candle flickering against an unseen wind.

“She’s losing weight,” Eri whispered, her voice tight. “I tried to pretend I hadn’t noticed, but… I can’t lie to myself anymore.”

Kogoro’s hand tightened around his cup. “I know. I’ve been trying to make her favorite meals. She still eats them, but… it’s like it takes more effort now. Like even chewing and swallowing is harder than before.”

Eri reached out, covering his free hand with her own. “We’ll be strong for her,” she said, her voice firm despite the tears threatening to spill. “We have to be.”

Just then, the sound of footsteps on the stairs caught their attention. Ran’s voice—bright and warm, like a beacon of hope—echoed through the agency. “We’re home!”

Eri turned, and there she was: Ran, standing in the doorway with Conan at her side. Her daughter’s smile was genuine and unburdened, and it filled the room with a warmth that Eri clung to like a lifeline.

Conan carried Ran’s bag, his small hands gripping the straps with determined pride. His smile mirrored Ran’s, though there was a shadow in his eyes—a wisdom beyond his years that Eri had come to respect deeply.

“Welcome home,” Kogoro said, his voice warm and so tender it made Eri’s heart ache.

Ran beamed. “Conan-kun walked me home today, we had to stop a bit but he's helped me,” she said, her voice soft and full of affection. “He’s my little guardian.”

Conan’s cheeks pinked, and he grinned.

Kogoro let out a low chuckle and crouched down so he was eye level with the boy. “Oh? Is that so?” He reached out and ruffled Conan’s hair, surprising both Conan and Ran. “Good job, brat,” he said, his voice half-teasing, half-proud.

Conan blinked, momentarily stunned, then smiled—small but sincere.

Ran laughed, a sound so pure and genuine that Eri felt tears prick her eyes all over again. I want to see her smile like that every day, she thought fiercely. Even if I know that’s not always possible, even if I know some days will be worse than others—I want to see her happy.

She took a slow breath. “Ran, we have something to discuss,” she said, trying to steady her voice.

Ran turned to her, eyes gentle. “Okay, Mom.”

But just then, Ran’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Eri saw the light spark in her daughter’s eyes—so bright and familiar that it stole her breath away.

“Sonoko,” Ran whispered, her voice soft with affection.

She turned back to them, a sheepish smile on her face. “I need to take this. I’ll be back soon.”

Eri nodded, and Kogoro waved her off as Ran climbed the stairs, her steps lighter than before, her voice already brightening as she answered the call.

Eri and Kogoro watched her go, a quiet understanding passing between them.

After a beat, Eri turned her gaze to Conan, who had settled himself onto the couch with his game console, though his eyes were distant.

“Hey, Conan-kun,” she said softly, “did she tell Sonoko today?”

Conan’s eyes flickered toward her, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah. She wanted Sonoko-neechan to know first.”

The weight of his words settled heavily between them.

Eri reached out and laid a gentle hand on Conan’s shoulder. “Did you wait for her today?” she asked, her voice trembling with both sorrow and gratitude.

Conan’s cheeks pinked, and he nodded, eyes darting away. “Y-Yeah.”

Eri’s smile trembled, her chest swelling with pride and affection. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm. “It means the world to me—and to Ran.”

She rose and poured him a glass of juice, placing it in his hands. He accepted it with a small smile.

She settled back onto the couch, her heart heavy yet somehow lighter too. The pain was there—an ache that refused to leave—but so was a quiet strength. Together, they would face this. Together, they would be there for Ran—every step of the way.

-

Ran returned to the agency with tear stains on her cheeks. The sight sent Eri’s heart skittering into her throat. She straightened, every maternal instinct on high alert, and noticed Conan’s head jerk up too, his small eyes sharp and searching.

But before either of them could ask, Ran let out a shaky laugh, brushing the tears away with the back of her hand.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise,” she said quickly, her smile genuine if a little wobbly. “Sonoko and I just had a long talk, that’s all. It… it got a bit emotional.”

Eri exhaled, a mix of relief and residual worry flooding through her. She watched Conan relax slightly, though his eyes still held that quiet wariness that she’d come to recognize in him—a keen protector’s gaze, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Ran dropped her bag by the couch and sank into the cushions beside them, her smile a little steadier now. Eri’s heart softened as she took in her daughter’s face—still pale, but her eyes bright with a strange sort of resilience.

“How did Sonoko take it?” Eri asked gently, wrapping her hands around her tea cup for warmth.

Ran’s eyes turned reflective, and she let out a small sigh. “She was shocked at first. Really shocked. I think she didn’t know what to say. She just kept saying, ‘No way, no way, no way.’” Ran gave a small, sad laugh. “It took a while for her to process it. But on the call… she said she understands now.” Ran’s voice grew tender, filled with affection. “She said she’s scared—she actually admitted it. But she told me she’s not going to let me face this alone. Even if she’s scared, she said she’ll be by my side no matter what.”

Eri felt tears pricking at her own eyes, and she blinked them away. A wave of gratitude welled up in her chest for that bright, fiercely loyal girl who had always been at Ran’s side. “Sonoko-chan…” she murmured, voice warm and trembling. “I’m so glad you have such a good friend.”

Ran’s smile widened, soft but strong. “Yeah,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Me too.”

Eri’s gaze drifted to Conan, who was watching Ran with an intensity that belied his small size. He was holding his game console, but his thumb had stilled over the buttons. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Eri’s heart squeezed. He’s just a child—yet he carries so much. She felt a fierce gratitude for him too. I’m glad she has so many people looking out for her.

Ran settled in closer, her shoulders relaxing as though the warmth of the agency—and the people in it—had begun to ease the weight on her chest.

It was then that Kogoro cleared his throat awkwardly, his gaze flickering between them.

“Ran… there’s something I need to tell you,” he began, his voice rough around the edges. “I… well, I told Amuro-kun.”

Ran’s eyes widened, her expression one of mild shock—but it was Conan whose reaction struck Eri the most. His small body went rigid, and though he tried to hide it, Eri saw the way his eyes darted sharply to Kogoro, then to Ran, then away.

Kogoro’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t mean to at first. He saw me at the store earlier, helped me with carrying the appliances. He asked about you, said he's been seeing you at the stairs lately, and I—I just couldn’t lie, not when he’s always been so good to us. So… I told him. I didn’t mean to dump it all on him, but he’s… he’s a good kid, and he's got a sharp mind.”

Ran blinked, absorbing his words. Her brows drew together, then slowly relaxed as she took a deep breath. “It’s okay, Dad,” she said softly. “It’s not like we can keep it a secret forever. It’s becoming… more obvious now anyway.”

Eri watched as Kogoro’s eyes softened with relief.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. I was thinking… maybe I should tell Inspector Megure too. And Sato and Takagi. They’re good people, and they’d look out for you outside, you know? Just in case.”

Ran hesitated, her expression caught between gratitude and guilt. “Dad… wouldn’t that be too much? They have their own lives, their own jobs. I don’t want to burden them with mine.”

Kogoro’s hand came down heavily on the table, but his voice was thick with unspoken tenderness. “Ran,” he said, eyes fierce. “You’ve always been there for everyone else—always. Don’t you get it? You’re not a burden. You’re the one who holds us together. Looking out for you is never a burden—it’s a privilege.”

Eri’s voice trembled as she added, “Your father’s right. So many people love you, Ran. You’ve touched so many lives. Of course they’d want to help.”

Conan, his eyes wide and solemn, nodded emphatically. “Yeah. Everyone cares about you, Ran-neechan. It’s not a burden to protect someone we love.”

Ran’s eyes glistened, and she let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” she whispered. “If… if you think it’s okay, then… I trust you.”

A hush settled over them then—a soft, poignant silence. Ran leaned back against the couch, the weight of the conversation settling on her shoulders, but there was a new resolve in her eyes.

She took a deep breath. “So… what was it you wanted to talk about earlier, Mom?”

Eri met her daughter’s gaze, trying to steady the tremble in her voice. “Your father and I… we’ve been talking. We were thinking about getting a second opinion. Another doctor to review everything, just in case. But,” she added quickly, “we’d leave that decision to you. It’s your body. It’s your life.”

Ran’s eyes widened a fraction, and she chewed her lip, her brows furrowing in thought. “A… second opinion?”

Eri reached across the small table, her hands steady. “Sometimes patients seek a second opinion when the diagnosis is serious. It doesn’t mean we don’t trust Dr. Araide—he’s a wonderful doctor. But it’s about making sure we’re not missing any other options. Some specialists might have seen cases like this before. Sometimes treatments differ by hospital, or even by country.”

Conan had set his console down entirely now, his eyes fixed on Ran, waiting, the intensity of his gaze unwavering. Eri could tell he wanted her to say yes—she saw it in the way he leaned forward, in the tension in his small hands.

Ran’s gaze dropped to her lap. She fell silent, the seconds stretching. Eri watched her carefully, seeing the conflict in her daughter’s expression—the flicker of fear, the quiet pain.

“I know you trust Dr. Araide,” Eri said gently, “and we do too. But this isn’t about trust, honey.”

Ran shook her head slowly, her voice trembling. “No, it’s… it’s not that.”

Another pause—long, trembling.

Then Ran’s shoulders slumped, and she let out a broken breath.

“It’s the tests,” she whispered, her voice so small it nearly broke Eri’s heart. “Those long examinations… the scans… the anticipation, waiting for the results. And then when it’s time to hear them—” She stopped, tears welling in her eyes. “When they told us the first time, I saw your faces—yours, Dad’s, even Conan-kun’s. It was like the world fell apart. I don’t… I don’t want to go through that again. I don’t want to see that look on your faces. I can’t do that to you.”

Her voice broke, and the tears spilled down her cheeks, raw and silent and full of unbearable pain.

Eri felt her own tears fall, unstoppable. She reached out and pulled Ran into her arms, cradling her like she’d done when Ran was a child afraid of thunder. Kogoro’s face was pale and tight, and he reached out too, placing a large, trembling hand on Ran’s back.

Conan, his small body taut with grief, scooted closer and grasped Ran’s hand. “Ran-neechan…” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Eri held her daughter close, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Okay,” she whispered through her tears. “Okay, sweetheart. We won’t force it. We understand. We’re here for you—no matter what.”

Kogoro’s voice, low and hoarse, joined hers. “We won’t make you go through that again,” he said fiercely. “Not if you don’t want to. We’re with you, Ran.”

Conan remained silent, silent but always looking, always attentive. He squeezed her hand harder, his face pale but determined. 

And in that moment, surrounded by her family, Ran’s sobs turned softer, and though the pain didn’t disappear, Eri felt a fragile sense of peace settle between them—a shared strength, holding them together even in the darkest of times.

-

It took some time before the weight of that emotional conversation slowly began to dissipate. Eri remained seated beside Ran, still feeling the sting of her daughter’s tears and the ache of her words.

Ran’s heartbreak, Eri realized, wasn’t just for herself — it was for them. For Kogoro, for Conan, for Eri herself.

Even in this situation, even while battling something so unfair and cruel, Ran had worried about their pain, about how shattered they all were the first time they’d heard the diagnosis. She hadn’t wanted to put them through that again — hadn’t wanted them to bear that heartbreak a second time.

Eri felt her own heart tighten at the thought. Ran truly had the kindest heart, the purest soul. Even now, she was thinking of others before herself.

Eri reached out and brushed a lock of hair from her daughter’s face, her hand trembling slightly. How could one girl carry so much love in her heart?

Ran seemed to sense the shift in the room, the quiet hush that followed the storm. She drew in a long breath, her shoulders straightening, a small but determined smile lifting the corners of her lips.

“Anyway,” she said, her voice a little stronger, “I’ve decided. I’m cooking dinner tonight.”

Eri blinked, startled. “Dinner? Are you sure, Ran? We could just order in — or eat at Poirot Café.” She paused, the mother in her rearing up, “Or better yet, I can cook something myself.”

For a split second, the air seemed to freeze. Kogoro’s expression went rigid, eyes wide as though he’d just been struck by lightning. Eri turned her head and caught the subtle but unmistakable flinch from Conan, his eyes darting quickly to Ran and then away again, as if trying to hide his dread.

Eri raised an eyebrow at the both of them, suspicion flaring. “What’s with those faces?” she demanded. “I can cook, you know.”

Kogoro let out a nervous laugh that sounded like a dying engine. “Ahaha… well, that’s… not necessary, Eri. I mean — let’s not risk — I mean — Ran’s cooking is so good, it’d be a shame—”

“Anata.” Eri’s tone was dangerously sweet, her eyes sharp.

Kogoro’s voice choked into silence, his mouth flapping open and closed like a goldfish. Conan shrank back in his seat, looking like he wanted to disappear into the couch.

Ran, meanwhile, had burst into laughter, her eyes sparkling in a way that made Eri’s heart ache and heal all at once. “Mom, it’s fine!” she managed between giggles. “I promise, I feel good today. I’ll cook.”

Eri sighed, but her lips curved into a smile as she reached over to brush Ran’s hair back from her face. “Alright, alright,” she said, feigning resignation. “But I’m coming with you to help out.”

Ran’s smile widened, and she nodded, grateful. They rose together, and as they reached the stairs, Eri noticed the way Ran’s steps were a little slower than before, her movements careful and deliberate.

Without a word, Eri reached out and took her daughter’s hand, holding it gently, letting her lean on her as they climbed. Ran didn’t say anything — but she didn’t need to. The small squeeze of her fingers spoke louder than any words.

In the kitchen, Ran began bustling about, choosing a simple cream stew that she said was easy and warm — comfort food. Eri hovered nearby, offering to chop vegetables or fetch ingredients. Their conversation drifted from the mundane to the tender, laughter and small talk filling the space with a warmth that Eri had missed.

As Ran moved around the kitchen, she paused by the corner, noticing the air purifier humming softly. She tilted her head, eyes curious.

“Hey, Mom,” she said, “the air feels really clean in here. And those refreshing drinks in the fridge — where did they come from?”

Eri followed her gaze, her own lips curving into a knowing smile. “Your father,” she said softly. “He’s been fussing about every little thing. Wants to make this as easy for you as possible.”

Ran’s eyes softened, and she bit her lip as though holding back tears. “Tell him thank you — both of you. It means a lot,” she said.

Before Eri could answer, Ran turned back to her pot, determined not to cry again. Eri let it be, staying close by, offering help whenever it was needed. She watched the way Ran stirred the stew, the way she checked the ingredients, the way her face lit up with that small, quiet joy that only came from making something for the people she loved.

After a while, Ran paused, glancing at her phone with a small, tentative smile. “Mom?” she said, “I… I need to make another call. Just for a few minutes. Could you watch the stew while I’m gone?”

Eri’s lawyer’s instincts flared immediately, a name surfacing in her mind. “Shinichi-kun?” she asked, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow.

Ran’s face went bright red. “H-how did you—?”

Eri let out a soft, knowing laugh. “Lawyer’s instincts,” she teased lightly, folding her arms.

Ran squeaked, half-laughing, half-blushing, and darted out of the kitchen before Eri could ask any more questions. Eri shook her head fondly and turned back to the pot, stirring the stew gently as she thought.

Shinichi. That boy had always been around, always part of Ran’s world — and though Ran had never spoken the words out loud, Eri knew.

She’d seen the signs years ago: the way Ran’s eyes would soften whenever his name was mentioned, the way she’d carefully knit that sweater even though she’d never picked up knitting needles before, the way she’d taken a pottery class just to make a yunomi cup for him.

And Shinichi — that boy with the keen eyes and the too-serious expression — he’d always been looking out for Ran in his own quiet way. Eri had seen it too many times to doubt that he held Ran dear to his heart, maybe even the dearest. 

Where was he now? Ran had told her he was busy with a case. Eri wondered if he knew. Had Ran told him? She hoped so. Or maybe she was waiting for the right moment, the right words.

That was for them to sort out, Eri thought as she watched the steam rise from the pot. They’d always had a bond that defied explanation — something unbreakable and true.

When Ran came back, cheeks still pink but her smile determined, the kitchen felt warmer somehow. Together, they finished the dinner preparations — the cream stew simmering thick and fragrant, a simple fruit salad assembled for dessert.

As the four of them gathered at the table, Eri took a quiet moment to look around. Ran’s cream stew was as delicious as ever, warm and comforting, a small but perfect reflection of the love she poured into everything she did. Kogoro was the first to dig in, his eyes lighting up with exaggerated delight.

“Ahh, Ran! This is incredible! So much better than your mother’s, er, last attempt at fried rice!” he declared with a laugh that died quickly when Eri’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Oh?” Eri’s voice was sweet, but her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “Would you like me to cook for you next time, Anata?”

Kogoro paled, his spoon trembling. “N-No, no! Ran’s cooking is perfect, absolutely perfect!” He laughed again, nervously, earning a small giggle from Conan, who tried to hide it behind his glass.

Ran laughed, her cheeks rosy, her smile so bright it seemed to light up the room. Eri felt her heart ease a little. The laughter, the warmth — it felt like a balm over the day’s heavy emotions.

They bantered a little longer, teasing and laughing, sharing small stories of their day. Eri watched Ran carefully, noting how her eyes sparkled, how her cheeks glowed. She looked truly happy — and that, Eri thought, was worth everything.

She took a small sip of water, letting her gaze drift across the table. This was a good evening after a long day — the kind of evening she prayed would come again and again, as many times as possible.

The kind of evening that made them feel like a family, despite the uncertainty and the fear.

And in that moment, with the scent of cream stew in the air and laughter echoing off the walls, Eri silently promised herself that she would do everything in her power to make sure there would be more nights like this. More days where Ran’s smile shone bright and the world felt warm and safe.

Because if anyone deserved it, it was her daughter — the girl with the kindest heart and the purest soul.

-

Chapter Text

-

The evening air was thick with the lingering scent of dinner—okonomiyaki with sweet sauce and crisped edges, courtesy of his mom’s generous cooking. Heiji sat cross-legged on the polished wooden engawa of his family’s traditional house, idly flipping through a motorcycle magazine. The sun had dipped behind the tiled rooftops, leaving a cool hush in its wake.

Beside him, Kazuha hunched over her open notebook, her pencil scratching across the page in neat, methodical strokes. She was muttering about kanji radicals, her brow furrowed.

Earlier, Kazuha and her dad had come over because her old man had business with Heiji’s dad about some case that they prohibited Heiji from listening in.

The two men were still inside, voices low and serious behind the shoji doors. The mood on the porch was a soft kind of quiet, just the way Heiji liked it.

Heiji flicked through another page of the magazine, half-listening as Kazuha let out a frustrated sigh. “Ugh, I can never remember this part,” she grumbled, tapping her pencil on the page.

He smirked. “Need a tutor, Kazuha?”

“Shut up,” she shot back, though a small smile played at the corner of her lips.

Then her phone buzzed on the wooden boards. She glanced at it and lit up. “Ah—it's Ran-chan!” she squeaked, her voice instantly brighter. She swiped to answer. “Hello, Ran-chan!”

Heiji’s head came up, his interest piqued. Ran was a good friend—no, scratch that, she was one of those people you couldn’t help but like, the type who’d smile for everyone, even when the world was crumbling.

He strained his ears to catch Ran's voice but could only catch Kazuha’s side of the conversation—cheerful, eager like a spring breeze, and a bit scatterbrained.

But then Kazuha’s tone changed, her brow furrowing. “Ah—yes, I’m at Heiji’s house now,” she said. A pause. “Yes, he’s with me.”

Heiji raised an eyebrow. “Oi,” he muttered. “What’s this about me?”

Kazuha shot him a look that said hold your horses and hit speaker. “Ran-chan, you’re on speaker now, okay?”

A familiar voice crackled through, soft but carrying a weight Heiji didn’t like. “Hattori-kun? Kazuha-chan?”

Heiji leaned in, magazine forgotten. “Yeah, I’m here,” he said, frowning slightly. “What’s up?”

There was a hesitation on the line—a pause heavy enough that Heiji’s stomach tightened.

“There’s… something I need to tell you two.”

The hair on the back of Heiji’s neck stood on end. He’d heard that tone before—on crime scenes, in confessions, in the heavy silences that preceded bad news. He leaned forward, suddenly alert. “What is it?” 

Ran took a small, shaky breath. “Um, are you two familiar with IPF?”

Heiji’s brows drew together. “IPF… Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis?”

Kazuha’s eyes widened. “Huh? What’s that?” she asked, clearly lost.

Heiji didn’t look away from the phone. “It’s a lung disease,” he said, his voice tight. “A serious one.”

Ran’s voice trembled. “Yeah… that’s the one. So, apparently, I have it.”

Silence.

Kazuha stared at the phone like it had turned into a bomb. “Eh…? Ran-chan…? What’s…?!”

Heiji’s heart plummeted to his stomach. “You’re serious?!” His voice cracked despite himself. “Isn’t that… terminal?”

Kazuha gasped, her eyes going wide. “What?!”

Then there was a sudden gasp from the line—a sharp, ragged sound that made his gut clench. “Neechan?!” he barked, leaning forward, panic threading through his voice. “What's wrong? Are you okay?!”

There was a pause, then Ran’s voice came back, thin and shaky. “Ah—s-sorry… I’m okay,” she said weakly. “Sometimes… it’s just a little hard to breathe. But I’m okay. I’m still in the early stages, but it’s progressive… so yeah.”

Heiji clenched his jaw, his detective instincts on high alert. He could hear the slight unevenness in her breathing—short, shallow, like she was trying to hide it but couldn’t.

Even her voice, always so bright, carried a forced cheerfulness that made his chest ache.

Next to him, Kazuha’s pencil rolled from her trembling fingers and clattered to the porch. She pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes wide. “What about the treatment? Do you need to go to surgery? Or a chemotherapy maybe?” Her voice was desperate, grasping for hope.

Ran didn’t answer right away. Heiji heard the soft catch of her breath—a pause that spoke volumes. His stomach twisted. He’d already done enough reading to know what that silence meant.

Heiji felt his throat tighten. He forced the words out, heavy and low. “There’s no known cure.”

Ran’s voice returned, soft and sad. “Yeah… that’s right.”

Kazuha’s lips parted in a silent gasp, her brows knitting as her mind fought to process the words. She looked like she’d just been struck by a hammer—eyes wide, cheeks pale, as if the world had shifted under her feet. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill.

Heiji could see the gears turning in her head, the denial and the desperation battling for control. The Ran she knew—so strong, so warm—was suddenly fragile in a way that didn’t make sense.

But when she was ready to speak, she didn’t let her voice falter. Instead, she straightened, pushing aside the tears that threatened to form. Her voice was strong, unwavering. “Ran-chan… you're a strong girl. This is just an obstacle and we'll get through with this. We're here, we'll always be here for you.”

Heiji swallowed hard, his throat thick. “She’s right, Neechan,” he said, voice low but steady. “If you need anything. you let us know. You’re not alone in this, not for a second.”

A shaky breath came from the other end. “Thank you,” Ran whispered. “Really. I just wanted to share this with you two. Kazuha-chan, you’re one of my best friends. And Hattori-kun… you’ve always been an important friend to me too.”

Kazuha’s face softened, eyes shining with the fierce, unshakable loyalty that defined her. “Ran-chan… you’re so important to us too. You’ll always be important to us.”

Ran’s voice wavered, but she managed a small laugh. “Thanks. I’ll talk to you both soon, okay? Bye.”

“Bye!” Kazuha chirped, still fighting to keep her tone bright.

“See ya,” Heiji murmured.

The call ended.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The night air felt too still, too fragile.

Then Kazuha’s hand fell into her lap, trembling. Her shoulders shook once, then twice, before her breath hitched. The tears came quietly—no loud sobs, no deafening bawls she used to do when they were younger, just a steady stream of pain she’d been holding back for Ran’s sake. 

She’d always been like this—believing that if she wasn’t the one suffering, then she had no right to cry loudly. That her tears had to be silent because it wasn’t her pain—it was Ran's

His chest ached. He reached out and took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in rough circles. “Hey,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “She’s strong, Kazuha. One hell of a strong girl.”

Kazuha raised her head, eyes glistening but fierce. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, she is.”

Heiji stared out at the moonlit yard. IPF, he thought. He’d only ever heard about it in passing, but even then, it sounded grim. Now it felt like a monster had snuck into their lives, something they couldn’t fight with logic or quick thinking.

He wondered how Kudo was handling this. Knowing that guy—his best rival, his partner-in-crime-solving, his… well, best bud—he was probably devastated.

All the teasing aside, Heiji knew one thing for sure: Ran was Kudo’s world. If this news rattled him, then Kudo must be barely holding it together.

Heiji let out a quiet sigh and raked a hand through his hair. Yeah. He’d have to call that idiot later. Just to check in.

But for now, he focused on the girl beside him. The girl whose tears weren’t for herself. The girl he’d do anything to protect.

“Hey,” he murmured again, his thumb still moving in slow, steady circles. “We’re gonna be here for her. No matter what.”

Kazuha nodded, her tears drying but her eyes bright with determination. “Yeah.”

And that was all they could do for now—for Ran, for Kudo, and for themselves.

-

After Kazuha and her father had left, Heiji’s parents hadn’t missed the shadows under Kazuha’s eyes or the tears clinging to her lashes. His father had asked in that calm, weighty voice that carried so much authority even at home:

“Heiji, something happen at school?”

Heiji had only managed to mutter, “It’s for a friend,” his tone clipped and too quiet for his usual self. Kazuha’s father had nodded gravely, no further questions asked, but Heiji knew Kazuha would explain everything to him on the way home.

Now, in the stillness of his room, the glow of his computer screen felt harsh against his tired eyes. Heiji sat hunched over the desk, shoulders tense, each keystroke of the laptop’s keyboard sending a dull ache through his chest.

He typed in the words slowly:

Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.

His finger hovered for a moment before he pressed enter.

The first hits:

“A progressive, incurable lung disease”

“Causes thickening and scarring of lung tissue”

“Results in decreased oxygen flow to the blood”

Heiji’s throat went dry.

Stages of IPF

He forced himself to read through the clinical breakdown:

Early Stage: Occasional cough, slight breathlessness with exercise.

Moderate Stage: Persistent cough, fatigue, breathlessness at rest, clubbing of fingers.

Severe Stage: Need for oxygen therapy, heart strain, significant weight loss.

End Stage: Respiratory failure, hospice care.

Each word hit him like a blow, and he read them again and again, as if repetition might make them easier to accept. But they didn’t.

Heiji swallowed. His fingers were clenching into tight fists on the desk, knuckles turning white.

Symptoms:

Persistent dry cough

Difficulty breathing with even mild activity

Unrelenting fatigue

Chest discomfort

Clubbing of fingertips

Weight loss

Right-sided heart failure

Heiji clicked on an article with medical diagrams, seeing cross-sections of lungs turning into scarred masses. His stomach twisted at the images—lungs that should be pink and spongy turned into dense, pale scar tissue, unable to carry oxygen.

His mind flashed to Ran’s voice over the phone, that quiet pause when she’d said she was in the early stage, and that moment when he’d heard her gasp. It sounded so much like these diagrams looked—like something was stealing the very air she needed.

He forced himself to keep going.

Treatments:

Antifibrotic medications: nintedanib, pirfenidone. They can slow progression by a few months or years—but not stop it.

Supplemental oxygen—delays complications, improves comfort.

Lung transplant—only option for end-stage, with strict criteria and no guarantees.

Palliative care—focusing on comfort, not cure.

Heiji’s shoulders slumped. Each paragraph was like a verdict.

There’s no cure.

His fingers paused over the keyboard as he thought of Kazuha’s bright, hopeful question—“What about the treatment?”—and Ran’s silence before he’d had to answer for her.

He took a shaky breath and typed again.

IPF survival rates:

Median survival: 3-5 years from diagnosis.

5-year survival rate: less than 40%.

Some deteriorate in less than a year.

Heiji’s head dropped into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. He felt like he was staring into a black pit he couldn’t climb out of.

Three to five years. That’s all?

He clicked through more links, desperate to find something—anything—more hopeful.

IPF global statistics:

Affects 3 million people worldwide.

3 to 9 new cases per 100,000 people annually.

Most common in men aged 50 to 70, but can occur in younger patients.

Heiji’s lips tightened. Ran’s not even 20… how did this happen to her?

He moved on, searching news articles, scanning headlines with numb eyes:

"Living with IPF: The silent, incurable disease”
“Rising mortality rates for IPF in Japan”
“Patients struggle with breathlessness and isolation”

One article had a picture of an elderly man on oxygen therapy, eyes hollow. Heiji’s chest constricted at the thought of Ran—vibrant, bright Ran—reduced to that frail figure.

Heiji shifted in his seat, back straightening as he typed in one more search:

Personal stories of IPF patients

He found a blog—written in another country—detailing the journey of a young woman diagnosed at 32. Heiji clicked it open, reading as if it might help him understand what Ran was facing.

“Day 14: I can’t walk up the stairs anymore without stopping to catch my breath. My cough doesn’t go away, and I’m always tired. The doctors say there’s no cure. I try to stay positive, but some days I’m so scared I can’t sleep.”

“Day 50: Oxygen therapy starts soon. I’m scared of the tubes, scared of what they mean. I try to keep laughing. My family tells me I’m strong. I want to believe them, but I can feel the fight slipping away.”

“Day 100: The hardest part isn’t the breathlessness—it’s knowing this is my life now. My family tries not to cry around me, so I smile for them. It’s the least I can do.”

Heiji’s eyes stung. He could practically hear Ran’s voice in those entries—her quiet resolve, the way she’d tried to brush it off on the call like it was no big deal. But he knew her. He knew how she put everyone else first.

He closed the blog tab, chest aching.

This was the first time he’d ever felt so… useless. Normally, there was always a thread to pull, a clue to chase. But this—this was a brick wall. He could fight criminals, solve murders, protect his friends from danger. But he couldn’t fight this.

Heiji’s mind flickered back to Kazuha, her face as she’d tried so hard to sound bright for Ran. He knew she’d be devastated when she learned the truth—that there wasn’t a cure, that Ran was facing this alone in her own quiet way.

He let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. For the first time, he wasn’t sure how to help.

Damn it… Ran. Kudo. Kazuha… I want to protect all of you, but how can I fight something I can’t see?

Heiji stared at the black screen of his laptop, his reflection staring back at him—eyes tired, mouth a grim line.

He pressed his hand against the screen, as if he could somehow push his frustration and helplessness into it.

But the only thing that stared back was the knowledge that there was nothing

-
-

Conan left Teitan Elementary School with his backpack slung over one shoulder, the warm afternoon sun painting long shadows on the pavement as he made his way home.

Normally, he would have headed toward the high school gates, waiting for Ran so they could walk back together—just a small, comforting piece of their everyday routine. But today was different. Ran hadn’t gone to school; she’d had a check-up scheduled for the late morning, and she’d called in absent for the whole day.

Even so, Conan felt a small, restless eagerness buzzing in his chest as he walked. He wanted to know how the check-up had gone—if she’d gotten good news, or if the doctor had said something worrying. He’d learned to read her silences and her smiles, and each one seemed like a puzzle he needed to solve.

When he reached the building that housed the Mouri Detective Agency, he climbed the stairs with quick steps, his small shoes making soft thuds on the worn wood. The familiar smell of old wood and faintly burnt coffee from the café below greeted him as he reached the second floor.

There, at the top of the stairs leading to their home, he spotted her. Ran was sitting on the uppermost step, her knees drawn slightly together, one hand resting on the wall. Her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulder, catching the light and glowing like a dark halo. But it was the quiet tiredness in her eyes that made his heart tighten.

And she wasn’t alone. Amuro-san was there too, crouched beside her, his fair hair catching the warm light. He held a cup—some kind of smoothie, pale pink and cool-looking—and was speaking to her in a soft, even voice, his brow furrowed with concern.

Conan’s heart lurched. He rushed up the last step, his breath quick. “Ran-neechan!” he called, his voice breaking with worry. “Are you okay?”

Ran looked up at him, her eyes soft but shadowed with a tiredness he recognized too well. She smiled—gentle, patient, as though she were trying to brush away his fear with just that.

“Ah, Conan-kun,” she said, her voice warm but slightly breathless. “I’m fine.”

But Conan wasn’t convinced. His eyes darted to Amuro, taking in the small details—Amuro’s hand steady as he held the cup, the way his other hand hovered just slightly near Ran’s shoulder, ready to catch her if she faltered.

Amuro met Conan’s gaze, his own eyes steady. “How is it?” he asked Ran, his voice calm but weighted with something that felt like worry.

Conan’s eyes flicked between them, his detective’s mind quickly assembling the puzzle pieces. Amuro’s question—it wasn’t about the drink itself, but about Ran’s condition.

Ran accepted the drink gratefully, her fingers curling around the cool cup.

“Almost there,” she said, her voice a little steadier, though her shoulders looked tense. She smiled at Conan again, brushing off his worries with that same gentle determination.

Conan watched every small movement, every subtle shift in her breathing. He could hear the low hum of traffic outside, the muted clatter of cups from the café below, but all his focus was on Ran.

Then he turned his gaze to Amuro, studying the older man’s expression. In Amuro’s eyes, Conan saw a genuine worry—a softness that rarely slipped through the calm, confident mask Amuro so often wore.

This man—Amuro Tooru—was an enigma wrapped in a hundred shifting faces. He was a café worker with a warm smile, a private detective with keen instincts, and—Conan knew all too well—a man tangled in a web of secrets and shadows that stretched far beyond what most people could see.

There had been times they’d been enemies, caught on opposite sides of a dangerous game. But there had also been times they’d stood side by side, working together with a wary sort of respect.

Trust was a fragile word when it came to Amuro—like a glass bridge stretching over a deep chasm. But right now, as Conan watched him steady Ran and hand her a drink with such quiet care, he felt a small, reluctant gratitude.

Maybe—just maybe—he could trust Amuro to look out for Ran when he couldn’t.

Amuro turned to Conan, his voice calm but tinged with regret. “She’s alone right now,” he said, gesturing slightly toward the agency door. “Mouri-sensei went out, and Atty. Kisaki left just after Ran-san’s check-up.”

Conan’s brows furrowed. “So… why are you here, Amuro-san?”

Amuro nodded. “I came to get the plates from the sandwich I brought earlier. Ran-san was going down to the detective agency to help me, but she suddenly felt breathless halfway down the stairs.” His voice lowered, and his eyes darkened slightly. “She nearly staggered. I was lucky to be there, I caught her before she could fall.”

Conan’s heart clenched at the thought—Ran, teetering on the steps, gasping for air, her balance stolen by a cruel twist of fate.

Amuro continued, his tone careful. “I made her sit here to rest for a bit. Then I went downstairs to Poirot to make her a fruit smoothie I’ve been working on—good for someone with her condition. Light, but with enough nutrients.” He lifted the cup slightly, as if to emphasize the care he’d put into it.

Conan felt a deep well of gratitude—and a sharp ache—at Amuro’s explanation. He’d always prided himself on protecting Ran, but moments like this—where she needed someone right then, right there—made him feel so small.

Lately, these moments of breathlessness were becoming more frequent. Conan hated them. He feared a day when no one would be there to catch her before she fell. 

Like today, if Amuro wasn't here... Or if he wasn't fast enough... 

How can I make sure that never happens? he wondered bitterly. The stairs felt like a hazard now—her body a fragile thing fighting against something none of them could see.

He was still lost in thought when Ran shifted, her smile brightening as if she could push away the worry with a simple grin. “I’m okay now,” she said, her voice warm and steady. “I’ve rested plenty. Thank you, Amuro-san.”

Conan wasn’t convinced. He stepped forward, eyes sharp. “But Ran-neechan, you almost fell. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Ran’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes softened with understanding. “I’m sure, Conan-kun. Really.”

Conan’s gaze didn’t falter. “You don’t feel dizzy anymore?”

Ran laughed lightly—a sound that tried to be carefree. “You worry too much,” she teased, then reached over and ruffled his hair. “I told you, I’m fine.”

She stood slowly, gripping the railing for balance, and took a careful breath. “Amuro-san, let’s get those plates, okay?”

Conan watched her closely, but she seemed steady now. They descended the stairs, both Conan and Amuro following after her with certain alertness. 

As they entered the detective agency, Conan was quick to reach out, tugging on her hand and pulling her to sit on the couch. 

“Here,” he said firmly, his tone uncharacteristically insistent and his action left no room for arguments. “Just sit here. I’ll get the plates.”

Ran blinked at him in surprise, then her expression softened into a smile—a grateful, tired smile. “Alright, Conan-kun,” she said.

Conan walked briskly to the kitchenette, gathering the empty plates from the small table. He stacked them carefully, trying to keep his hands from trembling. Amuro’s drink still glistened with condensation, and he felt a pang of gratitude for the man’s quiet support.

When he returned, Amuro was talking softly to Ran about the smoothie. “If you’d like, I can bring it again tomorrow,” he offered, his voice calm and warm. “And if there’s anything you need—anything at all—just call Poirot. I’ll be right downstairs.”

Ran’s eyes glistened for a moment, and she smiled warmly. “Thank you, Amuro-san. I really appreciate it.”

Amuro nodded. “Of course,” he said simply, then turned to leave, his footsteps quiet. At the door, Conan followed him.

“Amuro-san,” he called, his voice more serious than usual.

Amuro turned, one eyebrow lifted.

Conan’s eyes were firm. “Thank you. For helping Ran-neechan.”

Amuro’s smile was gentle, tinged with something almost like respect. “Take care of her, Conan-kun,” he said. “She’s strong—but sometimes even the strongest need a hand.”

Conan watched him leave, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

He turned back to Ran, who was sipping her smoothie with a contented expression. The color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright again.

“Are you really okay?” Conan asked, his voice softer this time.

Ran met his eyes, her smile gentle. “Geez, Conan-kun, I told you I’m fine,” she teased lightly. Then her tone softened, and she reached out to squeeze his hand. “Sorry for worrying you, Conan-kun.”

Conan sighed, the tightness in his chest easing just a little. He managed a small smile. “It’s okay,” he said, voice quiet. “Just… be careful, okay?”

Ran nodded, her smile warm and sincere. “I will,” she promised.

Sitting down beside her, Conan watched Ran closely, his small hands resting tensely on his knees, eyes fixed on the way she sipped her smoothie. She looked calm—almost too calm—and though her smile seemed genuine, he couldn’t miss the subtle lines of fatigue etched around her eyes.

He was eager—desperate—to hear how her check up earlier had gone. Did they find anything new? Did they change her medications again? Is it worse? The questions clawed at him like a thousand tiny needles under his skin.

How do I even ask her? he wondered. He hated this—this small, childlike form that left him powerless, that forced him to tiptoe around Ran’s protective walls. If he were Shinichi right now, he’d ask her directly, look her in the eye, and demand the truth. But as Conan, he had to be cautious, gentle—he had to pretend to be a child who might break if she told him too much.

Still, he couldn’t just sit there. He leaned forward, forcing his voice into a casual tone. “Ne, Ran-neechan,” he began, carefully light, “how was your check-up today?”

Ran’s smile faltered just a fraction, her lashes lowering as she stirred her drink. “Ah, it was okay,” she said quickly, her tone breezy, determined. “Just the usual stuff, nothing new.”

Conan’s chest tightened. Just the usual. He clenched his little fists. She was always doing that—shielding him, pretending everything was fine. But he knew better. He’d seen too much. 

He had to know. Even if she tried to hide it. He leaned in, voice lower, eyes serious. “Ran-neechan,” he pressed, “what did the doctor actually say? About… everything.”

Ran’s smile faded completely. Her eyes lifted to his, searching, hesitating. He could see the battle playing out inside her—how much to tell, how much to hold back. She exhaled, and he caught the way her fingers tightened on the glass.

“Well…” she began slowly, her voice quieter now. “They said it’s… progressed a little. Nothing too surprising, they said. Just that I’ll need to be more careful with my activities. They adjusted some of my medications. I… I’ll have to rest more, maybe change some things in my routine.” She paused, and Conan saw the faint shadow pass through her eyes. “But… it’s still manageable. I just have to… you know, pace myself.”

Conan felt a heavy ache in his chest. Of course. She’s leaving out the worst parts. She always does that. She was so determined not to burden him. He hated that. He hated how powerless he felt in this body—how all he could do was sit there and pretend to be the clueless kid she thought he was.

No. His eyes hardened. I’m not clueless. And I’m not going to stay in the dark. He knew she was hiding the worst of it, and he’d find out. Tonight, I’ll check her results. I’ll make sure I know exactly what’s going on. I need to be ready. For her.

Before he could press her further, the front door banged open. “Oi! Ran, Conan! You’re both here—good,” Kogoro’s voice boomed, his presence as loud and oblivious as always.

Ran’s eyes darted to Conan, a silent plea: Don’t tell him. Conan’s brows drew together in a tight line that said: But I have to. Ran’s look deepened, her eyes soft but insistent: Please. Not now. Conan exhaled, the fight leaving him for now. Fine, Ran-neechan. I’ll wait. But I won’t forget.

Kogoro strolled into the living room, hands in his pockets, looking annoyingly pleased with himself. “So,” he started, eyes bright with enthusiasm, “I got us a case.” He leaned against the table, smirking like he’d just struck gold. “It’s in Karuizawa—some fancy estate in the hills. A wealthy family’s heirloom has gone missing, and they need a detective’s expertise to find it.”

He waved his hand like it was no big deal, but then he paused, his tone softening as he looked at Ran. “And you know,” he added, “Karuizawa’s supposed to have clean air, beautiful scenery, and all that. Might do you some good to get out of the city for a bit.” He scratched his cheek awkwardly, trying to sound nonchalant. “Of course, it’s up to you. If you don’t think you can manage the trip, I can go alone.”

Ran’s face lit up, her eyes brightening with a spark Conan hadn’t seen in days. “No, Dad, that sounds wonderful,” she said quickly, her voice warm and eager. “I’d love that.”

Conan’s heart twisted. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, his voice hesitant but firm. “Wouldn’t you be working, though? She’d be alone.”

Kogoro snorted, waving him off. “Don’t worry about that, you brat. Of course she won’t be alone. I’ll make Eri come along too—good to have some adult supervision.” He winked at Conan, grinning. “And you’ll be there too, won’t you? It’ll be like a little family vacation—just with a case on the side.”

Ran laughed, her smile full of light. “That sounds amazing,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Thank you, Dad.”

Conan hesitated, his heart torn. A countryside trip… maybe that really would be good for her. But worry gnawed at the edges of his mind. What if something happens while we’re there? What if she gets sick and we’re hours away from the city? What if—

But seeing Ran so excited, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining—Conan couldn’t bring himself to ruin that moment. If she wants to go, I can’t say no.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “But Ran-neechan, you have to tell us right away wheb you start feeling bad, okay?”

Ran’s eyes softened as she reached over and gently brushed a hand through his hair. “You worry too much,” she teased, but her smile held a warmth that made his chest ache. “But… thank you, Conan-kun.”

Conan sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. Like I can ever stop worrying.

He tried to let it go for now. If Kogoro thought he’d be working, that meant Conan would probably end up doing most of the legwork anyway. A wry smile tugged at his lips. Looks like I’m working, too. Typical.

He contemplated for a moment, internally listing some necessities he'd have to prepare for this trip. Ran's medications. Comfort Items. Snacks. Her drinks. Then his gaze shifted to the air purifier Kogoro got the other day. It was a smart choice to have it in the place. 

Maybe there'd be a similar device he could bring, something portable—

Something clicked in his mind just then. 

Professor Agasa. 

Of course. The old man might be a scatterbrained inventor most days, but when it came to serious matters, he’d always risen to the occasion.

Conan’s eyes sharpened. He could ask the professor to make a portable air purifier — something small and powerful enough to help Ran breathe easier on the trip. She’d be in new environments, unfamiliar air quality, potential allergens. She’d need every bit of support.

He clenched his tiny fist. But to do that, he’d have to tell Agasa. And Haibara too, since she lived at the professor’s house and nothing escaped her sharp gaze. His lips thinned. He glanced at Ran again, noting the faint shadows beneath her eyes.

Yeah… maybe it’s time to tell them. They’d understand. They’d help. And he couldn’t do this alone.

He also thought of other essentials. An oximeter, to monitor her oxygen levels, would be important. Some extra medications, too, maybe even a portable nebuliser, in case she needed it.

His resolve strengthened. I’ll go see Professor later. He’s a scientist — a bit clumsy sometimes, but when it matters, he’ll make sure everything works.

Feeling a small weight lift off his chest with that plan in place, Conan turned to Kogoro, who had now plopped himself onto the other couch, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded like he was the king of the world.

“Hey, ojisan,” Conan began, trying to keep his tone casual, “what is the case about again?”

Kogoro grunted, clearly pleased to have an audience. “Ah, right, the case.” He cleared his throat theatrically. “It’s a missing heirloom. Belongs to the Himuro family in Karuizawa — they’re one of those old-money families with a big estate up in the hills. Seems one of their precious family treasures — a centuries-old calligraphy scroll, they say it’s worth millions — went missing last week. They called me up to investigate.”

Kogoro leaned forward, face serious for once. “They’re hoping I can recover it before it ends up on the black market. They said it’s not just about money — it’s a family legacy. I guess they’re a bit superstitious about it, too. Think it’s a bad omen if it’s stolen.” He gave a dismissive snort. “But that’s rich folks for ya. Superstitious or not, they pay well.”

Conan nodded slowly, taking it all in. A missing heirloom case — not too dangerous, at least not on the surface. That was a relief.

But Karuizawa was in Nagano prefecture. A trip like that would mean long car rides, unfamiliar air, different accommodations. His mind ticked over logistics — hotels, staircases, accessibility, medical care. He’d have to plan for every possibility.

“Did they say anything about where it might be hidden?” Conan asked, eyes narrowed.

“Not really,” Kogoro shrugged. “They’ve got a big house, plus some guest cottages and a storage building. Security’s tight, so they’re baffled how someone even got it out in the first place. They want me to question the staff, look for clues, all that.” He waved his hand vaguely. “It’s probably some inside job.”

Conan hummed thoughtfully, mind still half-occupied with thoughts of Ran. He’d have to be extra careful. His gaze flicked back to her as she sipped her smoothie, and determination welled up inside him again.

“Ran-neechan,” he said quietly, but with a seriousness that belied his child’s voice. “Don’t worry about the case. I’ll—” he caught himself before he said too much. “I’ll help, okay?”

Ran looked over, her eyes warm but tired. “Of course, Conan-kun. You always do.” She smiled, though he could see the worry behind it.

Conan felt a spark of guilt for planning to check her results behind her back. But he knew he had to. He’d protect her in any way he could, even if she didn’t know about it. And with Agasa’s help, maybe he could make that trip just a little safer for her.

"By the way, I just remember I needed to go to Professor's house today," he announced, moving hurriedly as to avoid questions. Better to strike while the iron is hot. "I'll be back for dinner!" 

Then he sprinted to the door, Ran's voice ringing faintly as he climbed down the stairs with her usual, "Be careful and don't stay out too late!" 

-

Conan burst through the door of Professor Agasa’s house like a shot, his lungs burning from the sprint he’d forced his small legs to manage. His sneakers skidded on the polished floor, a sharp squeak echoing in the quiet living room.

He paused, doubled over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his bangs and dotting the floor. His breath rasped harsh in his ears, matching the frantic rhythm of his heart.

Haibara sat on the worn couch, a cup of tea balanced delicately between her fingers, her posture impeccable as always. She raised an eyebrow at him, her gaze steady, the faintest hint of curiosity glinting in her eyes—but no surprise. Nothing seemed to surprise Haibara anymore, not even his breathless, half-panicked entrance.

“You’re out of breath,” she remarked dryly, her tone calm, almost teasing, but laced with a subtle undercurrent of worry he’d learned to recognize. “You look like you ran the whole way here.”

Conan straightened slowly, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. His chest still heaved, but he forced himself to stand tall, to swallow back the sense of urgency pressing at his ribs.

“Where’s the Professor?” he managed, his voice clipped, betraying his impatience.

Before Haibara could answer, Agasa’s booming voice floated in from the back room, tinged with concern. “Shinichi? Is that you? What’s wrong? You sound like you’ve been running from the Black Organization itself!”

Conan’s heart gave a tight, involuntary clench at the mention of the Organization, but he shook it off, focusing instead on the immediate problem. Agasa shuffled into the room, his lab coat slightly askew, glasses sliding down his nose as he peered at Conan with a mixture of worry and curiosity.

Conan’s chest felt tight, his mind whirling with the weight of the past few weeks — Ran’s illness, the checkups, the carefully constructed lie he wore every day like a mask. But here, with these two, the mask always felt paper-thin. They knew him too well.

“Professor,” Conan began, his voice low but steady, “I need your help.” The words felt heavy, each one a carefully chosen brick in the wall he was building around his worry.

Agasa’s bushy brows drew together. “Of course, Shinichi. Anything. What’s going on?”

Conan exhaled, focusing on the shape of his request, on the technical details that would anchor him in something he could control. “Can you make a portable air purifier? Something small but powerful, with a reliable filter, battery-powered. Something that’ll work while we’re traveling.”

Agasa blinked. “A portable air purifier?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think I can adapt one of my older designs — maybe use a high-efficiency filter and a rechargeable battery pack. But why—?”

Conan didn’t give him time to finish. “And I also need an oximeter — the clip-on kind — and a portable nebuliser. Compact. Lightweight. All of it. I need them by this weekend. It’s important.”

He heard the urgency in his own voice, felt it trembling at the edges. Agasa’s confusion deepened, but before he could press for more, Haibara set her cup down with a soft click.

Her eyes were sharp, unblinking. “Is Kudo-kun going somewhere with bad air?” Her tone was casual, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. She was reading him like a book, every page laid bare in his shallow breaths, the tension in his shoulders.

Conan hesitated, his heart hammering. He’d come here to ask for help, but part of him had hoped he could keep the worst of it to himself.

But Haibara and Agasa—he trusted them, and deep down he knew he couldn’t shoulder this alone forever.

“It’s for Ran,” Conan finally said, his voice dropping so low it was almost a whisper. His small shoulders tensed as he spoke, and the vulnerability in his eyes was stark against the usual sharpness of his gaze.

Haibara’s lips parted, a small frown of realization flickering across her face. She knew enough about medicine to recognize the weight behind his request. “These aren’t things most people carry around,” she said quietly. “Unless they’re for someone… very sick.” Her amber eyes bore into him, searching.

Conan clenched his fists. “Yeah. It’s—” He took a shaky breath. “It’s IPF.”

A hush fell over the room. The ticking of the old clock on the wall suddenly seemed deafening, each second dragging like a weight. Agasa’s eyes glistened behind his glasses, and Haibara looked away for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Since when?” she finally asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“A few weeks now,” Conan said, his voice hollow. He stared at the floor, wishing he could be Shinichi again — tall, strong, with the ability to hold Ran and promise her it would be okay. But he wasn’t Shinichi now. He was Conan. And Conan had to hold it together.

They both let the silence stretch, the unspoken understanding between them a fragile bridge over a chasm of fear. Neither of them pressed for details. They knew him too well. Instead, Agasa cleared his throat, his voice a little rough.

“We’ll help, Shinichi. Whatever you need.” His large hand clapped Conan gently on the shoulder, the warmth of it a quiet reassurance.

Haibara’s eyes met his, steady and calm, though he saw the worry there too. “Maybe this trip is good for Ran-san,” she said softly. “Fresh air might help her lungs. And she needs you there, even like this. She needs you.”

Conan nodded, swallowing the ache in his throat. “Yeah. That’s what I’m hoping.” He drew a small notepad from his pocket, sketching a rough diagram of the air purifier. “Professor, I think we can adapt one of your existing models. Maybe use a lithium-ion battery and a carbon filter system. It has to be quiet, though — she hates loud noises when she’s resting.”

Agasa leaned in, eyes brightening with focus as he flipped open his own notepad. “We can do that. I’ll set aside everything else. Ran comes first.”

Conan had imagined how Agasa would take the news. Agasa had watched Ran grow up too, side by side with Shinichi. And as little kids, the two of them used to go to Agasa's house together to play.

For Agasa, Ran was a family. So it was understandable that out of the two, he'd be more affected. But it was a relief to know that he seemed to be doing better than Conan had expected. 

Haibara, on the other hand, leaned back, her eyes half-lidded in thought. “I’ll make a list of medications she might need on the trip. Diet advice. Exercise limits. Even how to monitor her oxygen levels in the countryside. I’m not a doctor, but I can help.”

Conan’s heart clenched with gratitude, a tight, hot ache that made his eyes sting. “Thanks,” he whispered, his voice catching.

For a few moments, they worked in tandem — Conan describing filter systems and battery life, Agasa muttering about airflow mechanics and voltage, Haibara scribbling notes on medication and warning signs to watch for. It felt like a tiny lifeline — something he could do, something tangible, when so much else felt like slipping sand.

Just as Conan finished sketching the rough design, his phone buzzed in his pocket, sharp and insistent. He nearly dropped his pen, his pulse spiking. The name Hattori glowed on the screen.

He stared at it, thumb hovering over the answer button, his mind whirling. Hattori — his friend, his partner in countless cases. It had been a while since they last talked. He wondered what was he calling about and for the first time, he prayed that it wasn't some case. 

Conan didn't need a case right now. 

He let the phone ring, the vibration humming against his palm, the screen a silent witness to the mess in his chest.

He drew a shaky breath, eyes flicking to Agasa and Haibara, who watched him with patient, knowing eyes.

Agasa straightened, concern crossing his face. “Go ahead, Shinichi. We’ll keep working."

Conan met their eyes, gratitude flickering in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly, gripping the phone. “Thank you." 

And for a moment, with the weight of Ran’s illness heavy in his heart, he felt just a little less alone.

-
-

“Hattori?”

Kudo’s voice came through the phone line, quieter than usual. Heiji immediately noticed it wasn’t the usual deadpan tone Kudo reserved for him — the one laced with half-amused exasperation at his own overenthusiasm.

No, this voice was tired, restless, like a candle flickering on its last inch of wax. Heiji didn’t comment on it, just filed the observation away in that mental notebook he always kept on Kudo.

Heiji was still feeling the gravity of the news Ran shared with them last night. So when he spoke, his voice was filled with dread. “Neechan—Ran-chan called.”

There was a pause. A pause too long. Long enough for a detective’s mind to pick up every nuance in the silence — the way Kudo’s breathing changed, how even the static in the line seemed to shift with the weight of realization.

Heiji didn’t need to be a genius to know Kudo had already pieced together why Ran had called.

Kudo let out a slow, soft sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was different — smaller somehow. Even more childish in pitch, yet carrying a gravity that made Heiji’s chest tighten.

“I see.”

Two words. Just two. But in them, Heiji heard everything: guilt, fear, helplessness. It made his stomach twist.

Still, he didn’t comment. Didn’t let his voice show the way his heart lurched. Kudo didn’t need pity — he needed a friend who would treat him the same as always.

But then, Kudo’s voice shifted suddenly, a flicker of something else there, sharper, tinged with confusion. “Wait—she called you?”

Heiji was quick to jump in, his voice casual, hoping to soothe that sudden edge. “Ah—nah, she called Kazuha last night. I was just around. When she realized I was there too, she let me listen in.”

There was a beat, then Kudo said softly, “Oh. I see.”

Heiji couldn’t resist a grin, a grin he knew Kudo would feel even through the line. He let a laugh bubble up from his chest, couldn’t help himself. “What, are you getting jealous of even me now?”

Kudo sputtered, his tone pitchy and defensive, like a kid caught red-handed. “I-idiot! That’s not it at all!”

Heiji’s grin widened. He could almost picture Conan’s small face going red with embarrassment. “Hm? Really?” he teased, drawing out the syllable.

There was a rustle of movement, then Kudo cleared his throat, his voice going quiet again, almost vulnerable. “It’s just that… she hasn’t told 'Shinichi' yet.”

That gave Heiji pause. “Eh? She hasn’t told you yet? Why not?”

Kudo sighed again, the sound tinged with a weary bitterness that made Heiji’s chest tighten again. “Who knows.”

Heiji didn’t miss the faint sulking tone. Kudo was pouting — he could picture it perfectly. He shook his head, half amused, half exasperated. “Are you calling her enough, man?” he asked, voice teasing but serious underneath.

“Yeah,” Kudo muttered. “More often, actually. But the topic never came up.”

Heiji let out a low hum, trying to think of the right thing to say. “Maybe she’s just waiting for the right moment,” he suggested gently.

Kudo’s sigh was quieter this time, but just as heavy. “She’s told the important people in her life, though.” Still that sulking note. Heiji imagined him still pouting on the other end of the line, and it made him smile in spite of everything.

“I don’t know..." Kudo went on, his voice small. “If she just doesn’t want me to worry, or if she wants to keep this sense of normalcy, even if it’s only with me.”

Heiji leaned back on the engawa of his family home, the rough wood warm beneath him, his gaze on the darkening sky. His voice was thoughtful, serious. “That’s probably it, Kudo. You two only talk on the phone these days. Maybe she just wants to keep this piece of her life safe from all the pain, to feel normal — even if it’s just with you.”

There was a long pause, then Kudo’s voice came, soft and distant. “Yeah.”

Heiji let his eyes slide shut, mind drifting through the hours he’d spent reading about Ran’s illness, every dry medical article and clinical case study he could get his hands on. The more he learned, the more he wished he didn’t know — every line an indictment of how powerless they all were.

He was certain Kudo had done the same — probably even more obsessively, maybe even more desperately, searching for that single thread of hope that might change everything.

He wanted to ask him, to force him to talk about how he really felt, how he was coping, but he knew Kudo. The guy would bolt the second he sensed a question like that coming.

Still, he tried. “Kudo—”

But Kudo cut him off immediately, too quick to be a coincidence. That was Kudo’s style: head off a conversation before it got too close to the bone. “So how did Kazuha-chan take the news?”

Heiji let out a slow sigh, forcing himself to drop it. “As you’d expect,” he answered, voice soft. “She cried last night. But you know her—she bounces back fast. She’s already planning a trip to visit you guys this weekend.” He paused, his tone turning serious, almost reverent. “She’s strong, Kudo. Just like Ran-chan. Ran-chan’s strong.”

Kudo’s voice came after a pause, hushed and weighted. “Yeah. They’re really strong.”

Then a pause. Kudo’s voice again, but with a tinge of curiosity this time. “Wait a minute—did you say you’re planning a trip to Tokyo this weekend?”

Heiji chuckled. “Yeah, and it’s an overnight. So we’ll be in your care, you hear?”

Another pause, a long one. Heiji could almost see Kudo’s mind working behind those big glasses.

“Kudo?” he prompted.

Kudo’s voice came, questioning. “Then… why don’t you just come with us to Karuizawa?”

Heiji blinked, surprise flaring. “Karuizawa?”

Kudo’s tone turned thoughtful, explaining. “Yeah. Kogoro-occhan took a case there — we’re leaving this weekend. So you’d probably miss us in Tokyo. They're thinking… it’s good for Ran to get a change of scenery, maybe it’ll help her lungs a bit. And to be honest…” He trailed off, his voice softer. “I’d feel better if there were more people around who could be with her. You know… while Occhan is busy with the case.”

Heiji’s grin returned. “You mean while you’re busy with the case.”

Kudo’s small laugh was like a breath of relief. “Yeah, something like that.”

Heiji smirked. “Okay then — Karuizawa it is.”

Then he hesitated. “But… is she okay to travel?”

Kudo’s voice was quick, almost eager. “Yeah. Karuizawa’s easy to reach. We just have to prep properly. Honestly, I’m more worried about her being alone at home. It’s getting dangerous — especially with stairs. If only she could stay somewhere with no stairs.”

Heiji leaned back, his eyes narrowing as an idea sparked. “Then why don’t you let her stay at your place?”

Kudo’s voice was puzzled. “My place?”

“Yeah,” Heiji said, his voice firm. “Your mansion. Isn’t there a room on the ground floor? Maybe she can stay there.”

There was a beat, then Kudo’s voice brightened, a laugh of genuine delight. “Hattori, you’re a genius!”

Heiji grinned wide. “Of course I am,” he drawled.

Suddenly, Kudo’s tone turned urgent, hurried. “Okay — I need to call my parents—”

Heiji’s eyes sharpened. “Oi, Kudo, wait.”

Kudo’s voice came wary. “What is it?”

Heiji took a deep breath, his voice low and serious. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’re keeping it all in.” He paused, letting the words hang heavy between them. “I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for you — but you can’t push yourself too hard. If you break right now, who do you think will be hurt the most? It’s Ran-chan.” Another pause. Then: “What I’m trying to say is… don’t bottle it up, Kudo. Talk if you need to.”

Kudo’s voice was quiet, hoarse. “Y-yeah. Okay.”

Heiji nodded to himself, feeling a tightness in his chest. “Okay. Good.” Then he forced a grin. “Send me the details of the trip later, alright? Well then.”

He didn’t wait for a reply — he hung up, the screen going black.

Heiji sat there on the engawa, phone cooling in his hand, staring at the darkening sky. Kudo was a stubborn guy — too used to handling things alone. He’d always been like that.

Heiji frowned. He’d have to keep an eye on him too, make sure he didn’t try to carry all of this by himself.

“That idiot…” he muttered, but there was a small, determined smile on his lips.

-
-

Conan stepped out of the bath, steam still clinging to his damp hair, his small frame wrapped in a too-big towel as he dried himself off. He was wearing his pajamas now—blue with white trim—buttoned up to his neck like always, giving him a childish air that hid the storm churning beneath his skin.

The apartment was quiet, the hush of late night settling like a heavy blanket. Kogoro had dozed off in the living room earlier, the TV muttering in the background. Conan slipped back to the bedroom he shared with Kogoro, sliding the door shut behind him, and paused.

There—on Kogoro’s bed—sat a thick envelope, its corner worn from handling. Conan’s sharp eyes darted to it, instantly recognizing the kind of official paper that comes from hospitals—thick manila, the weight of too much truth inside. His breath hitched. He knew, without even opening it, that this was Ran’s medical file.

He crossed the room with silent steps, his heart beginning to pound. He closed the door softly, as if any noise might shatter the fragile shield of normalcy that still existed around them. Kneeling beside the bed, Conan reached for the envelope with trembling fingers.

“Ran…” he whispered, as though the papers might hear him.

He carefully undid the flap and pulled out the documents inside—a sheaf of papers with lines and numbers and harsh clinical words. He flipped through them with practiced efficiency, eyes scanning and absorbing everything at lightning speed. But this was different from any case file he’d ever read. This wasn’t a case he could solve.

The first page was the latest lung function report—“Forced Vital Capacity (FVC): 52% of predicted.” Conan felt his chest tighten. He knew what that meant. The progression had worsened—her lungs were stiffening faster than they’d hoped.

He flipped to the next page. “Oxygen saturation during exertion: 85%.” She was desaturating with even mild activity now.

Another page—“Six-minute walk test: marked dyspnea noted.” Dyspnea. Difficulty breathing. His eyes burned. Ran had always been so strong, always the one with a smile, always the one who ran to help others. And now even walking left her gasping.

He turned another page—“HRCT scan: evidence of worsening honeycombing and reticulation.” The images in his mind—the scarring, the webbing in her lungs—made him want to tear the paper apart, to scream.

One more page—“Prognosis: further decline expected; no significant improvement noted.”

His heart stopped.

No significant improvement noted.

He felt the blood drain from his face. His hands trembled so hard the papers rattled. He couldn’t breathe.

Ran’s smiling face flashed in his mind—the way she’d always been the sun in his world, lighting up every dark corner. The tears she’d hidden, the pain she must be in, the fight she’d fought alone because she didn’t want him to worry.

He forced himself to breathe—shallow, ragged. He had to be strong. He had to be the detective. But right now, he couldn’t even pretend. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something. But instead, he gently, carefully, slid the papers back into the envelope.

Kogoro must’ve put them there so he could read them later. Conan placed it back exactly as it was, smoothing the edges with trembling fingers. Then, his hands cold, he pulled out his futon, laid it out, and crawled in.

He stared at the ceiling, his mind blank but simultaneously screaming. The numbers and words blurred together—FVC, oxygen saturation, prognosis, decline—like some nightmarish code he couldn’t crack.

The night stretched on. The clock ticked louder than it ever had. Every second sounded like a hammer.

He heard the bedroom door creak open. Kogoro’s footsteps—he’d returned. Conan kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep. The bed creaked as Kogoro sat down, rustling the envelope. The papers shuffled.

Conan heard the hitch in Kogoro’s breath, the same way his own breath had caught. He imagined the old man’s eyes widening, tears that might not fall but would shine all the same. He imagined Kogoro, stoic and gruff, but crumbling quietly inside, just as he was.

He thought about the progression of Ran’s illness—how IPF would keep tightening its grip, leaving her more breathless, more fragile. The words repeated in his mind like a curse—no significant improvement… further decline expected…

He thought about the Mouri family—how Kogoro, despite his gruffness, must be feeling the same dread. He thought about Eri, even if she was putting on a brave face. How would they all endure this?

His mind shifted to his own parents, their words that nigh. Firm yet honest, and filled with comfort and guidance. Even with the distance, they've always been a steady support, a lifeline through so many trials.

He thought of Professor Agasa and Haibara. Their quiet support, their eagerness and readiness to help even without asking too many questions. Their calm understanding. 

Then Heiji’s voice echoed in his ears—“Don’t bottle it up, Kudo.”

Conan clenched his fists, his knuckles white. His expression hardened, jaw tight. He forced himself to think of Ran’s smile again—how it had begun to look forced, how the laughter had started to sound strained. 

He thought about her pain—the silent suffering she bore so no one would have to see.

He thought about the tears she’d cried when no one was looking, her break down at the detective agency. 

He thought about how she must've been hurting, but still trying to be courageous for the sake of her loved ones. 

No significant improvement… further decline expected…

These words, these facts, they kept on appearing and reappearing in his thoughts, forcing him to face the truth, the reality he tried to shove at the back of his mind. 

And for the first time since learning about Ran's diagnosis, Conan thought about losing her. 

It was once a distant worry, a faraway thought. Situations wherein Ran's life was in danger of bomb threats, crashing planes and even hostage takers. Situations where he could simply fight back with a soccer ball, a high speed chase, or even a last-minute heroic act. 

In those moments, the possibility was only a flicker, a lick of fire, easy to blow out, quick to extinguish. 

This time, it was different. 

The possibility of losing Ran was now looming over his head—a dark certainty he couldn’t escape. And it was a highly likely possibility. 

This... this was what broke him. 

"Ran..." he whispered in the dark. 

His heart clenched, an invisible wire gripping it tightly. 

“Ran…” Her name was a prayer and a curse.

“Don’t bottle it up, Kudo.”

"Ran... Ran... Ran..." 

As Kogoro's snores steadied, indicating his deep sleep, Conan finally let his tears to fall. 

"Ran," he murmured her name repeatedly, voice breaking with every exhale. "Ran." 

And in that small room, in the coldness of the night, Conan's painful sobs reverberated through the air. 

-

Chapter Text

-

“Eh? Hattori-kun is coming too?” Sonoko’s voice rose in surprise, her eyes glinting with a playful mischief that danced just behind her wide grin.

Ran, seated in the middle seat of the Shinkansen’s three-seater row, rolled her eyes with a half-exasperated, half-amused sigh.

“Kazuha-chan’s coming too,” she quickly pointed out as she turned to Sonoko. “Come on, Sonoko, it’s the wrong dark-skinned boy you’re getting excited about. Don’t target Hattori-kun when you already have Kyogoku-san.”

Sonoko let out a loud laugh, flipping her hair back with practiced ease. “I'm joking, I’m joking.” she said brightly, her tone teasing but affectionate.

Ran’s lips curled into a soft, knowing smile, and she shook her head gently. “Honestly,” she muttered, but there was a fondness in her voice that made Sonoko’s chest tighten with warmth.

Outside the train windows, the summer sun gleamed bright, casting dappled shadows across Ran’s hair, making it shimmer like spun gold.

The scenery rushed by in a blur of green fields, small towns with neat rooftops, and distant, hazy hills. The steady hum of the Shinkansen beneath them was almost comforting—a low, constant vibration that seemed to echo the rhythm of their journey.

She exhaled slowly, the weight of the past few days pressing on her chest. She remembered the phone call she’d had with Ran the afternoon before—the way her hands had trembled as she dialed, the tears that had come hot and fast.

She’d apologized over and over for taking a whole day just to process the news of Ran’s illness, the fear that had gripped her so tightly she’d barely been able to breathe. She’d cried, so much, because she hurt so much for Ran. Because she couldn’t imagine the pain her friend must be feeling.

Ran, strong and kind as ever, had simply listened. She’d spoken softly, steady even as her own voice trembled sometimes. And then Sonoko had promised her—I’ll be with you through this journey. I’ll always be there for you, no matter what.

That was why she was here now. When she heard the Mouri family was heading to Karuizawa, she’d immediately decided she would come too. She couldn’t let Ran face this alone. She wouldn’t.

Sonoko’s gaze flicked to Ran, who at that moment was adjusting the cuff of her loose, cream-colored cardigan. She looked well today—brighter than usual. There was a glow to her cheeks, her smile warm and genuine.

Yet even in the laughter and chatter, Sonoko noticed the subtle signs: the faint shadows beneath Ran’s eyes, the delicate way her collarbones peeked through her neckline. It wasn’t drastic, but it was enough to remind Sonoko that everything had changed.

But today she looks happy, Sonoko told herself fiercely. Let it stay this way, please.

Ran shifted in her seat, turning her head slightly. “It’s too bad, though,” she murmured. “Mom was supposed to come with us too, but she got a last-minute meeting with a client that she absolutely couldn’t miss.” She sighed but managed a smile. “She promised she’d make it up to us—she’ll come in the afternoon and join us later in the evening.”

Sonoko nodded in understanding. “Well, that’s just like Auntie Eri,” she said, her tone affectionate. “Always working.”

Ran laughed softly, but there was a note of wistfulness there. “Yeah. Always working.”

Sonoko reached over and gently squeezed her hand.

Ran’s smile returned, brighter this time, and she glanced toward Conan. “But still—don’t you think it’s a little strange that Hattori-kun’s so eager to come along? I mean, it’s not really a murder case. He might get bored.”

Conan perked up immediately, his small hands clutching a gadget from his backpack—a sleek device with subtle buttons and a faint digital glow. Sonoko’s eyes narrowed at it for a moment, but she let it slide, deciding it was probably just another one of his weird hobbies.

“Heiji-niichan’s addicted to any kind of case,” Conan declared, voice bright, a forced cheerfulness to his tone. “Even if it’s not a murder, he’d want to be part of it.” He laughed, a bit too high-pitched, and Sonoko’s brow furrowed. She caught the tension in his voice—like a thin thread stretched too tight.

But she didn’t say anything. Instead, Ran leaned back, smiling teasingly. “Yeah, just like someone I know,” she said, looking at Conan with that warm, knowing look that made Sonoko’s heart ache and smile at the same time.

Conan’s cheeks turned pink, and he let out an embarrassed little laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Ehehe… I guess so.”

Sonoko watched them, heart warm but heavy all at once. Conan had always been fiercely attached to Ran—his Ran-neechan—but lately it was different. He stuck to her side like glue, refusing to let her out of his sight even for a moment. It was as if he was afraid she might disappear the moment he turned away.

She shifted her eyes to the seats. Ran was in the middle seat, Conan on her left, Sonoko on her right. Kogoro’s steady snoring floated from the row ahead, a familiar, almost comforting noise that made Sonoko smile.

Normally, Conan wouldn’t care where he sat, his nose buried in a puzzle book or one of his mini-gadgets. But today, he’d insisted—absolutely insisted—on sitting beside Ran. Sonoko couldn’t miss the protective way he leaned toward her, the way his small fingers fiddled nervously with that gadget of his.

She tilted her head, eyeing the device curiously. “Always up to something,” she thought with an amused sigh. But then she let it go, knowing there were some things even she couldn’t pry into.

She stretched her arms above her head and turned back to Ran. “Anyway, Ran, once we get there, we can just relax all day while your dad does his job,” she said brightly, her voice light and teasing.

Ran’s eyes lit up with that familiar sparkle, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile.

“That’s right,” she agreed. “I bet it’ll be you, me, and Kazuha-chan when she arrives. These two—” she gestured at Conan with a playful tilt of her head “—will probably run off somewhere, chasing trouble.”

Conan’s head snapped up. “No way!” he protested, eyes wide, voice earnest. “I’ll stay with Ran-neechan this time!”

Ran’s eyes twinkled with suspicion, her smile mischievous. “Hm? Really? But didn’t you say you’d help with the case?”

Conan puffed out his little chest, planting his tiny fists on his knees. “The great detective Mouri Kogoro can handle it on his own, after all! He doesn’t need me helping,” he declared proudly, his voice tinged with a childlike bravado.

Sonoko and Ran burst out laughing. Ran’s laugh was bright and clear, like music in the quiet train car. Sonoko’s laughter was a warm, bubbling sound that rose from somewhere deep in her chest.

Conan’s grin softened, the corners of his lips tugging upward, eyes brightening. He let out a small, contented laugh, satisfied he’d succeeded in making them laugh. That was his goal, she realized—to ease the tension, to make them smile even if only for a moment.

The laughter between them still hung in the air like a gentle afterglow when the lady with the food cart came gliding down the aisle. The small clinking of bottles and the subtle scent of warm tea and coffee drifted to their row.

“Would you like something to drink or a snack?” she asked politely, a practiced smile on her face as she slowed near their seats.

Ran glanced up first, her eyes bright. “Ah, Conan-kun,” she said, reaching for her purse, “how about a juice? And Sonoko, want a drink?”

Conan’s eyes lit up, and he nodded eagerly. “Yeah, thanks, Ran-neechan!”

Sonoko smiled too. “I’ll have some tea,” she said lightly.

Ran, always so thoughtful, ordered a juice for Conan and a tea for Sonoko without any fuss or hesitation. She accepted the drinks from the cart lady with a gracious nod, paying neatly and quickly as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Here you go,” she said, handing Conan his juice can, its bright orange label catching the overhead lights. “And for you, Sonoko.”

“Thanks, Ran,” Sonoko said, accepting the warm paper cup with both hands. The aroma of roasted tea rose in a comforting little cloud. “You always take care of us.”

Conan mumbled his thanks too, popping the tab open with an eager fizz.

There was something unspoken among them—an understanding that none of them would fuss too much, or show too much worry, at least not in front of Ran.

They’d all silently agreed: they’d make this trip feel normal. Just another train ride to another summer getaway. Let her smile. Let her laugh. Let her forget, even for a little while.

Sonoko’s eyes fell on Ran again, who was tucking her wallet back into her bag. The small gesture—buying drinks for her companions—felt so familiar, so typical of Ran that Sonoko’s heart ached with tenderness. Even in the smallest moments, Ran found ways to care for others.

The lady with the food cart moved on, the gentle clinking of bottles fading into the background as she rolled further down the car. Sonoko took a careful sip of her tea, letting the heat seep into her chest.

“Ran,” she began, glancing at her friend with a soft smile, “what about you? Don’t you want some tea or a juice too?”

Ran’s eyes sparkled as she reached into her tote bag and pulled out a slim, pale pink tumbler decorated with tiny cherry blossoms. She held it up with a triumphant grin. “I’m all set! Amuro-san made me a fruit shake especially for this trip.”

Sonoko’s eyebrows shot up, impressed. “Wow, he is such a gentleman,” she said, her voice warm with genuine surprise.

Ran nodded, a little bashful smile on her lips. “Yeah, he’s always so kind. He said it’s full of vitamins and energy for traveling.”

Sonoko leaned back and gave Ran a playful nudge with her elbow. “Not to mention he’s dark-skinned too, huh?” she quipped, a wicked grin dancing on her lips.

Ran’s laughter bubbled out—clear and bright, a sound that filled the space around them with light. “Oh, Sonoko!” she scolded, but her eyes danced with amusement.

Sonoko grinned too, feeling her heart lift just watching Ran’s face glow like that. The train rattled along, the sun streaming in through the wide windows, casting shifting patterns of light on their laps and the floor.

For a while, they chatted about little things—about how Sonoko’s father had wanted her to bring back a box of Karuizawa’s famous jam for her mother, about how Ran’s father had forgotten his toothbrush again and she’d packed an extra one just in case, and about how Kazuha would definitely scold Hattori if he ran off somewhere as soon as he sniffed a case again.

Conan, nestled beside Ran, listened in with that small, contented smile on his face, his legs swinging slightly as the train hummed beneath them.

Sonoko found herself soaking in the moment. The peacefulness, the small laughter, the gentle sway of the train as it carried them steadily toward Nagano prefecture.

Everything felt right, like the world had shifted just slightly to let them catch their breath.

This is good for her, Sonoko thought fiercely, her eyes soft on Ran’s profile. This trip—it’s already working. She looks so happy. Like everything’s normal.

Outside, the countryside rolled by in a blur of green hills and distant mountains, the blue sky overhead promising summer days yet to come. Inside their little world of seats and laughter, the ordinary felt like a blessing. The train rattled on, carrying them closer to the case that awaited—and to more precious moments together.

-

They arrived at Karuizawa Station after approximately an hour, the train gliding to a smooth halt amidst the cool, highland air. The platform bustled gently with other travelers—some tourists with large rolling suitcases, others locals with small backpacks and comfortable shoes.

Kogoro stretched his arms overhead and cracked his back with a groan. “The person who’s taking us to the villa is already on his way to pick us up,” he announced gruffly, glancing at his watch. “We’ll just wait here for a bit.”

Ran smiled, her eyes bright despite the travel, clutching only a simple tote bag that looked lighter than usual. She’d always been a light packer, but this time her load seemed even less than normal.

Conan had his backpack slung over both shoulders, and Kogoro, ever the doting father in his own rough way, carried the large duffel bag that held most of their combined belongings.

Sonoko, for her part, had a small, elegant travel bag—sleek and black with gold trim. She might have been a Suzuki, but she’d long since learned how to live modestly when it came to travel with friends.

She knew her responsibilities as the daughter of a conglomerate, but there were times—especially times like this, with Ran—that she relished being just another teenage girl. Someone who didn’t carry the weight of big names or expectations.

These moments feel precious, she thought as they waited, the scent of the mountain air filling her lungs.

As she watched Ran adjust the strap of her tote bag, Conan shifted closer to her, rummaging in his backpack. He pulled out a small, cylindrical object—sleek and white, with a single button. He held it out to Ran with both hands.

“Here, Ran-neechan,” he said, his voice small but earnest.

Ran blinked in surprise, accepting it gingerly. “What’s this?” she asked, turning the object over in her hands.

“Try pressing the button,” Conan urged.

Curiosity dancing in her eyes, Ran pressed the button—and the cylinder unfolded into a small device with a mask-like attachment. She gasped softly, her breath catching. “Oh… a nebulizer?”

Conan nodded, his eyes wide and solemn, and Sonoko didn’t miss the faint flicker of concern that crossed his face. “Yeah. It might come in handy, you know?” he murmured.

Sonoko let out a low whistle. “That’s nice, but why do you have something like that, brat?” she asked, half-mocking but genuinely impressed.

Conan avoided her gaze. Ran, still studying the device, tilted her head and asked gently, “Could it be from Professor Agasa?”

Conan’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile, his eyes lowering. “Yeah… it’s from Professor.”

Ran’s eyes fell to Conan’s backpack next, where a small, sleek device protruded from a side pocket. “Is that something from Professor too?” she asked, pointing at it.

Conan’s eyes widened as he followed her gaze. “Oh, that? Yeah. It’s an air purifier. It’s really powerful even though it’s small.”

Ran hummed softly, her expression unreadable for a moment.

Sonoko’s sharp eyes caught the way Conan’s shoulders stiffened, his eyes searching Ran’s face for any hint of worry or sadness. He was bracing himself for how she might react.

But then Ran bent down, so she was almost at his eye level. She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, her smile tender, her voice warm and full of quiet gratitude.

“You’re really thoughtful, Conan-kun,” she said softly. “Thank you. And thank Professor for me too. I really appreciate it.”

Conan’s eyes widened in astonishment. For a moment, he just stared at her, his cheeks turning pink as if he’d been caught off-guard by her gentle praise.

Sonoko had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing outright. That brat was just stunned by Ran’s kindness, she thought fondly.

She’d always suspected that Conan had a childish crush on Ran, and she couldn’t blame him. Ran was warm, nurturing, and had a way of making people feel safe—she’d charmed more than one detective, after all.

Conan, still a little pink, cleared his throat and fished out another small item—a clip-on device. “Here too, then, Ran-neechan,” he said, handing it to her. “It’s an oximeter—smaller than a regular one, so it’s more inconspicuous, but it works just the same.”

Ran accepted it with another warm smile. “Thank you so much,” she said, her fingers closing over the device.

Just then, Kogoro let out a loud snore from his seat on a nearby bench—he’d apparently dozed off again—and Ran turned to show him the nebulizer and the oximeter, explaining in her sweet voice how Conan had thought of everything.

Sonoko seized the moment to lean down beside Conan, her voice dropping to a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone. She wasn’t going to tease him—at least not now.

“You’re worried about how she’d react, aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes searching his small face.

Conan blinked, startled by the seriousness of her question. He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yeah,” he admitted softly.

Sonoko’s heart softened. She smiled, brushing a lock of hair casually. “Like you don’t know how she is. Ran always puts other people’s feelings before her own. She's genuinely kind-hearted.”

Conan’s gaze turned thoughtful, his eyes drifting back to Ran as she laughed and chatted with her father. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and reverent. “She is.”

They stood side by side for a while, watching her, feeling the warmth of the summer air and the deep, comforting presence of someone who, despite everything, still found it in her heart to smile for everyone else.

And as the mountain breeze drifted through the station, Sonoko vowed to herself that she’d help keep that smile alive for as long as she could.

-
-

Heiji adjusted the strap of his bag as he and Kazuha stepped out of the taxi, the faint scent of pine needles and cool mountain air hitting him immediately. It was different up here—fresher, cleaner—like every breath filled him with something new and sharp.

“Man, it’s been a while since I’ve been out in the countryside,” he muttered, glancing at the rolling hills that framed the estate.

He could already spot the wide, impressive gates up ahead, the estate itself peeking through like something out of a movie.

Kazuha stretched her arms above her head, her eyes bright. “It’s so fresh up here,” she said with a soft smile. “Really good for—”

She cut herself off, as if she’d only just realized what she was about to say. Heiji caught it too, the way she’d almost said Ran’s name. He bit the inside of his cheek.

They’d both been doing it—looking around, sniffing the air, quietly assessing the environment. Making sure everything was okay for Ran, even without meaning to.

Heiji’s mind flashed back to the text Kudo had sent him before this trip: “Keep things normal for Ran. Don’t let her know you’re fussing. I told them you came because of the case, so don’t ruin the cover. Just… help me make this trip normal for her, okay?”

Normal. As if any of this was normal.

He turned to Kazuha and cleared his throat. “Hey, Kazuha.”

She looked at him with wide, curious eyes.

“When we see Ran-chan,” he began, his voice lower than usual, “don’t act too worried, okay? Try not to treat her any different.”

Kazuha’s eyes widened before they narrowed in that familiar fiery way of hers. “Of course I know that, Heiji!” she snapped, crossing her arms. “You think I don’t know Ran-chan? She wouldn't want to make others worry about her. I expected that—and I’m prepared. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

Heiji lifted his hands, a faint grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “Whoa, easy,” he said. But then he let his smile fade, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you. I just…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I just don’t want you to get so caught up in worrying that you forget how to just be there for her, you know? Show her you care, yeah—but don’t make her feel like she’s different.”

Kazuha’s expression softened at that. Her brows relaxed, though her cheeks were still pink from indignation. She let out a small sigh and nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Heiji gave her a nod back.

Just then, a car came around the bend at the gates, rolling smoothly up the drive to the estate’s grand entrance.

Heiji recognized the battered figure of Kogoro in the front passenger seat, head lolling slightly in the drowsy late morning sun. Ran was in the back with Kudo and the Suzuki lady, their faces pressed against the glass as they chatted.

The car pulled to a stop near the wide double doors. Kogoro clambered out and immediately started fussing with the attendant, giving them their bags and rattling off instructions. Kudo and Sonoko stepped out next, stretching their legs and taking in the mountain air.

Heiji and Kazuha started across the spacious yard, admiring the neat flowerbeds and the carefully manicured lawns. The estate was huge, the kind of place you’d expect to host politicians or celebrities.

As they approached the car, Heiji’s gaze shifted automatically to Kudo. His friend with a child's body was standing by the car, eyes locked on Ran as she stepped out.

There was a subtle, almost instinctive movement in him, like he was about to reach out to steady her if she faltered. His small hands twitched at his sides, a flash of protectiveness in his eyes. Even now, he was so attuned to her every movement that it almost hurt to watch.

Ran moved carefully, slower than she used to, but with that same gentle grace. Her smile was bright, but Heiji could see the tiredness in the lines of her face, in the way she took a slow, deliberate breath.

But even from a distance, Heiji could see what had changed.

Her face was thinner, paler than before. She had that tiredness about her—something that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen her. It wasn’t obvious if you weren’t paying attention. But Heiji was paying attention.

Kazuha, for her part, took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Heiji watched her carefully—he’d known her forever, after all. He saw the faintest hesitation in her step, a subtle shift as she took in Ran’s face. A split-second pause, like she’d needed to steel herself before stepping forward—because she’d seen the changes too: the way Ran’s face was thinner, the shadows under her eyes. Kazuha’s worry nearly bled through her smile.

But then she gathered herself and ran ahead with that bright cheerfulness she’d always had, her arms flinging out to greet them.

“Ran-chan! It’s been forever!” she cried, her voice brimming with warmth. She wrapped Ran in a tight, affectionate hug, one that lingered just a little longer than normal, but it was full of nothing but love. 

Ran returned the hug just as warmly, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Kazuha-chan, it has been a while,” she said, and Heiji saw how her smile reached her eyes—even if the fatigue still sat behind it.

“Sonoko-chan, too! Hi!” Kazuha added, and Sonoko returned the greeting with a bright grin.

Ran turned her eyes to Heiji then, her smile never faltering, though a flicker of something—tiredness?—passed through her eyes. “Hattori-kun,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

Heiji grinned at her, the same big, confident grin he’d always given her. “Yo!” he said simply. Then he dropped down to Kudo’s level, ruffling his hair like he always did, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Yo, Kudo.”

Kudo let out a small, exasperated huff, but didn’t dodge the gesture, letting Heiji’s hand mess up his hair. “Seriously, Hattori,” he muttered, though his lips twitched in reluctant amusement.

While the girls were catching up, Heiji leaned in closer to Kudo. “She looks better than I expected,” he said quietly.

Kudo’s eyes, still fixed on Ran, were heavy and sad. “It’s only today,” he said, voice small but steady. “Today… seems different.”

Heiji frowned, a pang shooting through his chest. He could only imagine what that meant—the good days and the bad ones, and how that kid carried every one of them like a weight.

Kudo shifted his gaze to Heiji, eyes serious. “I’m counting on you for this trip,” he added.

Heiji’s reply was immediate, his voice firm and unwavering. “Yeah,” he said. “You can count on me.”

And as he watched Ran’s smile lighting up her tired face, Heiji vowed that this trip wasn’t just for her—it was for Kudo too. For that man with a body too small, yet mind too sharp and a heart too heavy. 

As they waited, Heiji watched Kogoro talk with the attendant for a bit longer before finally turning back to the group with a wide, self-satisfied grin.

“Alright, here’s how it’s gonna be,” he declared, voice a little too loud. “Ran, you girls will share a room.”

Ran nodded politely, but Sonoko elbowed her playfully, whispering something that made Ran smile despite the lingering tiredness on her face. Kazuha, standing just behind them, seemed relieved.

Kogoro turned his attention to Heiji and Kudo. “And you brats,” he continued, a hint of exasperation in his tone, “will be in another room.” His gaze flicked to Heiji’s and Kudo’s matching unimpressed expressions, and he snorted. “Better not cause any trouble.”

Heiji just shrugged. “Tch, as if.”

Kudo’s lips quirked in a tired but amused smile. “We’ll behave,” he said dryly.

Kogoro hesitated for a beat, then muttered, almost too low to be heard, “Guess I’ll just have to share with Eri once she gets here.” He scratched the back of his head, the tips of his ears pink. Clearly, he was trying—and failing—to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. Heiji bit back a smirk at the older man’s awkwardness.

Before anyone could comment, Kogoro straightened up, clearing his throat. “Anyway, the master of the estate is on his way down to greet us,” he announced, lifting his chin like a general preparing for battle. “Behave yourselves.”

Heiji glanced around as they waited, taking in the estate in more detail. The place was impressive, all old-world charm and immaculately tended gardens stretching out in every direction.

A gentle wind carried the scent of freshly cut grass and something floral—maybe roses—mingling with the earthy tang of damp soil. The main house loomed over them, its dark wooden beams polished to a deep sheen, contrasting with the lighter walls. A sprawling veranda wrapped around the front like an invitation to linger.

Heiji’s gaze snapped back to the path as a boy emerged from the main house. Middle school-aged, probably—tall for his age, with neatly cut hair and sharp eyes that darted around with the cautious arrogance of someone raised in privilege. He wore a crisp uniform, blazer unbuttoned in a way that suggested a rebellious streak. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he approached them, hands shoved in his pockets.

Heiji felt Kudo’s subtle shift beside him—the kid was on guard too, already reading the boy’s body language like a textbook. Heiji mirrored the motion, eyes narrowing slightly.

The boy’s gaze locked onto Ran instantly, his brows knitting together in a frown. He sized her up, direct and borderline rude.

For a moment, Ran simply looked surprised, as if she couldn’t figure out why he was scrutinizing her. Then she tilted her head slightly, a faint smile still on her lips.

The boy didn’t bother with a greeting. “I was told Detective Mouri’s daughter is a karate champion,” he said bluntly, voice carrying an unmistakable challenge. “I was looking forward to sparring with you. But—” His eyes raked over her, expression souring. “—what is this? You look like you’re not doing well.”

Ran blinked, surprise flickering across her features. For a split second, Heiji caught a shadow of hurt in her eyes before it vanished behind a small, practiced smile. “Oh,” she managed, voice light but not quite steady. “Um, I guess it’s been a long trip.”

Heiji clenched his jaw, irritation bubbling up. The boy’s words had cut deeper than he probably realized—or maybe he did realize. Either way, Heiji felt that old protective instinct flaring up.

He wasn’t the only one—Kudo’s hands had balled into small, white-knuckled fists, his expression darkening. Sonoko’s eyes widened, her brows shooting up, and Kazuha’s mouth opened in shock.

The boy shifted back a step, his confidence flickering as the group’s reaction hit him like a cold wind. His eyes darted between them, the smirk faltering.

Kudo moved first, stepping forward with a deceptively bright smile. “So, Nii-chan,” he piped up, tone carefully light, “you do karate too? What about soccer? I play soccer. Wanna play with me instead?”

The boy blinked, thrown off by Kudo’s casual, cheerful tone—and maybe by the underlying sharpness in his gaze.

Heiji stepped in with a grin of his own, folding his arms across his chest. “Nah,” he drawled, his Kansai accent thickening. “Let’s do Kendo instead. I play Kendo. How ‘bout it, kid?”

Kazuha, catching the drift, stepped forward too, chin lifted. “No, no,” she challenged with a teasing glint in her eyes. “Spar with me. I do Aikido—closest to karate, right?”

Sonoko, never one to mince words, crossed her arms and huffed. “Hmph! What a brat. No delicacy at all. I'll play tennis with you if you want.”

The boy’s eyes widened, his posture stiffening at their combined challenge. He stammered for a moment, then straightened his shoulders, though he seemed a bit paler now.

“N-Nevermind,” he muttered, voice quieter but still tinged with pride. “Those aren’t what I wanted to do anyway.” He turned on his heel and stalked off, his steps less sure than before.

Kudo and Heiji watched him go, eyes narrowed. Kazuha let out a small sigh. “Geez, middle schoolers these days.”

Ran just stood there, silent, watching them all with a small, distant smile.

A moment later, the main doors swung open and an older man stepped out, followed by a tall, stoic butler in a neatly pressed uniform. The master—dressed in a tailored yukata with a subtle, elegant pattern—had kind eyes that crinkled at the corners, his hair silver and tied back in a low ponytail. He carried himself with an easy grace, though age had added a slight stoop to his posture.

“Ah, forgive my grandson,” he said with a warm, apologetic smile. “He’s not usually so brash.” His voice was gentle but carried an unmistakable authority. “I am Himuro Takeo, master of this estate. Welcome.”

Kogoro stepped forward, shaking the offered hand. “Good to meet ya. Though I gotta say, your grandson’s got a thing or two to learn about manners.”

Sugimura chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Ah, well—he’s at that age.” He glanced at Ran, his smile softening. “Actually, it’s the opposite of what you think. Haruhiko—my grandson—admires Ran-kun very much. He saw one of her karate matches some time ago and was fascinated. Since then, he’s taken an interest in karate himself and has always wanted to spar with her.”

Heiji’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ of understanding. So that’s why the boy had gone straight to Ran. He already knew her—had been following her achievements from afar.

Sonoko let out a little laugh. “So that brat’s basically smitten with Ran and just wants her attention.”

Kazuha giggled. “That’s what it sounds like.”

Ran’s cheeks colored faintly, and she laughed softly.

Heiji turned to Kudo, who was muttering under his breath, face tight with a different sort of annoyance now. Heiji couldn’t help but smirk at the kid’s obvious jealousy.

Himuro spread his hands. “So, please, forgive him if he was rude,” he said kindly. “Now—shall we go inside? I imagine you’re all tired from your journey. We can get you settled in and talk about the case.”

Heiji exhaled, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as he watched the old man’s amiable face.

The estate around them was alive with a summer hush—the hum of cicadas in the trees, the breeze sifting through manicured hedges, the warm sun beaming down on the wide, inviting front steps. The butler, standing a step behind the master, nodded politely, his white-gloved hands folded neatly in front of him.

Heiji felt the fatigue of the long train journey settle in his bones—waking up before dawn, wrestling through two Shinkansen transfers with Kazuha, and still carrying the mental weight of his worries about Ran.

But despite that, he couldn’t help but feel a spark of anticipation. There was something about being in an unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar case, surrounded by the people he’d come to trust—and a part of him was eager to see how all this would play out.

 
-

Heiji followed the group as they were led through a short hallway and out onto the expansive backyard terrace.

The area was shaded by a wide awning, with several tables arranged in a way that invited conversation. The furniture was crafted from sturdy, dark wood polished to a gentle shine, and low planters of seasonal flowers added bursts of color among the neat arrangement of seats and small lanterns.

Beyond the terrace, a well-tended garden stretched out, its symmetrical hedges and carefully arranged flower beds giving the place a sense of tranquil order. A small lake, its surface catching the late morning sun, shimmered just a few meters away, while in the distance, the green shoulder of a mountain rose proudly, its slopes dotted with trees.

“Wow,” Kazuha whispered, her eyes wide. “This is incredible.”

Sonoko let out a breathy sigh. “It’s like something out of a magazine.”

Ran turned slowly, taking it all in with a faint but genuine smile. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, her voice soft but filled with admiration.

Heiji himself felt a low whistle escape his lips. “Not bad at all,” he muttered. Even Kudo—usually so focused on the case, or Ran—let his eyes wander over the scenery, an appreciative glint in his gaze.

Kogoro, despite his usual gruffness, looked around and gave a satisfied nod. “Nice place you got here,” he said.

Takeo beamed, his face crinkling with pride. “I’m glad you all like it. It’s been in the family for generations, and we do our best to keep it in shape.” His voice carried a warmth that matched the gentle breeze wafting across the terrace.

A maid arrived, carrying a tray of refreshments—iced tea, small cakes, and a pitcher of water. She moved with practiced grace, placing the drinks before each guest.

“Lunch is still being prepared, but please enjoy these refreshments in the meantime,” the master said, gesturing with a welcoming smile.

Heiji noted in passing that Ran, instead of reaching for the offered drinks, quietly unscrewed the cap of her own tumbler and took a small sip. Something about the way she held it—careful, practiced—told him she’d gotten used to relying on that bottle more than anything else.

As they all settled down, the master cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled. “Detective Mouri,” he began, “thank you again for coming on such short notice.”

Kogoro gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, his arms folded across his chest.

The master continued, “As was previously discussed, we’ve had a rather distressing incident. A family heirloom—a calligraphy scroll—disappeared from its usual place in the study last week. It’s a priceless piece, centuries old, with a long history in the Himuro family. It’s not just a monetary loss,” he added, his brow furrowing, “it’s a piece of our legacy. My grandfather always said it was a symbol of our family’s fortune and harmony.”

Heiji saw Kudo lean in, eyes sharp and focused, though he made sure to keep his posture relaxed.

Takeo went on, “The scroll is made from silk, with an intricate ink painting and calligraphy poem, supposedly by a famous Edo-period artist. Appraisers have said it’s worth millions.”

The butler, standing just behind Takeo’s chair, gave a solemn nod. “We discovered its absence last Monday,” he explained, voice low and respectful. “The study was found unlocked. We thought at first that perhaps it had simply been misplaced—but no one has been able to find it. And the master’s quite sure it didn’t leave this house without help.”

Takeo sighed, his expression weary. “We’ve tried asking the staff discreetly, but of course no one admits to seeing anything suspicious. I’m not one to jump to conclusions, but there are a few individuals I can’t help but be concerned about.”

Kogoro shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Who might those be?”

Takeo looked toward the butler, who consulted a small notepad. “First,” the butler said, “there’s the gardener—he’s new here, only joined a month ago, and has had access to all areas of the property. Then there’s the housekeeper—she’s been with us for years, but lately she’s been asking about her wages quite a lot, and seemed... distressed.”

Takeo’s mouth twisted. “And there’s also the young chef we hired last year. He’s been under some financial strain—medical bills for his father, he told us. He’s a good boy, but desperation can drive people to do foolish things.”

Kogoro scratched his chin thoughtfully. “So basically, you want me to interview them all and look for clues.”

“Exactly,” Takeo said with a nod. “We’d like to keep this as quiet as possible for now. It’s embarrassing, you see, to have something like this happen in our own home. And besides—” he hesitated, a crease forming in his brow, “the family firmly believes that if the scroll is truly lost, it’s a sign of misfortune to come.”

Heiji looked at Kudo, noting how he’d chosen to sit beside Ran rather than near Kogoro, where he’d normally position himself to catch every detail of the discussion.

At first, Heiji figured Kudo was just being his usual worrywart self. But then he remembered that earlier, their belongings had been taken by the attendant to be delivered to their respective rooms. Yet Kudo still had his backpack slung over one shoulder like a lifeline. Something in that bag, Heiji realized, had to be important—probably something for Ran.

He settled back in his seat as the morning sun dipped a little lower, casting a soft glow over the terrace.

The mountain view in the background was so vivid it felt like you could reach out and touch the mist that clung to its ridges. It was a place that would normally set him at ease—but he wasn’t here for that. Half the reason he’d agreed to this case was because of Kudo’s quiet, almost desperate plea: “Please, look out for Ran.”

Kudo was listening to the conversation with sharp focus, filing every word away in that big head of his.

Then he asked the question that was on everyone’s mind: “Why do you think this is an inside job, Himuro-san? Why focus only on the people who work for you?”

Takeo’s face, lined with age but still dignified, grew solemn. “That’s a fair question,” he said, his voice low but steady. “It’s because we haven’t had any guests here in the time that scroll went missing. Not a single one. The family’s been here all week—no outsiders—and aside from my wife and myself, no one else has stayed in the house. Only the staff had access to that room.”

Kudo’s eyes narrowed slightly, the wheels turning in that genius brain of his.

Heiji leaned forward, arms crossed. “And the family? You’re not even considering them?”

Takeo hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Every member of my family has been raised to treat that scroll as sacred—a talisman of our family’s fortune and peace. Taking it would invite disaster on themselves. I can’t imagine any of them would risk that.” His lips twitched in a tight smile. “Besides, none of them have any real reason to.”

Heiji nodded slowly but wasn’t convinced. The man was too quick to dismiss the possibility that his own kin might be involved. A bit biased, aren’t we? he thought but didn’t press the issue. He’d have time later to sniff around on his own.

Kogoro, stretching with a dramatic sigh, started his barrage of questions—no stone left unturned. “Any broken locks? Sounds in the night? Anyone acting strange?”

Takeo’s butler, who stood quietly to the side, cleared his throat. “No signs of forced entry. No sounds reported. Nothing appeared disturbed—except, of course, the scroll’s disappearance.”

Takeo nodded along, the weight of worry in his eyes. “Please, Mouri-san, question the staff discreetly. We want to avoid any unnecessary panic among the household.”

Kogoro smirked, confidence returning. “Leave it to me. I’ll start now, while lunch is still being prepared.” He turned to Ran, softening his voice. “Ran, you lot stay here for now, okay? Get some rest.”

Ran smiled, her hair catching the light like a gentle flame. “Okay, Dad.”

Kogoro gave a curt nod, following the butler toward the staff quarters.

Heiji didn’t move. He felt Kazuha’s eyes on him, a question in her gaze. “Aren’t you going too, Heiji?”

He waved her off with a half-smirk. “Nah. I’ll do my own digging later.”

His eyes flicked to Kudo, who still sat rooted beside Ran, staring off into the middle distance, his thoughts far away. Ran’s eyes, soft and a little puzzled, were fixed on him—like she was trying to read the unreadable.

She spoke up, her voice warm but tinged with curiosity. “What about you, Conan-kun?”

Kudo blinked, almost startled. “Eh?”

Ran tilted her head slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. “Are you really staying by my side?”

A faint blush spread across Kudo’s cheeks, his voice a notch lower than usual. “Yeah. I promised earlier. I’m staying.”

Sonoko leaned forward, her grin unmistakable. “Of course he is! He’s got that fancy air purifier, remember? Gotta stick around to keep it working, right?”

Heiji chuckled, leaning over the table. “Oi, oi, what's that? You got something cool in there?”

Before Kudo could answer, Ran’s smile widened, bright and grateful. “He brought an air purifier just for me,” she said, voice full of warmth. “Isn’t he sweet? My little guardian.”

Kudo’s blush deepened, his gaze dropping to the table as Sonoko and Kazuha chuckled.

Heiji’s grin widened, curiosity sparking. “Show me that thing.”

Kudo shifted his backpack so that Heiji could get a better look. It wasn’t like any store-bought model—Agasa’s handiwork was unmistakable. A sleek, custom-built unit protruded from the back of the bag, its casing a smooth, white polymer that looked both durable and lightweight. The small intake and exhaust vents were seamlessly integrated, with a discreet power panel on one side.

Heiji examined it with a whistle. “Damn, that’s some serious gear. Multi-stage filters, compact design—looks like it’s got all the functions of a top-of-the-line model, maybe more. HEPA filter, ozone scrubber, even a VOC sensor. Compact enough for travel too. Perfect for IPF, huh?”

Ran’s eyes glistened with pride—and something softer. “He said he’d stay with me,” she whispered, her smile tremulous. “But Conan-kun,” she added more gently, “you can leave the purifier with us if you want to go help Dad. I know you’re curious. You always are.”

Kudo shook his head firmly, his eyes bright but heavy with something unspoken. “No,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “I’m staying with you this time. I’m not that curious. I’m sure Kogoro-ojisan can handle it.” He gave her a small smile—a smile that to anyone else might have seemed real, but Heiji knew it was forced.

Takeo, who had remained with them while Kogoro and the butler went off, stepped closer. His eyes crinkled with a warm, paternal concern. “Ran-kun, how are you feeling?”

Ran turned to him, eyes soft, polite, and grateful. “I’m fine, thank you. And thank you for accommodating us.”

Takeo waved her thanks away with a gentle shake of his head. “It’s no trouble at all. Actually,” he paused, voice dropping, “it was a condition Detective Mouri set before taking the case.”

Ran blinked in surprise, her breath catching. “Condition?”

Takeo’s eyes softened even further, as if he were sharing a secret meant only for her. “He wanted a sanctuary for his daughter.”

The words hit like a stone in Heiji’s chest. He saw Ran’s eyes widen, shimmering with a mix of shock and something tender.

“I’m sorry about that,” she whispered, embarrassed yet grateful. 

But Takeo only smiled, a wise, kind smile. “Don’t be. I’m glad my home can be that place for someone who needs it. Even if it’s just for a short while, I hope you find some peace of mind here.”

Heiji caught something in the old man’s gaze—something deeper than simple courtesy. Maybe Takeo knew about Ran’s illness. Maybe he didn’t. But his words carried a gravity that Heiji felt in his bones.

He shifted his eyes to Kudo, who was watching Ran like she was the most precious thing in the world. Heiji saw it then—the way Kudo’s hand hovered near her, the way his expression softened, the way his shoulders held a tension that only someone carrying a heavy burden would.

Everyone around the table—Kazuha, Sonoko, even him—wanted the same thing. That in this place, on this case, even just for a moment, Ran could find rest. Not just in her body, but in her heart.

Heiji leaned back, a weight settling in his chest.

Yeah. This case was only half the reason he’d come. The other half was sitting right there—smiling despite the worry that shadowed her eyes, the strength she carried, even as her lungs fought her every breath.

He’d see this case through. But more than that, he’d make sure Ran got the sanctuary she deserved.

He let out a quiet sigh and watched the sun rise a little higher, painting the terrace with light. Whatever happened next—he’d be there. 

-
-

The hospital’s corridors felt unusually quiet this morning, the hush broken only by the occasional squeak of rubber soles on the polished floors. A gentle antiseptic scent lingered in the air—sharp, clean, but not entirely comforting.

Eri adjusted her handbag on her shoulder, letting her eyes wander over the muted colors of the walls, the pale green of the nurses’ station, the muted yellow of the directional signs that pointed to different departments. She noticed the soft hum of the air conditioning, the low murmur of voices in waiting areas—a muted symphony of a place that balanced life and death on the tip of a scalpel.

She had been to this hospital before, of course—many times now, ever since Ran’s diagnosis had turned her family’s world on its head. But every time she walked these halls, it felt like she was holding her breath. She passed a mother fussing over a child in a wheelchair, a young man holding a small bouquet of flowers, and a nurse pushing a cart of supplies. Each face was a reminder that every family here was fighting their own quiet battle.

She reached Dr. Araide’s office—a familiar door now. The small sign with his name, Araide Tomoaki, MD, was decorated with a small flower sticker in the corner, probably put there by a grateful patient.

Eri knocked lightly and heard his warm, familiar voice. “Come in.”

Inside, the office smelled faintly of herbal tea—a habit of Dr. Araide’s—and the small potted plant by the window was still thriving, its leaves glossy and green.

Dr. Araide stood to greet her, a reassuring smile on his face. “Good morning, Kisaki-sensei. Thank you for coming.”

“Good morning, Sensei,” she replied, her tone formal but warm.

Her eyes flicked to the woman seated across from him—a woman about her own age, dressed in a crisp white coat over a pale lavender blouse, hair neatly tied back. Her eyes were kind, thoughtful, the sort that made people trust her.

“This is Dr. Sakamoto Rei,” Araide said, gesturing to her. “She’s the pulmonologist I mentioned.”

Dr. Sakamoto stood and offered a polite bow. “Kisaki-sensei, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from Dr. Araide—and from Ran-san’s case file.”

Eri returned the bow. “Thank you for taking the time. I’m very grateful.”

After the brief pleasantries, the tone shifted, and Eri felt the weight of the conversation settle in the room. She sat down across from them, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her heart a tight knot in her chest.

Dr. Araide leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle. “How is Ran-san doing lately?”

Eri let out a quiet sigh, thinking of the nights she’d heard her daughter’s labored breathing, the mornings when Ran would hide her fatigue behind a brave smile.

“She’s managing,” she admitted. “She’s strong, but… the breathlessness is getting worse. She tries to hide it from me, but I can see it.”

Dr. Sakamoto nodded sympathetically. “She’s incredibly brave. But we want to make sure she’s as comfortable as possible. Let’s discuss what we can do.”

They brought out a folder of treatment plans, each one meticulously detailed. Dr. Sakamoto spoke first. “Given that Ran-san’s disease is progressing slowly but steadily, we need to focus on symptom management. Supplemental oxygen at night is one option, to reduce the strain on her lungs.”

Eri hesitated. “She might resist that. She hates looking fragile.”

Dr. Araide nodded. “That’s normal. But it can be introduced gradually—just at night at first—and we’ll talk to her about how it might help her feel stronger during the day.”

They discussed long-acting bronchodilators, rescue inhalers, and even antifibrotic medications. Dr. Sakamoto explained gently, “Antifibrotic medications can help slow down the progression of fibrosis. They’re not a cure, but they can make a difference in stabilizing her condition. We’d need to monitor liver function closely, but I think it’s worth considering.”

Eri asked about the side effects, how it might interact with other medications, how Ran might feel on it. The doctors answered each question patiently, weighing the benefits and risks together, brainstorming what combination would be best for Ran.

At one point, Dr. Araide leaned back thoughtfully. “Oh, by the way,” he added, almost as an aside, “Conan-kun came to see me the other day. He asked me to approve the use of a customized nebulizer he had made for Ran-san.”

Eri’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did he really?” she asked, incredulous.

Araide chuckled softly. “He did. And I checked it—it’s quite an impressive piece of work. It functions well, especially for emergencies. It’s portable and efficient. I think it’s an excellent addition to Ran-san’s care.”

Eri shook her head slightly, a small smile on her lips. “That boy… he seems to care about Ran so much, to go to such lengths for her.” Her voice softened, her mind wandering for a moment to another boy, older now but always so quick to protect, who would have done the same—Shinichi-kun. She wondered, not for the first time, where that boy was now, and if he even knew.

Dr. Araide seemed to share her sentiment, his expression warm. “Conan-kun is a bright and attentive boy,” he said. “Ran-san is lucky to have people who care for her.”

At some point, Eri paused, noticing the way Dr. Araide’s brows furrowed every time Ran’s name came up, the way his voice softened. He cared about her daughter—not just as a patient, but as a person.

And Dr. Sakamoto too—her compassion was evident in the gentle way she explained each step, the way she considered not just the clinical side but Ran’s emotional wellbeing.

In the end, they settled on a plan:

Nighttime supplemental oxygen therapy, introduced gradually.

A long-acting bronchodilator with a rescue inhaler for acute breathlessness.

Regular follow-ups every two weeks to monitor progress.

An initial pulmonary function test next week, along with a six-minute walk test, to establish a baseline.

A discussion about antifibrotic medication, with regular liver function tests to monitor safety.

A discussion with Ran about her feelings and concerns, to involve her in the decision-making process.

It wasn’t a cure. Eri knew that. There was no magic wand to wave away the scars on her daughter’s lungs. But it was something—a plan that would ease her symptoms, give her a little more comfort, a little more freedom.

As she rose to leave, she clasped her hands together, bowing deeply. “Thank you. Truly. For treating my daughter as a person, not just a case.” Her voice trembled again, but this time she let it.

Dr. Araide smiled, eyes warm. “She’s more than a case, Kisaki-sensei.”

Dr. Sakamoto nodded. “We’ll do everything we can to make her comfortable—and to make sure she knows she’s not alone.”

Eri carried the treatment plan carefully in her bag, like a fragile treasure. It wasn’t hope in the grand sense, but it was enough for now. Enough to let Ran breathe a little easier, enough to ease the pain that Eri had wished a thousand times she could take on herself.

As she walked down the corridor, past the quiet hum of machines, she thought about the nights Ran had woken up coughing, the way she’d tried to smile even as her chest ached.

Eri had seen the tears, the frustration in Ran’s eyes, the fear that she couldn’t hide. And every time, Eri had wanted to take all of it—every ache, every labored breath—into her own lungs, so that Ran wouldn’t have to bear it.

She couldn’t do that. But she could do this. She could make sure her daughter had the best care, the gentlest hands, the most compassionate doctors. She could make sure Ran knew she was loved.

She glanced at her watch—she still had a client meeting to attend before heading to Karuizawa to join Ran and the others. The weight in her chest eased, just a little. This was enough for now. Enough to let Ran breathe a little easier. Enough to let her smile, even if only for a short while.

And that was all Eri could ask for.

-

Chapter Text

-

The sun was high in the sky, brightening the land with its brilliance and glow. The air was crisp, the kind that carried the scent of pine and mountain laurel, with just a hint of late spring flowers from the gardens surrounding the estate. A gentle breeze caressed the porch, carrying with it the earthy scent of moss and the faint, sweet fragrance of cherry blossoms that had lingered past their bloom.

Kazuha let her gaze drift across the scenery spread out before her—rolling hills that rose and fell like the chest of someone breathing peacefully, the leaves dancing in the wind with a quiet music all their own. Beyond the hills, she could just make out the distant silhouette of the mountain peaks, their jagged edges softened by the waning light.

She shifted slightly on the wooden bench, the wood warm under her legs, and let her eyes settle on Ran.

Ran was sitting with her knees drawn slightly to the side, her posture graceful yet relaxed, her long hair catching the fading sunlight like strands of honeyed silk. She had that small, calm smile on her face—the one that seemed to say, Everything is alright, don’t worry about me.

Kazuha felt her chest tighten a little at that smile.

She remembered, as if it were yesterday, the first time she and Ran had met. Back then, Kazuha had been so sure of herself—so quick to assume, so quick to judge.

She let out a breath, feeling the weight of that memory settle in her stomach.

She’d been excited to visit Tokyo, but also anxious—Heiji had been talking about this Kudo person with such admiration that she felt like a shadow beside him. Every time he spoke about Kudo, his eyes would light up with a spark she’d rarely seen. Of course, she’d tried to ignore it, tried to tell herself it was just a detective thing, just Heiji being Heiji. But deep down, it bothered her.

So when they’d arrived in Tokyo and she’d finally laid eyes on Ran for the first time—tall, graceful, with an elegance that seemed to radiate from her like sunshine—Kazuha had felt a pang of jealousy so sharp it took her breath away.

She’d assumed, with embarrassing certainty, that Ran was Kudo—the person Heiji couldn’t stop talking about.

Even after the confusion had cleared—Heiji’s laughter still echoing in her ears—Kazuha hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that Ran was a rival somehow. She’d been polite, of course—she wasn’t rude exactly—but she’d kept her distance. She’d offered small smiles, but they’d felt stiff, like they’d been pressed into place rather than born from real warmth.

And then there’d been that day—she remembered it so clearly now.

They’d been on the way to one of Heiji’s cases, piled into the back of a car, she and Ran sitting side by side. Kazuha had noticed earlier with a sharp, unwelcome pang that Ran’s shirt was almost identical to Heiji’s—same navy blue, same colored stripes. It looked like they were matching on purpose, like a couple. Her heart had clenched in that moment, jealousy and uncertainty gnawing at her.

She’d tried to ignore it, to be polite, but she’d felt herself pulling away again, pressing an invisible wall between herself and Ran. And Ran—Ran must have felt it.

Ran had asked her, unable to let the awkwardness between them linger. And Kazuha had admitted what she observed, emphasising how much she didn't like it. Ran had glanced down at her shirt, then at Kazuha, and her expression softened with a kind of gentle understanding that made Kazuha’s chest ache.

Without a word, Ran had taken the shirt off, with no regards to where they were, and pulled on the one she'd bought from the clothing store.

Kazuha had been stunned.

Later, she’d found out—through Kogoro as he asked Ran why she changed her shirt—that the navy blue shirt with stripes had been a present from Ran’s mother. A small, thoughtful gift that Ran had loved wearing.

And yet, without hesitation, she’d changed it in that cramped car just to put Kazuha at ease, as if Kazuha’s fragile mood was more important than her own comfort or that precious gift.

That moment had hit Kazuha like a stone.

She’d realized then how much of a good girl Ran was—how she’d always put others first, even if it meant setting aside something that mattered to her. How she’d do it so naturally, with that calm smile and those warm eyes, never asking for anything in return.

Since then, Kazuha had paid closer attention. She’d seen Ran’s kindness, her quiet strength. She’d watched the way Ran would always worry about others before herself, how she’d give up her own comfort to make someone else’s day easier.

She’d seen the fierceness that would spark in Ran’s eyes when someone needed protecting, the way she’d stand her ground like a warrior even though her heart was so gentle.

And she’d seen, too, the way they were the same—both tied to their childhood friends, both knowing that feeling of waiting for someone who was always chasing shadows. Heiji and Kudo were so alike in that way, always off solving mysteries, always too close to danger for comfort.

That was why Kazuha had grown to love Ran like a sister. Because in this tangled, frustrating, heart-wrenching life, Ran was someone who understood her without having to say a word.

Now, as she looked at Ran sitting there with that peaceful smile, the blue sky so wide and endless above them, Kazuha felt a bittersweet ache.

She thought of the phone call, of Ran’s steady voice explaining her illness—too calm, too brave.

It had been too big for someone so young. Too cruel, too heavy.

Kazuha hadn’t known what to say, hadn’t known how to react. All she’d known was that Ran sounded stronger than anyone should have to be.

So Kazuha had decided that she wouldn’t let herself fall apart. There were people who were even sadder about the news. And Ran. Ran was the person who carried this burden every single day. She was the one who was hurting the most. 

She would be strong, for Ran. She’d show her that she was here, that she’d never leave. Even if she didn’t know how to get past this, she’d find a way. Because that’s what best friends did.

She’d be strong, because that’s what Ran deserved.

-

After the meal—a feast so extravagant it would’ve made any Osaka restaurant blush—Kazuha leaned back slightly in her chair, letting out a small sigh of contentment.

The master of the estate had outdone himself: a luxurious spread of grilled river fish, crisp mountain vegetables, delicately arranged sashimi that glistened like jewels, and a sweet warabi mochi that melted in her mouth. Every bite felt like a piece of art, and she’d made sure to show her appreciation with every compliment she could muster.

The master and his wife had been so gracious, exuding the warmth of an old, well-cultivated family. She had noticed during the meal that the wife had exchanged pleasantries with Sonoko—turns out she was an acquaintance of Sonoko’s parents. Of course.

Kazuha wasn’t surprised in the least. As expected of Sonoko—a girl who seemed to know everyone who was anyone, as though she’d been born with a little black book of important names and connections.

“Sonoko-san,” the wife had said, smiling warmly, “it’s been so long since I last saw you! You’ve grown into such a fine young lady.”

Sonoko had smiled demurely—more polite than usual, which Kazuha figured was her ‘conglomerate princess’ mode.

The lunch had been lively and warm, with laughter and easy conversation filling the room. Even the master’s grandson, Haruhiko—the boy from earlier—had joined them.

Kazuha had noticed the way he’d kept glancing at Ran, eyes shy and cheeks tinged pink. It made her chest tighten just a little.

She still hadn’t completely forgiven the boy for his insensitive remark earlier, but as she watched him fidget, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. He’s probably just a kid who doesn’t know how to say things properly, she thought.

After lunch, the master and his wife had excused themselves, leaving the small group to decide what to do next.

Kogoro had wasted no time, striding off to continue his “investigation,” muttering about getting to the bottom of things, his voice trailing off as he disappeared down one of the estate’s long, polished hallways.

Kazuha watched as Heiji and Conan huddled together by the shoji screen near the porch. The sun filtering through the paper cast their shadows in soft outlines on the floor. Their voices were low, conspiratorial, and Kazuha found herself smiling, a bittersweet warmth blooming in her chest.

Conan had promised to stay by Ran’s side this time—and Kazuha could see he was doing his best. Even Heiji, who usually couldn’t resist sticking his nose in every case within a hundred-mile radius, seemed to be holding back.

For a moment, Kazuha wondered why Heiji wasn’t as restless as usual, but then she saw the way his brows were furrowed, the way he leaned in as Conan spoke, and she understood: he was absorbed. He was just… toning it down, maybe. For Conan’s sake, or maybe even for Ran’s.

She had to smile again. That was just like Heiji—loud and brash on the outside, but sensitive where it counted.

She caught herself thinking how the two of them—Conan and Heiji—seemed to share a secret language. Their heads bowed together, voices hushed, like they were planning a heist rather than investigating a case.

She wondered, briefly, why they were so secretive, but she let it go. Detective talk, probably. She’d long stopped finding it strange how Conan carried himself around Heiji. He acted like a grown-up, confident and quick on his feet.

As she sat back, letting her thoughts wander, Ran turned to her with that gentle smile of hers.

“Kazuha-chan,” she said, “do you need to go to the washroom? Sonoko and I were about to head there.”

Kazuha blinked, pulled from her thoughts. “Ah—yeah, I should probably go too,” she said, rising from her seat. The cushion beneath her shifted, the scent of tatami and cedar mingling in the warm afternoon air.

As Ran stood, Conan’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Ran-neechan, where are you going?” he asked, the urgency in his voice surprising Kazuha.

She paused, momentarily startled by how attuned the boy was to Ran’s every movement. It was almost… uncanny. Like he had some kind of invisible thread that tugged him the moment Ran moved an inch.

Ran turned to him with a soft smile. “Just the toilet,” she said.

Conan’s brows knit together. He stood, adjusting his small frame like a miniature soldier. “I’ll go too,” he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Do you need to go too?" Ran asked in confusion, watching as Conan was already putting his chair back. 

Without looking up, Conan replied, "No. I'll just walk you to the door." 

Ran’s eyes widened in mild surprise. “Conan-kun, you don’t have to do that. Sonoko and Kazuha-chan are coming with me.” Her tone was scolding, but in that gentle, loving way that only Ran seemed to manage.

Conan blinked and only then did he look at Kazuha and Sonoko—like he’d only just realized they were there, paying attention to him. His face shifted, a bit sheepish.

Kazuha couldn’t help but smile. “Just wait here with Heiji,” she told him, her voice warm and understanding. “We’ll be right back.”

Conan hesitated, eyes flicking between them, then sighed and nodded, his small shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

As the three girls turned to leave, Ran let out a small sigh. “Geez,” she murmured, a wistful note in her voice, “it used to be the other way around. He was always the one running off somewhere.”

Sonoko laughed, her voice bright and teasing. “Well, the brat’s really clingy now, can’t do anything about it.”

Kazuha joined in with a quiet laugh of her own. “He’s just being a good little guardian,” she said, warmth in her tone.

Ran chuckled, the sound like a wind chime in the soft afternoon air. But then a pause settled over her, a silence that felt like the hush before the wind picks up again.

Kazuha glanced at her friend, her smile fading into something more contemplative. She could feel it, unspoken but heavy—the knowledge that Conan’s protectiveness wasn’t just childish worry. Ran knew why he was so clingy these days.

No one said it out loud. No one needed to.

Ran knew. And she understood.

When the three girls returned to the main room where they’d left the boys, Kazuha couldn’t help but smile at the familiar sight of Heiji and Conan—heads bent together, voices low, eyes sharp and focused. It was like nothing else in the world existed for them except the case they were dissecting, piece by piece, each feeding off the other’s energy.

Conan’s eyes flicked up at their approach—quick, almost too quick—and Kazuha noticed how his gaze lingered on Ran for a fraction longer than necessary, scanning her like a hawk might scan the ground for prey.

It was such a protective gesture, almost automatic now, and Kazuha felt a pang of affection and exasperation. That boy, she thought. He’s small, but he’s relentless.

Neither of the boys spoke—clearly still tangled in theories—and the girls didn’t interrupt. Instead, they drifted toward the display case that lined the far side of the room, drawn by the soft gleam of glass and the promise of treasures beyond.

The Himuro family’s precious items sat like jewels in a crown, a kaleidoscope of eras and origins.

Kazuha’s eyes darted from one to the next: a delicate porcelain vase from the Ming dynasty, its surface a swirl of cobalt dragons and clouds; a lacquered inro box so small it could fit in the palm of her hand, but decorated with enough gold and mother-of-pearl to rival any royal treasure; hand-painted fans from the Edo period, their paper aged to a rich cream and their images still vibrant; and even a few samurai swords, their hilts inlaid with pearl and jade, resting in velvet cradles like sleeping warriors.

Kazuha let out a low whistle. “Man… these are somethin’ else,” she murmured, eyes wide with genuine admiration.

Sonoko, who was already half-leaning against the glass, beamed. “I know, right? It’s like a mini museum. Can you imagine the price tag on just one of these things?”

Ran, ever the gentle one, smiled softly. “It’s incredible. Each one probably has its own story, passed down through the family.”

They lingered at the display for a while, voices dropping as though the treasures themselves demanded respect.

Kazuha pointed out a tiny silver music box, its key still nestled in its base. “I bet this still works,” she said, a note of wonder in her voice.

Sonoko leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Maybe it plays some fancy European waltz or something. That’d be so romantic.”

Ran’s gaze drifted from one piece to the next, her smile tinged with a subtle melancholy. “It’s amazing how many memories must be tied to all these things,” she said quietly. “Each one must hold so much history.”

Kazuha felt the weight of that thought settle in her chest—a gentle ache that came from knowing that even the most beautiful things could carry burdens unseen. She glanced at Ran, wondering how many burdens she herself carried.

Just then, Kazuha noticed something in Ran’s expression—a shift, subtle but unmistakable. Ran’s eyes had drifted back toward the boys, her brows drawn together in that thoughtful, determined way that only she could manage. Kazuha recognized that look instantly.

She watched Ran for a moment longer, letting her own thoughts unfurl like a roll of film.

Ran-chan’s always been the type to notice the things others don’t, she thought. She sees how Conan-kun and Heiji have been hovering—like worried hawks that can’t decide if they’re protecting her or caging her.

She thought back to the way Conan’s eyes darted at every movement Ran made, the way Heiji’s body tensed every time Ran so much as shifted in her seat. It was so obvious, the way they both kept her within their line of sight—like they were just waiting for her to stumble.

But that was Ran. Always considerate, always thinking of others. She knows, Kazuha realized. She knows they’re worried about her. She knows they’re holding back—afraid to let themselves get pulled too deep into the case because they’re too busy watching her. And she doesn’t want that.

Kazuha’s chest tightened, a mixture of admiration and helpless affection. She doesn’t want her condition—whatever it is—to be the reason they can’t do what they love. She wants to give them permission to let go, even for just a little while. She’s always been like that—always stronger than anyone gives her credit for.

Ran turned back to the girls, her face clearing, her smile soft but tinged with a quiet determination. “Hey,” she said, her voice gentle but carrying a weight that belied her calm tone, “why don’t we go check on Dad’s investigation? We can walk around a bit too.”

Sonoko blinked. “Eh? Why would we do that?”

Kazuha’s smile curved into something knowing. “Ah… so that’s it,” she thought, pride and admiration welling up inside her.

Ran’s plan was clear now: if they moved, Conan would follow—he’d never let her out of his sight—and so would Heiji, because he was too stubborn to let the other two handle things alone.

And by doing that, they’d have no choice but to keep Ran in their line of sight while also giving themselves the freedom to investigate.

Ran’s plan was brilliant in its simplicity—like a delicate thread pulling everyone along without them even realizing it.

Sonoko looked uncertain, but Ran’s gentle smile reassured her. “It’ll be fun,” Ran added, the slight lift of her chin giving the impression of a girl determined to keep moving forward, no matter what.

Kazuha nodded firmly. “Yeah, sounds good to me. Let’s go.”

They turned back to the boys. Ran spoke up, her voice casual. “Hey, we’re gonna go check on Dad’s investigation. You're coming too, right?”

Conan’s head shot up, confusion flickering across his face. “Eh? Wait—where? Why?”

Ran’s smile was patient but unstoppable. “Just to look around. It’ll be interesting.”

Heiji frowned. “Oi, wait a minute—”

But it was too late. Ran was already leading the way, Kazuha and Sonoko flanking her, all three of them moving with a quiet determination that left no room for argument.

And just as Kazuha had expected, the boys—Conan especially—were on their feet almost instantly, their protests lost in the movement as they followed. Conan’s eyes never left Ran’s back, his small legs moving quickly to keep pace.

Kazuha couldn’t help but smile. She’s good, she thought. She’s always been good at this—keeping people moving, never letting anyone feel stuck. And she’s strong. So strong.

As they moved down the hallway, Kazuha glanced back at the boys, their heads already tilted together, low voices buzzing with that unmistakable electricity of a mystery unfolding. Ran’s plan had worked perfectly. The boys could investigate while keeping her safely in sight—exactly as she’d intended.

Mouri-ossan might be the one leading the investigation, Kazuha thought, but Ran-chan’s the one holding everyone together.

She felt a surge of admiration so strong it made her chest ache. Ran’s condition—whatever it was—might have changed some things, but it hadn’t changed her heart. She was still the same girl who refused to be a burden, who refused to let her own struggles keep others from doing what they loved.

Kazuha followed closely behind Ran and Sonoko as they stepped out into the front yard. The fresh afternoon breeze rustled the leaves of the manicured trees, carrying with it a faint scent of newly cut grass.

She noticed Kogoro standing near the garden path, his posture as relaxed as ever, but his eyes sharp and attentive. He was already in the middle of questioning one of the maids, a young woman with neatly tied hair and an anxious look on her face. From her vantage point, Kazuha could hear Kogoro’s tone—calm but authoritative, every bit the seasoned detective.

She stopped a few steps away with Ran and Sonoko beside her, watching the scene unfold. Kogoro’s questioning was discreet, just as the master had requested earlier—no big commotion, no direct accusations—just gathering information quietly so as not to upset the household.

“Tell me,” Kogoro said, his voice carrying a touch of weariness but also a practiced patience, “have you noticed anything unusual about any of the three of them lately? Anything at all, no matter how small.”

The maid twisted her hands nervously. “Well… um, the chef has been more withdrawn than usual,” she began. “He’s always polite, but lately he’s been… I don’t know, distracted, I guess. I even saw him once with red eyes, like he’d been crying. I asked him if he was okay, but he just smiled and said he was tired. The housekeeper has been stressed too, but that’s because she’s worried about her wages. The gardener… well, he’s always been polite, but sometimes he looks a bit… shifty, like he’s watching people more than he’s working.”

Kazuha glanced at Heiji and Conan. She caught the subtle shift in both their postures—Conan straightening, Heiji’s eyes sharpening with a glint of understanding.

Then, almost simultaneously, they exchanged a quick glance, a smirk passing between them like a secret language she’d seen them share countless times before. It was the look that always said, We’ve got something.

A rush of pride warmed her chest, and for a moment, she forgot the gravity of the case. Heiji was truly back in his element, she thought. She’d missed this—the way his face would light up, the way his mind would whirl with theories and deductions, the way he’d chase a mystery with all the stubborn energy in the world.

Heiji’s smirk widened and he suddenly turned, already moving with that purposeful stride that meant he’d latched onto a clue and wasn’t about to let it go.

“Oi, Heiji!” Kazuha called after him, brow furrowed, but there was an affectionate exasperation in her tone. “Where do you think you’re going, huh?”

He barely turned his head, waving a hand dismissively. “Just stay put! I’ll be right back!” he shouted, his voice already fading as he disappeared around the corner of the house.

Kazuha let out a small huff, crossing her arms in mock annoyance. “Honestly, that idiot,” she muttered under her breath. 

But even as she scolded him internally, she couldn’t help but smile. He was right back to his usual self—running headfirst into the thick of a case without a second thought. Ran had been right earlier: once Conan and Heiji got close to a mystery, there was no stopping them. It was like they couldn’t help themselves. And that… well, that was something she’d always admired about Heiji.

She shifted her gaze back to Conan, who remained behind, his small body planted firmly near Kogoro’s side. Conan’s eyes were sharp, intent on the conversation between Kogoro and the maid.

His expression was calm, but Kazuha had seen that look before: the gears were turning at full speed in that little head of his. It was easy to forget sometimes, with his innocent face and childlike stature, that he was every bit as cunning and brilliant as Heiji—if not more so.

Kogoro, satisfied with the maid’s answer, dismissed her with a nod. She bowed politely and hurried off, relief evident in her hurried steps. Kogoro let out a long sigh, stretching his back like a man who’d been on his feet for hours.

Conan seized the moment. “So, Kogoro-ojisan,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes too sharp for a child, “how’s it looking so far?”

Kogoro glanced down at Conan with an unusual openness, perhaps because Conan had been at his side for much of the questioning.

“Bit by bit, I’m getting the picture,” he replied, his tone serious, for once. “All three suspects have motives, sure. But there’s one whose desperation really sticks out to me.”

Ran stepped forward slightly, her curiosity evident. “Why’s that, Dad?” she asked, her voice soft, but the strength beneath it undeniable.

Kogoro let out a sigh that was half exasperation, half sympathy. “Desperation can drive people to do stupid things,” he said, a distant look in his eyes. “When someone’s at the end of their rope, they stop thinking straight. They make mistakes. They get reckless.”

Kazuha’s mind flashed back to the conversation with the master earlier. Desperation… she thought. The master had said something similar when talking about the chef. Kazuha’s chest tightened a little.

If she remembered correctly, the chef’s father was in the hospital. He’d been working double shifts, desperate to cover the mounting medical bills.

Her thoughts drifted unbidden to Ran. Hospitals, desperation, the feeling of being trapped by circumstances beyond your control—these were things Ran understood all too well.

A pang of empathy hit Kazuha square in the chest. She wasn’t sure how to feel. On one hand, she felt sorry for the chef—a young man with a sick father and no way out. But on the other hand, stealing a priceless family heirloom, something that was the heart of the Himuro family’s legacy, wasn’t just a mistake—it was a betrayal.

As her mind swirled with conflicting emotions, she noticed Heiji reappear from around the corner of the house. At first, his expression was neutral—businesslike, almost. But Kazuha knew him too well.

She watched the way his eyes sparkled as he got closer to Conan. A grin was already forming on his face, a grin that said, I’ve got it. I’ve figured it out.

A thrill of anticipation shot through her. Heiji had found something—she could feel it in her bones. She knew that look. Whenever Heiji looked like that, it meant the case was about to be cracked wide open.

Conan’s eyes widened slightly, and he turned to meet Heiji’s gaze, the unspoken understanding between them like electricity in the air.

Kazuha’s heart thudded. Looks like this case is about to get solved, she thought, her lips twitching into a small smile despite the tension.

She crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly, eyes on Heiji, silently cheering him on. Whatever he’d found, it was only a matter of time now before they unraveled the mystery of the missing calligraphy scroll—and the truth would finally come to light.

They all walked back toward the back porch where they’d been waiting earlier, following the butler’s request for an update. The air felt heavy, like it had been squeezed between the old wooden beams of the mansion and the unresolved tension of the missing heirloom case.

Kogoro settled himself on one of the benches, leaning forward slightly, and began speaking. His voice carried enough authority to gather everyone’s attention—Kazuha included.

Kazuha found herself genuinely intrigued by what he had to say. Maybe, just maybe, the mystery was finally cracking open.

She glanced at Conan, who seemed unusually still, eyes flicking between Kogoro and the butler with that sharp, calculating glint. Ran sat quietly next to Sonoko, hands folded politely in her lap.

Kogoro’s voice rolled on, explaining the timeline and the three suspects—his tone confident, even a little smug. He laid out motives like cards on a table: the gardener’s suspicious newness, the housekeeper’s wage concerns, the chef’s family burden.

But in the middle of his explanation, something else snagged Kazuha’s attention.

Conan, who’d been listening but never far from Ran, suddenly straightened—his eyes darting to her with an urgency that was impossible to ignore. His small hand reached out, barely grazing Ran’s arm.

“Ran-neechan?” he asked, his voice higher than usual, worry stark in his tone.

Kazuha’s own head whipped around. Ran’s face had paled dramatically, lips trembling. One hand was pressed over her chest, massaging lightly but desperately, her brows knitted in pain. Her breathing was ragged—short gasps that seemed to claw at the air.

Then came the sound that rattled Kazuha to her bones: a high-pitched, wet wheeze. It cut through the air like a blade, harsh and unnatural.

“Ran!” Sonoko cried, panicking. She reached out but faltered, not knowing how to help.

Kazuha’s heart leapt into her throat, helplessness pouring through her like cold water. She’d seen people with mild asthma cough after running, but this—this was different. Ran’s entire body seemed to tremble with the effort of every breath.

Conan was already moving, voice pitched in panic. “Ran-neechan, calm down, okay? Just breathe slowly. Slow breaths, Ran-neechan. Please.” His hands shook as he fumbled with Ran’s bag, pulling out a small cylindrical object that Kazuha didn’t recognize at first.

“Ojisan!” Conan yelled, asking for Kogoro's help, his voice tight, eyes glossy with worry.

Kogoro’s face had gone pale, the arrogance gone in an instant. He dropped his explanation mid-sentence and scrambled to Ran’s side, large hands hovering uselessly. “Ran, breathe slowly. You can do this. I’m right here.”

Conan’s hands worked fast, assembling the object—a small, portable nebuliser. Kazuha watched with dread and awe as he placed the mask over Ran’s mouth and nose, his small fingers trembling as he adjusted the fit. A faint mist began to swirl, and Conan held it steady, his own breathing almost as ragged as Ran’s.

“Come on, Ran-neechan, just like last time,” he murmured, voice cracking. “Slow breaths. In... out... You’re okay.”

Kazuha was frozen, her pulse hammering. She could only watch, eyes wide, as Ran’s chest heaved, each breath labored and thin. The wheezing was worse than anything she’d ever heard—like Ran’s lungs were fighting her every attempt to breathe.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Sonoko, equally pale, eyes glassy with tears. “What do we do?” Sonoko whispered, voice trembling. “Kazuha-chan... what do we do?”

Kazuha’s own voice cracked. “I—I don’t know.”

She looked back at Ran—beautiful, strong Ran—reduced to shallow, desperate gasps. And Conan, just a child, yet so determined and so afraid. Kogoro’s face was lined with worry, his eyes fixed on his daughter with a helpless father’s dread.

Kazuha’s mind spiraled. She’d known Ran was sick, but this? This was beyond anything she’d imagined.

Ran had looked so composed today, smiling, calm. She’d even been the one to suggest they walk around and help investigate. But now, it was painfully clear—today wasn’t normal for Ran. Today was just a good day in a sea of terrible days.

Conan’s voice cut through her thoughts, cracked but determined. “83%,” he read from the small device clipped to Ran’s finger. His voice trembled. “Ran-neechan, can you talk?”

Ran, her eyes fluttering open, managed a small nod.

“Is it better?” Kogoro’s voice was rough, thick with worry.

Ran nodded again, her lips pale but determined.

Conan’s small face remained strained, his eyes glistening. “We shouldn't have walked around” he whispered. “We should’ve stayed in the main room.”

Kazuha’s heart twisted. The guilt in his voice was enough to shatter anyone. She felt her tears welling. Was this how bad things had gotten? That even a short walk around the mansion could cause this much suffering? 

She glanced at Heiji, whose jaw was clenched tight. His eyes met hers, and she saw her own thoughts mirrored there.

They’d both believed Ran looked better than they’d feared, but this—this was the real face of her illness. The side she tried so hard to hide.

Ran’s breaths were still shaky, the nebuliser humming in Conan’s hand. The sound was softer now, but still wrong—like a whimper in the dark. Kazuha wanted to reach out, to hold her, to do something.

Conan checked the device again. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Just keep breathing. We’ll get through this.”

Kogoro’s hand gripped Ran’s shoulder, his face unreadable but every line of his posture screaming a father’s worry.

Then Heiji stepped forward, breaking the tense silence. His face had transformed—neutral at first, but now hard with purpose. He glanced at Conan, and in that silent conversation of theirs, something passed between them.

Heiji turned to the butler. “It looks like this case needs to end now.”

Kogoro’s head snapped up. “Hey, wait a minute—I haven’t—”

But Heiji cut him off, his tone steady but urgent. “Don’t worry. I’ll do the talking.”

Kogoro frowned but didn’t protest.

Heiji’s eyes narrowed as he turned to the butler. “Call everyone involved. It’s time to bring this case to a close.”

-

It took some time for everyone involved to gather in the main room. The master and his wife arrived first, dignified but clearly tense. The butler followed close behind, his face carefully composed.

The three suspects trailed in next, each wearing an expression that balanced between defensiveness and confusion. Even the boy named Haruhiko was there, fidgeting nervously at the edge of the gathering.

They’d shifted from the back porch to the grand main room—a place that once must have felt warm and welcoming, but now seemed heavy with anticipation.

Ran was seated on the long sofa, a bit away from where the explanation would happen. The nebuliser was packed away in her bag, along with the oximeter. Her color looked better now, but Kazuha couldn’t unsee the fragile tremor that sometimes flickered through her.

Kogoro and Conan sat close to her, Conan adjusting the small air purifier he’d shown Heiji earlier, setting it to full power. Kazuha stood behind the sofa, Sonoko right beside her.

They didn’t crowd Ran, but they made sure to stay within reaching distance—close enough to help if needed.

Heiji stood in the center of the room, his presence commanding attention. He began by summarizing the case exactly as the master had told them: the missing scroll, the symbol of the family’s prestige and legacy, gone since Monday last week. No forced entry, no signs of a break-in, and only three people who could possibly have taken it.

Heiji gestured toward the suspects. “The gardener, Honda Shinsuke,” he said, a tall man who shifted uncomfortably. “The housekeeper, Nishida Haruko,” a middle-aged woman whose eyes darted nervously. “And the chef, Kida Masato,” a man in his late thirties, his gaze steady but wary.

Kazuha felt the tension in the air ratchet higher with every word.

Heiji paused, letting the silence stretch before continuing. “At first glance, this looks like a simple theft—someone after money. But this case is straightforward in a way you might not expect. It’s an attempted theft, but with a motive that’s different from what we’d normally assume.”

Takeda, the master of the house, frowned. “Attempted? But the scroll is already missing, young man.”

Heiji’s eyes glinted. “That’s just it. The scroll hasn’t actually left this mansion yet.”

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Even Kazuha felt her breath hitch.

Heiji continued, his voice slow, deliberate. “Let’s start with the gardener and the housekeeper.” He gave each of them a pointed look. “Honda-san had plenty of opportunity, yes. He worked in the garden closest to the study. But he’d just started his job recently, and his references checked out clean. He’s too new, too under observation to risk something like this.”

He shifted his gaze to the housekeeper. “Nishida-san, on the other hand, has worked here for years. She knows the routines, the rooms, the schedule. But she’s also the one who discovered the scroll missing. She could have hidden it, yes—but she’s the one who insisted on calling the police. Her reactions don’t match a guilty party’s.”

Kazuha nodded to herself, impressed. Heiji’s voice carried a certainty that drew everyone in. But a small, familiar voice at her side drew her attention.

Ran had turned slightly toward Conan, her tone light despite everything. “Conan-kun, aren’t you going to join Hattori-kun with his deduction?”

Conan didn’t answer. He simply shook his head decisively, his small face unreadable.

Ran looked puzzled, even a little hurt. “But I’m okay now,” she insisted, her voice soft but earnest. “Really. I’m fine, Conan-kun.”

Conan looked at her then, his eyes sad but resolute. He nodded, once, without speaking.

Ran’s smile wavered. She leaned in, her voice tender. “It’s the truth, Conan-kun.” She spoke the words like a plea, as if to reassure him.

Again, Conan only nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.

Kazuha’s chest tightened. She wondered if Conan was mad at Ran, or maybe at himself. His refusal to speak—so uncharacteristic of him—gnawed at her.

Ran sighed softly, and her face crumpled in apology. “I’m sorry, Conan-kun,” she whispered.

Conan didn’t even look up. He nodded again, but the motion felt heavy, reluctant.

Ran met Kazuha's gaze. She smiled at her then, small and regretful. "Kazuha-chan too, I'm sorry for worrying you. It must've been a surprise." 

Kazuha’s throat closed. Why was Ran apologizing? She was the one hurting the most. “Ran-chan,” Kazuha whispered, leaning forward, “there’s nothing to apologize for. Don’t.”

Sonoko reached out, her hand landing on Ran’s shoulder. “That’s right, Ran,” she said fiercely, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You shouldn’t apologize. Please, don’t.”

Ran smiled at them—small, grateful, but still so fragile. Her eyes shone with unspoken thanks.

Heiji’s voice sliced through the tension in the room like a blade: “The real culprit is none other than the chef—Kida Masato.”

A sharp intake of breath. The master’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. Kida’s face drained of color, his lips parting as if to protest—but then his shoulders slumped, and a tremor passed through his body.

With a ragged exhale, Kida lifted his head. His eyes glistened with tears. “Yes,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I did it. I… I took the scroll.”

A stunned silence fell across the room. Even the butler’s careful composure seemed to waver.

Kida took another shaky breath. “But it was...” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Last week, I—” He faltered, wiping at his eyes. “I overheard Haruhiko… crying alone in the garden. He was talking to himself, worrying about his father—how he’s been struggling to secure his place in the family business. Haruhiko was so afraid that if his father failed, it would disgrace the entire family. He’s just a kid… he shouldn’t have to carry that kind of burden.”

He paused, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I… I’ve grown fond of Haruhiko. He’s a snob at a glance, but he's a real sweet kid inside, always helping me in the kitchen even when he didn’t have to. When I heard him crying… I just wanted to help. I thought if I could sell the calligraphy scroll on the black market, I could anonymously funnel the money back to Haruhiko’s father’s struggling venture. I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought I was saving the family from internal ruin.”

Tears streamed down his face. He clasped his trembling hands together, head bowed. “I thought… if I could get that money… Haruhiko’s father would never have to feel like a failure. And Haruhiko… he wouldn’t have to worry anymore. He’s just a kid. He shouldn’t have to carry that burden.”

A hush fell over the room. Kazuha felt her chest tighten as she watched Haruhiko, his small hands clenched at his sides, eyes wide with shock and something like guilt.

The master’s face was a study in conflicting emotions—fury at first, his jaw set and eyes blazing. But then his gaze softened as he took in the trembling man before him. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low but not cruel. “You’re a fool,” he said, the words heavy with both disappointment and understanding. “But you’re also… a good man.”

Kida’s tears fell harder, dripping onto the polished wooden floor.

The master let out a slow sigh. “You’ve made a grave mistake,” he said. “But I can’t deny that your heart was in the right place. You cared for my grandson. That’s not something I can overlook.” He glanced at the butler, then at Heiji. “We’ll not prosecute you, Kida. Instead, you’ll stay on here—under supervision—but with the chance to prove yourself again.”

A murmur of surprise ran through the room. Even the butler blinked, momentarily thrown off balance by the master’s unexpected mercy.

Heiji gave a small, satisfied nod. “Where is the scroll now, Kida-san?”

Kida lifted his tear-streaked face. “It’s in a small storeroom behind the kitchen,” he said. “I hid it there, sealed in a protective cloth. I… I couldn’t bring myself to let it leave the mansion. I wanted to help, but… I couldn’t go through with it.”

They all followed as the butler led the way, Kida guiding them to the storeroom. Carefully, he reached behind a stack of rice sacks and lifted out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. He held it with trembling hands, presenting it to the master as though it were a sacred treasure.

The master accepted it solemnly, his face unreadable. Gently, he peeled back the cloth, revealing the scroll—untouched, preserved.

Kazuha let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The tension in the room dissolved, replaced by a quiet, complicated peace.

As they all drifted back to the main room, Kazuha found her gaze drawn once more to Ran, still seated on the long sofa. She was watching the scene unfold with eyes both tired and resolute. The fragile strength in her expression struck Kazuha deeply.

She realized then that this night had laid bare not just the guilt of a single man, but the burdens everyone carried—burdens born of loyalty, love, and fear. And for the first time, Kazuha understood just how far people would go to protect the ones they loved.

-

Some time had passed since the scroll had been recovered, since Kida-san’s tearful confession, and the atmosphere in the Himuro estate had finally begun to ease.

The tension that had clung to every corner of the old house seemed to dissolve like mist. Conversations were no longer stiff, laughter no longer forced. Relief, though quiet, had settled over everyone. The family heirloom was back in its rightful place, and the family itself—though perhaps not without its fractures—could begin to heal.

In their own group, the tension that had spiked when Ran’s breathing attack had taken hold also began to loosen its grip.

Even Conan—who’d been so worryingly silent earlier, his features drawn with worry—had begun to speak again, though it was only after Ran had coaxed him gently. Kazuha watched the exchange from where she stood beside Sonoko, a small smile tugging at her lips. Conan couldn’t seem to resist Ran’s soft, pleading face, her quiet insistence that he talk to her, that everything would be okay.

And seeing that—seeing him give in to her so easily, with that subtle nod that was so classically Conan—brought a little warmth back to Kazuha’s own chest.

Her mood had brightened too.

A while ago, while she’d been lost in thought—worrying about Ran, about Conan, about the way the whole day had unfolded—Heiji had approached her in that silent, steady way of his.

He’d said nothing, but he’d given her a gentle pat on the head. Just that: a simple touch, a small gesture. Yet it spoke volumes. It told her that he was there—that he understood, that he supported her. That she wasn’t alone.

And in that quiet moment, in that silent conversation between them, Kazuha felt a strength bloom inside her. Strength that told her she could face Ran again, that she could be brave, that she could be strong—for her friend, for herself, for them all.

Dinner was about to begin when Ran's mother arrived, striding into the estate with her trademark grace and composure. She carried herself like someone who’d never once doubted her place in the world, and even Kazuha found herself straightening up a little.

Kogoro was at her side in an instant, all bluster and half-baked charm, introducing her with a flourish that was half-pride, half-awkwardness.

“Ah—this is my wife, Eri,” Kogoro declared, his voice just a touch too loud.

Ran, seated nearby, turned bright-eyed toward her mother, a smile breaking across her face that was so full of happiness it almost hurt to look at. Kazuha felt a twinge of something—relief, maybe, or hope—seeing Ran look like that.

Ran was always a little more excited when her parents acted like a couple instead of the separated pair they’d been for so long.

Eri, in turn, bowed politely to the Himuro family. “Thank you for extending your hospitality even to me,” she said, her voice the picture of graciousness.

The master inclined his head, his tone warm. “Think nothing of it. Thanks to Detective Mouri and his companions, this case was resolved without unnecessary fuss. You’re all very welcome here.”

Kazuha’s eyes flickered to Eri, studying her—a woman who carried herself with a quiet power, who could command a room with a look. A lawyer, a mother, a woman who had clearly been through her own share of burdens.

She couldn’t help the thought that slipped from her lips, filled with awe and unbidden admiration. “Wow… Ran-chan’s mom is a real beauty.”

Heiji, who’d been leaning against the wall with his arms folded, grinned. “That’s right,” he agreed. Then, with a playful lilt in his voice, he added, “I wonder why she married that ossan over there.”

Kazuha snorted, trying to smother her laughter. “Yeah, right?” she said, nodding vigorously.

Kogoro’s head snapped around, his glare sharp enough to cut. “Oi! You two are being rude!” he barked.

At that, Eri turned to them, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and mock severity. “Kazuha-chan and Heiji-kun, right? Ran told me things about you two. Aren’t you both sweet?” she said, lips curving into a wry smile. “But unfortunately—even I don’t know the answer to that question.”

For a moment, the room rang with laughter—mirthful, genuine, at Kogoro’s expense.

Ran was laughing too, her shoulders shaking lightly, the sound slipping through her lips like music. It was a quiet laugh, but it reached her eyes, lighting them from within.

Kazuha felt something warm bloom in her chest. Relief, yes, but also something like hope. If Ran could laugh like that—if she could find a moment of joy even after everything that had happened—then maybe… maybe they could all find more of those moments together.

Dinner that night carried the good mood like a gift. The conversation was lively, the food warm and comforting. Even the lingering tension—like an old ache—seemed to ease, carried off by the laughter and the gentle clink of plates and cups.

Later, when the evening wound down and the house grew quiet, Kazuha found herself standing near the long sofa where Ran had rested earlier. She thought about everything that had happened that day: the case, the confession, the laughter, the tears.

Ran’s attack had rattled them all—frightened them more than they wanted to admit. Even now, Kazuha could feel the echo of that fear deep in her chest.

But she also felt something else. A realization that Ran’s situation was more fragile than they had ever truly acknowledged. It wasn’t just the case today—it was the way every small thing might tip the scales.

And yet…

There had been laughter tonight. There had been comfort and understanding and moments of genuine connection.

And Kazuha found herself wishing—more fiercely than she’d expected—that there would be more days like this. More days with laughter, with warmth, with moments when Ran’s smile reached her eyes.

She felt Heiji’s steady presence at her side, even though he wasn’t standing there. She felt the strength he’d given her earlier with that simple pat on the head—a reminder that she wasn’t alone. That together, they could face whatever came.

And so, as the night settled over the estate, Kazuha resolved to hold on to that. To cherish the laughter, to brace herself for the pain, and to be strong—for Ran, for Heiji, for all of them.

Because in the end, that was what mattered most: the laughter, the bonds, the strength to keep going—together.

-
-

Morning had broken in Karuizawa with a gentle mist that clung to the slopes of the mountain, curling around the trees like a protective shroud.

Eri inhaled deeply as she walked at the head of their small group, her steps slow but steady on the well-trodden path at the foot of the Himuro estate’s mountain trail. The crisp air was invigorating—sweet with the scent of pine and damp earth—and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to simply breathe, to let the coolness settle her nerves.

She’d been watching Ran that morning, always at the corner of her eye. She had seen the way her daughter had approached Conan—practically pleading with him, eyes wide and hopeful—that they might take a short walk together.

“Conan-kun, please? Just for a little while,” Ran had said, her voice gentle, her smile almost shy. “We’re in Karuizawa, after all—it’d be a waste not to enjoy it.”

Eri had felt a pang in her chest then—a mixture of tenderness and something unnameable, a worry that ran deeper than any mountain path.

After last night’s quiet conversation with Kogoro, where they’d discussed the episode Ran had suffered the day before, and in turn, leading her to carefully explained the treatment plans—supplementary oxygen if needed, how to introduce it gradually—she had understood all too well why anyone might hesitate to let Ran wander too far. The risk of overexertion, the possibility of another attack—it was enough to make any parent’s heart clench.

And yet, here was Ran, asking Conan for permission. Not her, not Kogoro—Conan.

It confused Eri, though she tried to hide it behind a composed expression. Why was it Conan’s opinion that seemed to matter most to Ran? Was it just the closeness of their friendship? Or was it something deeper—a reliance that went beyond what Ran showed even to her own parents?

She’d watched carefully as Conan hesitated, his small brows furrowed in that way of his, as if weighing the dangers and the needs and the unspoken fears.

And when he’d finally agreed, she’d seen the relief in Ran’s face—and something else too, a spark of determination mirrored in Conan’s own expression. He’d moved a little closer to her then, as though he’d made an unspoken promise to stay by her side, no matter what.

No one had questioned it. Not even Kogoro, who’d simply muttered something under his breath before falling into step behind them.

Now, as they made their way along the path, Eri felt that same protectiveness humming through every member of their group. Ran was walking between Kazuha and Sonoko, her face bright as she spoke animatedly, her laughter a balm to the lingering shadows of yesterday. Eri kept her eyes on her daughter—she looked a little pale, but her steps were steady, her breathing calm.

Eri and Kogoro walked at the head, the two of them leading with quiet attentiveness. Occasionally, they spoke in low tones about the clean air of Karuizawa, or about the Himuro estate’s dignified old-world charm.

“It really is beautiful here,” Kogoro remarked, his voice unusually subdued. “Feels like a different world.”

“It does,” Eri agreed, her tone gentle. “A good place to find a little peace.”

Behind them, Conan and Heiji formed the rear guard, eyes sharp, bodies tense. Eri knew they were both watching Ran with the same vigilance she felt—always ready, always alert.

Together, they formed a subtle but unbreakable perimeter around her, a living shield against whatever might come.

Their pace was slow, but not so slow as to seem deliberate. It looked, to an outsider, like a group simply enjoying the scenery—taking in the morning hush, the scattered wildflowers, the ancient trees.

But in truth, every step was measured, every breath watched. Eri knew that Kogoro, for all his bluster, was attuned to every small sign of Ran’s breathing. She was too.

The path was empty except for them; the early hour and the estate’s isolation kept other visitors away. The stillness settled around them like a soft blanket.

And then—

A scream.

High-pitched, sharp, carrying across the trees like a blade.

In an instant, every step, every breath, every idle word stopped. Eri felt Kogoro stiffen beside her, his head snapping up like a hound catching a scent. Conan and Heiji moved with the same quickness, closing in on Ran’s sides, eyes fierce, bodies taut and ready.

Kazuha and Sonoko went pale, their laughter vanishing like smoke. Fear leapt into their eyes.

Conan’s small hand reached out, finding Ran’s hand in a heartbeat. “Ran-neechan,” he said, his voice steady but gentle, like a protector’s. “It’s okay.”

Eri’s own heart was pounding, but her mind was already working. She saw Ran’s breathing quicken, the fragile rise and fall of her chest becoming ragged. Her daughter’s lips parted as if to speak—but the words were lost in the rush of panic that threatened to consume her.

Eri moved to her side in two quick steps, her voice calm, deliberate. “Ran, sweetheart,” she said, her hand resting lightly on Ran’s shoulder. “Breathe slowly, okay? In through your nose… out through your mouth. Like we practiced.”

Ran’s eyes met hers—wide, glassy with fear—and Eri gave her the softest smile she could manage. She couldn’t let panic win. Not now.

Kogoro was already turning to the group, his tone brisk but commanding. “Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll check it out.”

Heiji stepped forward too, his expression fierce. “I’m coming with you.”

Kazuha’s voice rang out, sharp and trembling. “Heiji—!”

He turned just enough to look back at her, his eyes softening. “Stay with them, Kazuha. Don't move,” he said, his voice warm but firm. “I’ll be back.”

Eri gave him a nod of acknowledgment before turning back to Ran. “Let’s sit down, okay?” she said gently, guiding her toward a bench set out for tourists.

Conan was still holding Ran’s hand, his small fingers wrapped around hers like a lifeline. “It's going to be okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but sure. 

Kazuha and Sonoko followed, worry etched in every line of their faces. They hovered close, hands twisting in the hem of their shirts.

Eri’s own gaze flickered up at the sound of hurried footsteps. A man was approaching them—a stranger at first glance, but Eri’s practiced eyes took him in: his gruff, pinched expression, the scar that cut across his left eye, the cane he leaned on with every other step. Her instincts sharpened.

“You people!” he called, his voice rough, surprise evident in his tone.

Conan straightened, eyes lighting with recognition. “Inspector Yamato!” he exclaimed, relief and respect mingling in his voice.

Eri’s eyes narrowed, studying the man more closely now. Despite his rugged appearance, there was an unmistakable authority about him—an air of someone who’d seen more than most and who wore his scars, literal and otherwise, with pride.

“What are you doing here?” Yamato demanded, his eyes darting around as if assessing every possible threat. But before anyone could answer, his expression tightened. “Anyway, that’s not important—there’s a criminal on the loose around this area. He escaped custody just this morning.”

A collective gasp rose from the girls, and even Eri felt her chest tighten. Conan’s face hardened, his eyes sharp. Heiji’s absence felt like a weight.

Yamato’s gaze swept over them, his brows drawing together. “You need to get away from here immediately—somewhere safe.”

Conan took a breath, his hand tightening on Ran’s. “We can’t,” he said firmly.

Yamato’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

Before Conan could answer, Eri stepped forward, her posture straight, her voice calm but resolute. “Excuse me, Inspector,” she said, her tone polite but carrying the authority of someone who’d argued in courtrooms and won. “I’m Kisaki Eri, I'm Ran’s mother.” She gestured lightly to her daughter, her eyes steady on Yamato’s. “My daughter is currently in a situation where she can’t exert too much effort. I’m sorry—but we need a little more time to help her calm down.”

Yamato’s eyes flicked to Ran, taking in her pale face, the way her chest rose and fell too quickly, the way Conan’s hand stayed wrapped around hers. His own features softened, a flicker of understanding crossing his face.

Ran’s breathing was turning ragged now, her lips pale, her hands trembling. It was exactly what Eri had feared.

Conan’s face was taut with worry, but his voice was steady as he murmured to Ran, “It’s okay. Just breathe like Eri-obasan said, okay?”

Eri met Yamato’s eyes again. “She’s not in good health right now,” she said, her voice low but firm. “We can’t rush her.”

Yamato hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Alright,” he said gruffly. “But don’t stray too far. Stay where I can see you.”

He pulled out his cellphone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. “I’ll call for backup,” he muttered, stepping a few paces away.

Eri exhaled a quiet breath of relief, though her eyes stayed on Ran, whose breathing was finally beginning to slow, Conan’s steady presence at her side like a lifeline.

Kazuha and Sonoko hovered near them, understandably worried. Eri turned her full attention to her daughter, laying a hand on Ran’s cheek. “That’s it,” she murmured. “You’re doing so well.”

And as she watched Conan holding Ran’s hand, Eri found herself silently grateful that, for all the confusion and worry she’d felt earlier, Ran had someone like him at her side—someone who would always stand guard, even in the smallest of ways.

She just hoped they’d all make it through this day, and that laughter—and fresh air—wouldn’t be stolen from them again.

-

Eri’s heart fluttered with relief as the tension gradually eased. A lady detective, young but composed, had approached them moments ago, introducing herself to Eri with polite efficiency as Detective Uehara Yui.

She carried herself with that practiced calm Eri always admired in professionals who worked in dangerous fields. Eri watched with quiet gratitude as she knelt slightly to speak directly to Ran, her expression soft and caring.

“Ran-chan,” Detective Yui had asked gently, “do you need an ambulance? You don’t look too well.”

Ran had immediately shaken her head, a small but determined smile on her lips. “I’m fine, thank you. Really.”

And for a moment, Eri had felt a brief sense of pride at her daughter’s courage—but also a twinge of worry at how easily Ran dismissed concern, always prioritizing others’ ease over her own comfort.

Still, Ran’s breathing had evened out, her cheeks returning to their usual healthy hue. But Eri, seasoned lawyer and mother both, knew better than to trust appearances alone. She kept her eyes on Ran, alert for any signs of distress.

Detective Yui, Eri noticed, hovered just a bit closer to Ran than necessary, her posture protective. There was something in her eyes—a fondness, a familiarity—that spoke of more than just professional courtesy.

Eri felt a small warmth at that. Maybe Ran had gathered more allies than she’d realized.

The area around them had gradually filled with other detectives, some reporting to Inspector Yamato, others scanning the surroundings with that particular sharpness Eri recognized from long years observing Kogoro at work.

It dawned on her that Inspector Yamato, rough-edged and scarred though he appeared, had likely ordered a perimeter of protection around Ran’s group. Her heart swelled with gratitude—no words could describe the relief of seeing strangers move to shield her daughter from unseen dangers.

She remembered the panic that had swept through them all at the sound of the scream—the fear that Ran might be forced into exertion, that her health might plummet again. Eri still felt that tremor deep inside her, a mother’s helplessness that not even decades of courtroom battles could erase.

But now—relief. Word came from a passing detective: the criminal had been apprehended, thanks to the quick thinking and coordination of Kogoro and the Osaka boy—Heiji. Eri felt the tension in the air release all at once, like a collective sigh from every chest. She let out her own breath, and her eyes momentarily closed in gratitude.

But as Kogoro and Heiji rejoined them, expressions triumphant yet weary, Eri’s eyes were drawn back to Ran.

Something about her daughter’s posture—the downward gaze, the quiet, contemplative air—made Eri’s heart ache. She reached out, gently laying a hand on Ran’s shoulder.

“Ran, what's wrong?” she murmured, voice low and gentle.

Ran looked up, her eyes wide and quick to reassure. “It’s nothing, Mom. I’m fine, really.” She smiled, but it was a small smile, fragile at the edges, like glass threatening to crack.

Eri knew that smile. She knew Ran too well to mistake it for genuine cheer. She could see the guilt shadowing Ran’s features—the way her shoulders hunched, the way her lips pressed together.

She’s blaming herself again, Eri thought with a pang. For making us worry. For being sick. For being the reason we all stand here so protectively.

Too selfless for her own good, Eri thought. Her daughter had always carried the weight of the world on those slender shoulders. She wished, not for the first time, that she could ease that burden, if only a little.

Her hand squeezed Ran’s shoulder gently. “Ran,” she said softly, no explanation needed. Just her name. Just that quiet, unspoken support.

Ran looked at her then—truly looked—and a small, sad smile curved her lips. Gratitude shone in her eyes, fragile but bright.

And then, another figure approached, his presence measured and calm. His posture was slightly stiff, his expression neutral yet softened by the warmth in his eyes.

Eri studied him as he came to stand before Ran, taking in the faint lines of fatigue on his face and the quiet strength in his gaze.

“Inspector Morofushi,” Ran said, recognizing him instantly.

He regarded Ran with a solemn respect, then spoke, his voice low but steady—like reciting something learned long ago. “In the midst of chaos,” he said, “there is also opportunity.”

Eri blinked. She recognized that quote—from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, a text she’d often studied for its insights into strategy, though it had never been her favorite.

Ran, though—Ran’s eyes widened at the familiar words, then softened in understanding. 

“Finding strength and purpose even in the hardest battles, is it?” Ran responded, her voice gentle but sure, familiar, like she was used to this exchange. “Even in the darkest times, there can be a chance to live fully, to create meaning and to inspire others.” And she smiled—a real smile this time, warm and brave.

Inspector Morofushi nodded at her, a faint but encouraging grin on his face. “That’s right,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle note of pride. “That’s exactly right.”

“Thank you, Inspector Morofushi,” Ran replied, her gratitude genuine, her eyes bright.

Detective Yui stepped forward then, her expression soft and affectionate. “You’re strong, Ran-chan,” she said, voice trembling with warmth. “You’re strong and great.”

Ran’s eyes shimmered. “Thank you, Detective Yui,” she said, her voice small but steady.

And then Inspector Yamato himself spoke up, his gruff tone rough but carrying a conviction that left no room for doubt. “You keep on fighting,” he said. Just that—no more, no less. But it struck home.

Ran bowed her head, eyes moist, and gave him a deep, sincere nod. “Thank you, Inspector Yamato,” she whispered.

And for once, Eri felt relief surge in her chest—relief that Ran didn’t apologize, didn’t carry the burden of guilt like a stone around her neck.

Instead, she thanked them, accepted their kindness. And in that moment, Eri realized: that was enough. Ran was learning, little by little, to let people help her. To allow others to shoulder some of her pain.

Eri looked around then, taking in the small gathering—the detectives, the friends, her husband, even the quiet boy Conan, who held Ran’s hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

She realized how many people were standing with her daughter. Even those who didn’t know every detail of Ran’s condition—like the inspectors who they'd met by chance today—still offered their strength, their words of comfort, their unwavering support.

Ran was lucky, Eri thought, but then again—no. It wasn’t luck alone. Ran was a sweet girl, a good person, the kind of person who inspired loyalty just by being herself. She had a way of brightening the darkest days, of making even the hardest moments a little lighter. She’d touched so many hearts, and now, when she was the one in need, they were showing up for her—showing that she was worth fighting for.

Eri felt tears prick at her eyes but blinked them back. Not now. Later, perhaps.

For now, she would stand with her daughter, as she always had—and always would. Because this was the moment for the people around Ran to prove that they cared. And Eri would make sure that her daughter felt every bit of that love.

Because even in the midst of chaos, there was opportunity—to stand strong, to lift each other up, and to find meaning in the struggle. Ran had taught them that. And Eri vowed that no matter what lay ahead, she would never let her daughter fight alone.

Not now. Not ever.

-

Chapter Text

-

Conan sat quietly at the low table in the Mouri living room, staring at the teacup in front of him. The steam curled upwards, almost ethereal in the dim evening light.

Around him, Eri, Kogoro, and Ran were all seated, their faces lit by the warm glow of the table lamp. The hum of the air purifier filled the silence between sentences. If this were any other evening, he might have found the setting almost comical—like a strategy meeting at a detective agency.

But tonight, there was no humor, only a shared worry that weighed heavily on all of them.

His mind drifted back to the trip they had taken to Karuizawa just a week before. Initially, he’d thought the change of scenery would do Ran good, a chance to breathe easier—literally and figuratively.

For the first half of the trip, he’d allowed himself a small measure of relief. Ran had smiled more often than she had in weeks, her laughter coming easily as she walked through the mountain path, or browse through the Himuro family's treasures, or shared quiet meals with their small group. She’d even cracked jokes with Sonoko and teased him—her playful bickering a welcome return to the Ran he’d known all his life.

But as the days passed, Conan had realized a truth that stung more than he expected: wherever they went, Ran’s health came with them. The shortness of breath, the slight pallor, the way she’d discreetly touch her chest after a long walk, not to mention the dreadful attacks—it was all still there.

Even with the crisp mountain air and the calm of Karuizawa’s forested paths, the illness had followed, like a shadow that refused to let her go. No matter how far they traveled, they couldn’t leave it behind.

It struck him like a cold wind—that there was no magical place where Ran would suddenly get better. The changes in her health were real, tangible, and inescapable.

And yet, despite that grim realization, he couldn’t deny that the trip had given them something precious.

Ran’s eyes had changed.

There had been a quiet transformation in her, subtle at first—like the slow shift of sunrise over a cold morning. Maybe it was because of her friends—Sonoko, Kazuha and even Hattori, their presence, their laughter, even the fact that they'd refused to let her out of their sight.

Or maybe it was the case they’d stumbled into there, the small mystery they’d solved together that had reminded Ran of her own resilience.

But Conan thought perhaps the most important change had come from the people they’d met in Nagano.

Inspector Yamato, with his gruff encouragement. Inspector Morofushi, quoting Sun Tzu with that calm, unwavering gaze. And Detective Yui, who’d hovered around Ran like a protective older sister.

Their words had struck something deep in Ran—like seeds planted in soil that had long been parched. He’d watched her listen to them, watched her eyes soften and brighten as she realized she wasn’t alone. That even people who didn’t fully understand what she was going through could still stand beside her.

Before Karuizawa, Ran had carried her illness like a secret weight, always apologetic, always worried she was burdening others. But after that trip, something shifted.

She still didn’t talk about it easily, of course—she was still Ran, after all—but she no longer wore that constant guilt in her eyes. When she accepted help now, it wasn’t with the tight smile of someone who felt they didn’t deserve it, but with a quiet gratitude that spoke volumes.

She’d started telling them how she was feeling—tired, or out of breath, or needing a break—without waiting for them to ask. She’d let them carry a little of her burden, and in doing so, she’d given them a gift too: the chance to be there for her.

Conan felt a small, fierce pride in her—mixed with a lingering ache that refused to fade. Ran had always been strong, but sometimes she was too strong for her own good. Watching her let go, just a little, felt like witnessing a miracle.

And yet, every time she smiled that soft, tired smile, he was reminded of how fragile everything was now.

He shook himself slightly, pulling his mind back to the present. Eri was speaking, her voice low and calm as she laid out the schedule for Ran’s upcoming treatments. Every two weeks, she said, with adjustments if needed. She was meticulous, listing every detail—like a lawyer preparing for a trial.

Conan watched Ran listening intently, her dark eyes steady but a bit unfocused, the way they sometimes got when the fatigue hit her harder than usual.

He noticed that small shift in her posture, the slight droop of her eyelids. Haibara had warned him about this, said the medicine for IPF weren't common so side effects were more likely. The new medication Ran was on sometimes caused lethargy and fatigue. He’d taken it upon himself to watch for these things—small changes, subtle cues. He had to. For Ran’s sake.

He cleared his throat softly. “Ran-neechan,” he began, his tone carefully neutral, “are you feeling any stomach pains lately? Or maybe skin problems?”

Ran blinked, processing his question. “No stomach pains,” she said after a moment. “But… my skin does feel a bit itchy sometimes. There’s no rash, though. Just… an itch that doesn’t go away easily.”

Conan nodded, his brow furrowed. “What about sunburn? Do you get sunburned easily?”

She shook her head, smiling a little. “No, I don’t think so.”

Conan leaned forward slightly, his tone gentle but serious. “Are you sleepier than usual? Especially after you take your medicine?”

Ran paused, her eyes thoughtful. “Actually… yes,” she admitted. “I do get really sleepy sometimes, even when I’m not tired from anything else.”

Eri and Kogoro listened silently to this exchange, their eyes reflecting both worry and relief that Conan was paying such close attention. Conan felt their silent support behind him, but he kept his focus on Ran.

He exhaled slowly. “I think… maybe we should talk to your pulmonologist about that,” he said carefully. “It could be a side effect of the medication. Maybe they can adjust the dosage or try something else.”

Eri nodded, her lawyer’s mind already at work. “That’s a good idea,” she said, looking at Ran. “What do you think?”

Ran met her mother’s gaze, her own eyes steady but shadowed by fatigue. “Sure,” she said softly. “I think that’s a good idea too.”

Eri gave a small, relieved smile before taking a deep breath. “There’s also… something else we need to discuss,” she said, her tone gentle but resolute. “Ran, the doctor recommended we start you on supplemental oxygen. Just at night, at least at first. It’s to help you breathe easier while you sleep, to make sure your body’s getting enough oxygen.”

Kogoro spoke then, his voice calm, almost hesitant. “It’s only at night,” he said, his rough voice gentler than usual. “Just until you get used to it, you know? And… well, if it helps you rest better, I think it’s a good idea.” He looked at her with an almost comical mix of worry and pride, as if he didn’t know how to express himself.

Conan watched Ran closely, bracing himself for tears or fear—but instead, he saw something else. Determination. The same quiet strength that had always defined her. Her eyes were soft but clear, her jaw set just enough to show that she wouldn’t let this beat her.

“Okay,” she said finally, her voice steady. “I’ll try it.”

Conan felt a wave of relief and admiration wash over him. Ran was tired, hurting, and yet she still faced every challenge head-on.

For a moment, he wanted to tell her how proud he was, how much she meant to him—but the words caught in his throat. He settled for a small nod, hoping she could see what he couldn’t say.

They discussed the plan for tomorrow—a visit to the pulmonologist to talk about the medication, get advice on the oxygen, and make sure everything was set up properly.

Eri asked Ran if she felt up to it, and Ran nodded without hesitation. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I can make it.”

“I’ll come too,” Conan said, his voice the picture of childish. Eri nodded in agreement, but Ran gave him a small frown, almost as if she wanted to protest—but the words never came. She just sighed, and Conan understood that she didn’t want to burden him. But he’d already decided he wouldn’t leave her side. 

With nothing more to discuss, Eri closed her notebook and Kogoro reached for his cup of tea. The meeting was over, but the weight of it lingered, heavy as the evening air.

Conan sat back and watched Ran, the way her tired eyes drifted towards the window, and he wondered—how many more times would they have to do this? How many more challenges lay ahead?

He didn’t know. But he knew one thing for certain: Ran wasn’t fighting this alone anymore. And he would make sure of it.

-

They arrived at Haido Central Hospital early in the morning, the sky just beginning to warm with the first rays of the day. Kogoro was at the wheel, his eyes uncharacteristically serious as he navigated the familiar roads with care. Eri sat in the passenger seat, her posture straight, her lips moving occasionally in quiet conversation with Kogoro, no doubt coordinating the logistics of the visit.

Conan found himself in the back seat, squeezed between a small medical kit and Ran. The kit contained all the essentials he’d insisted on packing: a nebulizer, spare face masks, a digital oximeter—anything he could think of that might be needed, just in case. He’d made sure everything was charged, cleaned, and ready. It was the least he could do.

Beside him, Ran had the window rolled down a few inches, letting in the fresh morning air. She looked out at the passing scenery with a small, content smile that made Conan’s chest ache in both worry and relief.

Every now and then she’d clear her throat—a soft, almost inaudible sound that Conan catalogued automatically. It didn’t sound serious, but then again, he reminded himself, Ran was the kind of person who would endure a mountain of pain before telling anyone about it.

Still, she’d promised she’d be honest with them—or at least with the doctor—if anything felt off. Conan chose to believe her.

He glanced at her again, noticing how the morning breeze played with the loose strands of her hair, lifting them like fragile banners. She seemed at peace in that moment, eyes half-lidded, a calm he rarely saw these days. Maybe it was the car ride, or the anticipation of answers. Whatever it was, he let himself savor it.

They reached the hospital without incident, Kogoro parking with a precision that belied his often bumbling persona. Together they made their way straight to Dr. Sakamoto’s office, grateful that she was available at this early hour.

Dr. Sakamoto’s office looked like any other pulmonologist’s room at first glance: charts on the walls detailing lung function, models of the respiratory system on the shelves, a subtle scent of antiseptic in the air.

But there was a softness too—a small vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill, a warm-toned lamp casting a gentle glow, a stack of children’s books tucked discreetly in one corner. It made the space feel less clinical and more like a place where people could talk about hard things.

After exchanging pleasantries, Dr. Sakamoto got straight to the point. Her eyes, warm and steady behind her glasses, shifted to Ran. “So, Ran-san, can you tell me about the side effects you’ve been noticing?”

Ran nodded, her hands folded in her lap. “Well… my skin feels itchy sometimes. There’s no rash, but it doesn’t go away easily.” She paused, eyes thoughtful. “And I feel… sleepy. Really sleepy sometimes, especially after I take my medication.”

Eri leaned forward slightly, brows knit with concern. “Doctor, could it be the medication that’s making her feel that way? Is there an alternative?”

Dr. Sakamoto nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s possible. Ran-san’s current medication is Pirfenidone, which can cause fatigue in some patients, though it’s not extremely common. We do have another option—Nintedanib—that we can consider if the side effects are too bothersome.”

Eri’s expression was cautious. “Does Nintedanib have side effects as well?”

Sakamoto smiled gently, patient as always. “Yes, it can. Every medication can affect patients differently. Some people experience diarrhea, others have nausea or a loss of appetite. But not everyone gets them. It’s a matter of balancing what’s tolerable with what works best.”

Conan, who had been listening carefully, leaned forward a little. “Doctor, what’s the difference between Pirfenidone and Nintedanib? How do they actually work?”

Dr. Sakamoto seemed pleased by the question. “That’s a great question, Conan-kun. Pirfenidone works by inhibiting the differentiation of lung fibroblasts into myofibroblasts. In simpler terms, it reduces the scarring in the lungs by slowing down the cells that produce the scar tissue. It mainly helps to reduce the rate of fibrosis.”

She paused, giving them all a moment to absorb the information, then continued. “Nintedanib, on the other hand, is a tyrosine kinase inhibitor. It blocks certain growth factor receptors, which in turn inhibits the proliferation of fibroblasts and reduces the fibrotic process. Both drugs are valuable in treating idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis—or IPF—and they have similar efficacy in slowing down disease progression. The choice often comes down to how well the patient tolerates each one.”

Ran’s eyes were steady. “If it’s okay, I’d like to try Nintedanib,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “The itchiness is bearable, but the sleepiness… I just can’t handle it sometimes. It feels like I’m missing out on things.”

Conan’s heart twisted at that, a mixture of admiration and sorrow. That was Ran, always wanting to move, to live, to be part of every moment. Even now, with her health a daily concern, she was fighting to keep that part of herself alive. He was grateful that she hadn’t changed.

Dr. Sakamoto nodded with understanding. “Of course. We can certainly switch, but we’ll need to allow a short washout period between medications to avoid any complications. And if you feel like the side effects of Nintedanib are worse than the Pirfenidone, please tell me immediately. We can always adjust the dosage or consider other supportive measures.”

Ran nodded. “I understand. Thank you, Doctor.”

The conversation then shifted to the supplemental oxygen. Dr. Sakamoto explained its importance in a calm, reassuring tone. “Ran-san, using supplemental oxygen at night helps maintain your oxygen levels while you sleep. It reduces the strain on your heart and lungs, which is especially important as IPF progresses. For someone in the early-to-middle stage like you, I’d recommend starting at one to two liters per minute via nasal cannula during sleep.”

She smiled gently. “There’s an authorized oxygen supply center right next to the hospital. They can help you with the equipment and teach you how to use it. It’s very straightforward, and you’ll get used to it quickly. It might feel a bit awkward at first, but most patients adjust well.”

Eri leaned forward, voice steady but laced with worry. “So it’s only during the night for now?”

Dr. Sakamoto nodded. “Yes, just at night for now, unless symptoms worsen. We’ll monitor closely.”

Kogoro cleared his throat, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Ran… it’s just for the nights, alright? We… we want you to be comfortable with it first. That’s all. We’re not asking you to… you know… wear it all the time.”

Conan watched Ran closely. For a moment, he saw a flicker of something—fear? Uncertainty?—but it passed quickly, replaced by that same quiet determination that had always defined her. She straightened a little and smiled faintly. “It’s okay. I understand. I’ll do it.”

Conan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He was so proud of her.

Sakamoto continued explaining the proper settings and taught them about the device, answering each question thoroughly and kindly. Eri took notes. Kogoro even asked a few pointed questions, and Conan found himself impressed by his thoroughness. Ran listened intently, nodding at the right times, asking a few questions of her own.

Sakamoto’s expression softened further as she folded her hands on the desk. “Ran-san, before we finish discussing your medications, can you tell me honestly how you’ve been feeling overall? The symptoms, any changes lately?”

Ran inhaled deeply, steadying herself.

“The breathlessness… it’s been more frequent,” she admitted, her voice quiet but unwavering. “Not always at rest, but sometimes even after just a short walk. The chest pain—it’s not constant, but it’s more noticeable than before. A dull ache, not sharp, but enough that I know it’s there.” She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “And the dry cough… it’s come back more often. It’s still manageable, but it’s there.”

Conan’s eyes stayed locked on Ran, his mind absorbing every word, every detail. He made a mental note of the frequency of breathlessness, the quality of the pain, the nature of the cough—anything that might help him help her.

Dr. Sakamoto nodded sympathetically. “I’m glad you’re paying attention to these changes. For the breathlessness, I can prescribe a short-acting bronchodilator inhaler to help open up the airways if it feels too tight. For the chest pain, if it worsens or changes character—like becoming sharp or constant—I want you to come in right away, okay?” She glanced at Eri and Kogoro, making sure they understood too. “For the cough, a humidifier at night and staying hydrated can help. I’ll also give you a mild cough suppressant that’s safe to use. And please remember—any sudden changes in breathing or severe chest pain, you need to call us or come to the hospital immediately.”

Conan listened intently, memorizing every instruction. Ran already had a humidifier in her room, but maybe having it in the living room, or in the spaces she'd always lounge around, would be good too.

And he'd need to have Professor Agasa tweak the nebuliser as well. If there was anything he could do to make this easier for her—even a little—he would do it.

Dr. Sakamoto leaned back then, eyes still gentle but serious. “Now, Ran-san, I know this is a lot. I know it’s hard. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed.” She glanced at all of them—Ran, Conan, Eri, and Kogoro—and her voice softened. “If you ever want to talk to someone, there are counselors who specialize in helping patients and families cope with illnesses like IPF. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Conan felt a pang of surprise at the idea—somehow, it had never occurred to him that there might be support beyond medical care.

But then he saw Ran’s expression, the way her eyes softened with understanding. Had she thought of this already? She nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll think about it.”

They thanked Dr. Sakamoto for her time and guidance, then left the office together. Conan felt a small but stubborn ache in his chest as they headed toward the oxygen supply center. He found himself still thinking about that counselor.

Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Maybe he needed someone to talk to, too.

-

“Eh? Ran-neechan, you’re going to school?” Conan’s voice, still thick with sleep, cut through the quiet morning as he shuffled out of Kogoro’s room. His pajamas were wrinkled, and his hair stuck up in odd directions, but he barely noticed—his attention was fixed on the sight before him.

Ran was at the dining table, carefully organizing her schoolbag, her movements slow and deliberate, like every step had to be measured and rehearsed.

She wore her uniform—neat and freshly pressed—and her long hair flowing smoothly at her back. She looked every bit the diligent high school student she’d always been, yet something about her manner was different now.

Slower. More cautious. More fragile, though she’d never admit it.

She spared Conan only a brief glance, smiling faintly. “Yes, of course I am,” she replied, her tone brisk, as if he’d asked a silly question.

Conan padded over to her, his small feet making no sound on the wooden floor. He got close enough that she couldn’t ignore him and peered up at her intently.

“But… isn’t it dangerous?” His voice was small, but the concern was impossible to hide.

Ran paused, eyes flickering to him in mild surprise. “What are you talking about?” she asked, that same faint smile on her lips, like she was humoring a child. “Don’t worry so much, Conan-kun.”

But Conan couldn’t help it. His mind was a constant swirl of worry these days, each scenario more terrifying than the last: What if she suddenly had a breathlessness attack while climbing the stairs? What if the chest pain hit her in the middle of the hallway and no one knew what to do? What if the air quality in one of the classrooms triggered her symptoms? What if she got too tired just walking between buildings?

The possibilities multiplied in his mind like poison, each one more suffocating than the last.

He stared at her, silent, his brow furrowed, his mind stuck in a loop of scenarios he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud. She was standing right there, calm and bright and determined, but Conan couldn’t help seeing the girl who had nearly staggered and fallen the other day—the memory was sharp and cold, like a blade.

Ran sighed, reading his thoughts like an open book. “I’m fine, Conan-kun,” she said gently, her voice patient but firm. “Nothing’s going to happen to me at school. The supplemental oxygen is really helping. I know how to manage my symptoms.” She offered him a small, encouraging smile.

Conan knew it was true. Since starting the supplemental oxygen at night, Ran had regained some color in her cheeks, a little more energy in her step. She still moved carefully—deliberately—but there was a steadiness that had been missing before.

The improvements weren’t miracles, but they were enough to make her braver. And yet—Conan still couldn’t let go.

“But Ran-neechan,” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, “what if you staggered on the stairs again, like the other day? You almost fell.”

Ran gasped softly, eyes widening a flash of betrayal. He knew he’d promised not to tell Kogoro that day, and he’d kept that promise. But he’d never promised he wouldn’t bring it up again. And now—now felt like the right time.

Kogoro’s voice, sharp with surprise, cut in from the doorway. “What? Ran, what’s this brat talking about?”

Ran’s eyes darted to Conan’s, her expression caught between a scolding older sister and a child about to be reprimanded. Conan refused to back down, though. He crossed his arms and frowned at her, feeling a little like a petulant child himself but determined to make the adults see the risk.

“Amuro-san said she almost fell down the stairs because she suddenly felt breathless,” Conan explained, his tone firm despite the childish pitch. He wanted Kogoro and Eri to know—Ran couldn’t keep hiding this.

Eri emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, her eyes sharp and worried. “Ran, you have to tell us these things so we can do something to help. That’s really dangerous.”

Ran looked small suddenly, like a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Y-Yes,” she murmured, eyes downcast.

Conan felt a pang of guilt—maybe she was mad at him for betraying her secret—but when he looked at her closely, he was relieved to see no anger, only resignation. She knew he was right, even if it hurt to admit it.

Kogoro scratched his chin, looking thoughtful. “But that’s really dangerous,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “We should do something about the stairs.”

Conan, always prepared, jumped in eagerly. “Maybe we can put more handrails and non-slip treads,” he suggested. “Or better yet—a stair lift, so Ran-neechan won’t have to worry about climbing up or down.”

Ran’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Eh? Isn’t that a bit too much?” she protested, cheeks pink with embarrassment.

Conan feigned agreement and pretended to deliberate the options. “That’s right. Maybe it’s better to just move somewhere without stairs.” He’d been thinking about this for days—maybe even weeks—and it felt like the perfect time to bring it up.

Eri and Kogoro exchanged glances, thoughtful. Conan felt his heart pound, urging them silently to agree. Ran waited too, silent and patient, the tension in the room palpable.

Eri sighed softly, her eyes sad but practical. “That might be the best idea, but I don’t know where we can move. My own apartment is on the higher floors of the mansion. There’s an elevator, of course, but… it might still be risky. We’ll have to consider it, Ran.”

Conan’s heart sank a little. That wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for. He’d been so sure that this conversation would steer them toward the Kudo mansion—toward a place where he could watch over her. The other day, he’d even managed to talk to his mother about it—

The memory of that late-night phone call was still fresh in Conan’s mind, as sharp as the concern that had driven him to dial his parents’ number as soon as Hattori’s suggestion lodged itself in his head.

He’d been pacing his room, phone pressed tightly against his ear, when it finally connected. It was Yukiko who answered, her voice warm and cheerful, the usual greeting he’d come to expect from her:
“Shin-chan? It’s late there. Is everything alright?”

Conan had skipped over any small talk, the urgency too great. “Mom,” he’d said, his voice a little too tight, “can Ran live at the house for a while?”

There’d been a pause—long enough that he could almost hear her confusion from the other side of the line. “Eh? Ran-chan? Did something happen? Did her health suddenly get worse?”

He’d quickly explained: no, it hadn’t plummeted, though it felt like it could at any time.

He’d told her about the incident on the stairs, how Ran had staggered and almost fell because of a sudden breathlessness, how the idea of that—Ran collapsing alone on those steps—kept gnawing at him.

“It’d be better for her to be somewhere without stairs,” he’d said. “The house has everything she’d need — a room on the ground floor, easy access, plenty of space..."

Yukiko had been silent, listening with that quiet focus she always had when something truly serious came up.

“I see,” she’d finally said, voice low and thoughtful. “You’re right. And yes, I’d allow it, of course. Eri-chan and Kogoro-chan can move in with her, too.”

Conan had felt a surge of relief, but it was fleeting—Yukiko’s next question clipped the wings of his relief.

“But, Shin-chan… how will you tell them this?”

He’d frowned, momentarily thrown.
“What do you mean, Mom?”

Yukiko had sighed, and even through the phone, Conan could feel the weight of her concern.

“Unless it comes from them first, Shin-chan,” she’d said gently but firmly, “you can’t just blurt out that Ran-chan should move into ‘Shinichi-niichan’s house’ like it’s the obvious solution.”

He’d felt his impatience prick at him.
“Then you tell them,” he’d said quickly. “You’re best friends with her mom, you can bring it up when you talk to her. You can—”

“Shinichi.” Her voice had turned a little sharper, the reprimand subtle but unmistakable. “You may not know this, but there’s something called pride for parents when it comes to providing for their child.”

Conan’s frustration had welled up.
“But, Mom, this isn’t the time for pride,” he’d shot back. “This is about Ran’s health. It’s—”

“I know, Shin-chan,” she’d cut him off softly, the warmth returning to her tone, a quiet, motherly gentleness that reached across the miles. “I hear you. I understand. Ran-chan’s well-being takes precedence. And I doubt Eri-chan would get angry, but… she might get hurt, you know. Listen—this is still a family matter. We—your father and I—are outsiders here. We can’t just swoop in and offer them a house to move into like that, as if their own home is suddenly unfit. That’s… a delicate thing.”

Conan had fallen silent, his frustration suddenly tempered by her words. The thought of Eri—strong, independent Eri—feeling that she couldn’t provide a safe home for Ran… it stung, even to him. Of course she’d be hurt. And even Kogoro, as hapless as he could be, would probably take that as a blow to his pride.

“Your father will agree with me too,” Yukiko had said softly.

He’d opened his mouth to argue, but she’d been quick to add: “I’m not completely against it, Shin-chan. I want what’s best for Ran-chan, too. But please—be more delicate with how you handle this. Ease them into it, make sure they know that it’s an option, but don’t push it on them. Let them come to the decision themselves. Understand?”

He’d clenched his jaw, biting back his impatience. But she was right—she always was.

“…Yeah,” he’d murmured. “I understand.”

Listening to Eri’s calm reasoning now, Conan realized he couldn’t force it. Even if it was the safest option, he couldn’t make it happen with just a few words. He had to be patient—something that felt nearly impossible these days.

Kogoro clapped his hands together. “Well, in the meantime, I’ll have to do something about the stairs,” he declared. “We’ll figure out something.”

Ran started to protest. “No, no—it’s okay! I’ll be really careful, I promise,” she said quickly, as if afraid of inconveniencing anyone.

Conan watched her, his chest tight with worry. “But… Ran-neechan,” he said, his voice soft but insistent, “why wouldn’t you just stay home? It’d be safer.”

Ran looked at him then, her expression half-amused, half-exasperated. “What would I even do at home, Conan-kun, when I feel fine? Besides,” she added pointedly, “it's not like you’re going to be here to watch over me, right?”

Conan’s eyes widened. “I’ll skip school then,” he blurted out, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Ran’s eyes narrowed in that familiar older-sister way, the one that usually ended in a lecture. For a moment, Conan felt this sense of normalcy refreshing.

He'd missed this, missed those times Ran looked at him with fire in her eyes, even only as she'd scold him. He missed those times terribly—Ran being normal, being happy, being healthy. 

“That can’t be,” she said firmly, hands on her hips now. “Don’t do that, Conan-kun.”

“But—” Conan began, but Ran cut him off with a sharp shake of her head.

“No,” she said, voice firm and unwavering. “You’re not going to skip school just to watch me. I’m not alone at school, anyway. I have classmates. Teachers who know about my condition. Friends too—Sonoko will be with me.”

She paused, her posture relaxed but defiant, like she was ready to stand her ground no matter what. But then—just as Conan was about to protest again—a short, dry cough escaped her lips. It was nothing serious, just a single cough, but to Conan it felt like the world cracked open a little. Like the illusion of normalcy he’d been clinging to had shattered.

His eyes darted to her, worry flooding him. “Ran-neechan, you’re coughing,” he pointed out.

Ran gave him a tired but patient smile. “Yes, but I can manage,” she said gently. “I know the remedies. Dr. Sakamoto already told me what to do.”

Conan frowned, arms crossed, feeling small and powerless. “But…”

Ran dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Anyway,” she said briskly, “we can walk to the school together. But you can’t wait for me after school. Understood?”

Conan’s mouth fell open. “But—”

“No,” Ran repeated, her tone final. “Sonoko will be with me. I’ll be fine, so I better not see you at the high school gates later. Okay?”

Conan’s heart twisted. He wanted to shout that it wasn’t okay. That he wanted to be there, to walk her home, to make sure she was safe every single moment of every single day.

But Ran’s eyes were on him—steady, unwavering, and just a little bit exasperated—and he knew there was no arguing with her when she was like this.

He sighed, shoulders slumping, feeling every bit the child he looked like. “Okay,” he muttered, his voice small.

“Good,” Ran said, satisfied. She softened, her smile returning. “Now go get changed so you can have breakfast and we can be on our way.”

Conan scowled, sticking his bottom lip out just a little—a small, childish defiance he couldn’t help but let slip. But he obeyed, shuffling off to back to the room, every step feeling heavier than the last.

He hated this. Hated that she was forcing him to go to school. Hated that he couldn’t be there to watch her every second. The worry churned in his chest like a storm, and as he closed the door behind him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that every second he wasn’t with her was a second he couldn’t protect her.

And that—more than anything—terrified him.

-

Conan carried the sour taste of his earlier conversation all the way to Teitan Elementary. It clung to him like a stubborn fog, clouding his thoughts and dampening his mood.

When he and Ran had parted ways earlier, she’d smiled at him—smiled the same way she always did, soft and warm—but it had come with a gentle reminder: Don’t wait for me later, okay? She’d said it lightly, as if it were nothing, but Conan had known it wasn’t nothing at all. She’d been insistent this time, and he couldn’t do anything about it. He’d just reluctantly agreed, the same sourness curling in his chest.

Now, as he sat at his designated chair in the noisy, bright classroom, surrounded by the excited chatter of elementary kids, Conan felt out of place.

The hum of laughter, the squeaks of chairs, and the shrill ring of conversations all blended into a blur of noise that grated at his nerves. He drummed his pencil against his desk, the rhythm fast and anxious. The restlessness clawed at him.

He felt sullen, frustrated—angry, even—because this was the closest he’d come to a disagreement with Ran as Conan. And he didn't feel good about it. 

He stared at the empty chalkboard, not seeing it at all. Instead, he saw Ran—smiling, telling him not to wait, her eyes bright despite the fatigue that had been creeping in lately. The memory gnawed at him.

“Ne, Conan-kun?” Ayumi’s voice cut through his thoughts, soft and tentative.

He blinked and turned toward her. She stood next to his desk, her head tilted slightly, her big brown eyes warm with concern. Behind her, Genta and Mitsuhiko hovered, both wearing similar worried expressions. Haibara, who sat behind him, didn’t move from her seat, but Conan knew she was listening. She always did.

“You seem like you’re in a bad mood,” Ayumi said, her voice small but earnest.

Mitsuhiko chimed in, his innocent gaze focused on him, “Actually, you’ve seemed very distant lately. You haven’t been coming with us after class.”

“Yeah,” Genta added, his round face unusually serious. “You look like you’re not eating enough, either.”

Conan felt torn. On one hand, their concern touched him in a way he hadn’t expected. On the other, the frustration in his chest still simmered, hot and restless, and he wanted—needed—to be left alone with his thoughts. His gaze flickered between them, and he forced his voice to sound dismissive.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, his tone sharper than he intended.

Ayumi’s eyes widened, her lips pressing into a small frown. “Conan-kun… are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft and tentative but insistent.

He looked at them then—really looked—and saw how truly concerned they were. Even Genta, usually so carefree and loud, was watching him with curious, worried eyes.

They were kids—young and innocent—and when they felt something, they showed it openly, without pretense or walls. It made him feel guilty for brushing them off.

His voice softened despite himself. “No, it’s nothing,” he repeated, but gentler this time. “I’m just worried about Ran-neechan. She’s… she’s sick.”

Ayumi gasped, a tiny hand pressed to her lips. “Ran-oneesan is sick?”

Mitsuhiko’s brow furrowed in concern. “Does she have a cold? Or maybe a high fever?”

Genta’s face brightened in earnestness. “Then she should eat a lot! My mom says eating good food always makes you feel better!”

Their innocence made something sharp twist in his chest. He hesitated. They were close with Ran, too.

They’d stuck by her through cases and dangers, drawn to her kindness like moths to a flame. She’d baked them cookies, held their hands when they’d cried, ruffled their hair when they’d done well on tests. She'd always play with them. 

And despite their naivety, Conan knew they could be unexpectedly deep when it really mattered. They deserved something more than a brush-off.

“It’s… not like that,” he murmured. His voice was low, and he felt the weight of every word. “It’s… it’s something serious.”

“How serious?” Ayumi asked, her eyes wide and solemn.

Conan froze. The question hit him like a punch to the gut. How serious? How serious could it get?

His mind, so good at compartmentalizing, began to unravel. He thought about the seriousness of Ran’s illness—how it had taken her breath away, quite literally. How every day it seemed to tighten its grip on her, squeezing just a little more of the life out of her. He thought about how it would continue to progress, how there was an expected further decline. How there was no cure. 

His chest constricted painfully, the tears threatening to spill before he could stop them. 

He thought about how this illness would take Ran's life. How he’d have to watch her fade, step by agonizing step, until one day there would be nothing left but the memory of her smile and the sound of her laughter echoing in his mind. 

This illness will take Ran away from me, he thought, the words so sharp and final that they made his throat close up. 

He couldn’t talk. If he opened his mouth now, he’d break, and they’d see. He couldn’t let that happen—not here, not in this bright classroom full of innocent, oblivious laughter.

He kept his head down, his glasses mercifully hiding his eyes. He focused on the pattern of his desk, counting the tiny scratches like lifelines.

A chair scraped behind him, and Haibara’s calm, collected voice slipped through the haze of his panic. “Hey, you three,” she said, her tone a mixture of coolness and gentle authority. “Give Edogawa-kun some space. Ran-san's sickness isn’t something you can fix with food or rest. It’s… more complicated than that. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Ayumi, Mitsuhiko, and Genta hesitated, their worry plain on their faces. But Haibara’s presence was like a steady hand on their backs, guiding them away. Slowly, they returned to their seats, still glancing at Conan with anxious eyes.

Conan let out a shaky breath, the tightness in his chest easing just a little. He was grateful—grateful for Haibara’s interference, grateful that she’d saved him from the spiral he’d been so close to falling into.

He’d been trying not to think about that—about the end—because if he did, it would consume him. And this wasn’t the time or place to spiral.

He breathed slowly, grounding himself. Just breathe. Focus. This wasn’t about him. It was about Ran—and he needed to be strong for her, now more than ever.

As if on cue, the bell rang, sharp and bright, signaling the start of class. Conan sat up straighter, forced his expression into something neutral, and braced himself. The day had only just begun, and there was still so much to do.

-

Conan couldn’t help it.

Even though Ran had been adamant that he not wait for her at the gates, he couldn’t just not do it. The thought of her walking home alone, vulnerable in her condition, gnawed at his gut like an unspoken threat.

He knew he’d agreed—he’d nodded, he’d promised—but when it came down to it, he couldn’t bring himself to fully trust that she’d be okay without him. His chest felt tight with the thought of breaking his promise, but the fear of something happening to her was far worse.

So, there he was, hiding in a bush that was just big enough to conceal a small child’s body—big leaves brushing against his cheek and arms, damp earth clinging to his knees—his sharp eyes fixed on the Teitan High gates. He crouched low, heart pounding with each footstep that passed, hoping Ran wouldn’t catch sight of him.

He had to watch her—he had to be there, just in case she staggered, just in case she faltered, just in case—

A pang of guilt stabbed at him. This was a betrayal of her trust, he knew that. Ran had smiled at him this morning, her eyes crinkling just so, before reminding him not to wait. He could hear her voice even now—gentle, but with a finality that made his stomach twist.

But he couldn’t help himself; he needed to be here, just in case.

Then, a sudden rustle behind him. Conan’s sharp gaze darted in that direction—and sure enough, a small cluster of familiar faces was peeking through a gap in the shrubbery. Ayumi, Mitsuhiko, and Genta—faces bright with the kind of curiosity and determination only kids their age could muster—were crouched there, eyes wide. Haibara was there too, her expression unreadable but unmistakably composed.

His heart sank with a thud. Of course they’d follow him. He should have expected it—these three had a knack for sticking to him like burrs on a sock.

His initial reaction was annoyance, a tightness in his chest at the thought that they might ruin everything. Ran would notice them, and if she did—if she saw them trailing her like this—she’d know exactly what he’d been up to.

Worse, she might feel cornered, like she couldn’t even walk home without someone watching her every move. That was the opposite of normalcy.

He approached them quietly, his footsteps muffled by the soft grass. The three of them jumped in surprise as he emerged, but Haibara only lifted an eyebrow, as if she’d been expecting him all along.

“You guys,” he said, voice low, “what are you doing here?”

Ayumi’s eyes went wide. “Ah—Conan-kun! We—uh—” she stammered, glancing nervously at Mitsuhiko.

Mitsuhiko cleared his throat. “After class, you disappeared all of a sudden. Haibara-san said you might come here to wait for Ran-san. We thought—” he hesitated, “—well, we thought we should come too.”

Conan blinked. Ayumi was nodding vigorously beside Mitsuhiko, her small hands clenched in front of her chest. “We were worried,” she said earnestly. “You said Ran-oneesan is sick. Is she going to be okay, Conan-kun?”

Conan’s throat tightened. He felt that familiar swirl of frustration and helplessness start to gather in his chest. “She’s—” he started, but couldn’t finish. It felt like a brick had lodged itself in his throat.

Mitsuhiko’s eyes were wide and serious. “If she’s really sick, why did she still go to school today?” he asked, frowning in confusion.

The question hit Conan like a cold slap. His chest clenched even tighter. He looked down, fiddling with his watch, buying himself a moment before replying.

“It’s because… Ran-neechan still wants to live normally,” he managed to say, his voice barely steady.

The three of them exchanged confused glances. Ayumi’s brow furrowed, her eyes soft and worried. “But… then we should help her, right? We can be her guards! We’ll make sure she gets home safe!” she declared, her face bright with determination.

Conan felt his frustration bubble over. No—no, that’s the opposite of normal, he thought. But he couldn’t say that to them, not really.

Instead, he shook his head. “You can’t,” he said, more forcefully than he intended. “If she sees you following her, she’ll know. She’ll be upset. She might get mad at you all. And… and she doesn’t need that.” His voice dropped at the end, throat tight with all the things he couldn’t say.

The three of them protested, voices overlapping—Ayumi’s earnest insistence, Genta’s gruff but sincere “She needs us!”—but before he could cut them off, Haibara’s calm voice slid in.

“They’ll be careful,” she said evenly, her eyes on him. “They’ll stay quiet. I’ll make sure she doesn’t notice them. And if she does,” she added, a small smile ghosting her lips, “she won’t know you’re here too. She won’t get mad at you, Edogawa-kun. She’ll just think it’s the kids being kids.”

Conan felt something loosen in his chest, but it was a reluctant kind of acceptance. Haibara was always the one who could cut through his excuses. He let out a breath.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But stay far enough away that she doesn’t see you.”

The three of them lit up with relief and pride. Ayumi beamed, practically bouncing with excitement, and Genta grinned as though he’d just won a prize. Even Mitsuhiko looked determined, as if he’d been handed a secret mission. Conan felt a small, bitter smile curl at the edge of his lips despite himself.

He retreated to his hiding place, his mind still a whirl of worry. The leaves scratched at his arms, the damp earth smelled of grass and dust. His eyes stayed sharp on the gates. After a few minutes that felt like hours, he saw her.

Ran emerged with Sonoko at her side, their arms brushing as they walked together. Conan’s eyes locked onto Ran, and his chest squeezed.

She looked okay—no visible breathlessness, her steps steady, but every few seconds she paused to cough lightly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Each cough made Conan’s gut twist with worry. She was holding herself together with that same determined grace that always broke his heart.

Sonoko was chattering beside her, voice bright and high, but Conan couldn’t focus on her words. He watched Ran’s face—worn but smiling, those eyes shadowed with a fatigue she tried to hide. He could see the lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her shoulders seemed to slump when she thought no one was looking.

When they reached the corner, Sonoko’s voice shifted—worried, uncertain.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I could walk you all the way to the detective agency,” Sonoko said.

Conan felt a pang of gratitude for Sonoko’s presence. But Ran shook her head, a gentle, sad smile on her lips. “It’s okay, Sonoko. I’ll be fine. I want you to go on home.”

Sonoko hesitated, but Ran’s smile seemed to reassure her. She gave her friend a small wave before turning to walk alone.

Conan felt his pulse spike, that same familiar panic bubbling under his skin. Alone. She’d be alone. And in her condition, that was dangerous. So dangerous.

His sharp eyes caught the subtle shift in Ran’s expression as she walked—no longer smiling. Her gaze drifted, thoughtful and far away. She must be thinking that this was her life now. Always having to reassure everyone, always having to tell them she was fine. 

Then her steps slowed, as if she was savoring the quiet, the solitude. Conan felt a hot ache in his chest as he watched her—watched the freedom in her eyes, the fragile peace that came with walking alone. 

Is that what she wants? he wondered desperately. To be alone, even for only a short time? 

It made his breath catch, as if he’d been punched in the gut.

She looked so… wistful. So tired. Like she was finally letting herself feel everything she’d been holding back. Like she was thinking about all the things she hadn’t said—and all the things she might never get to say. 

At the corner, Amuro’s familiar figure appeared, a tray in hand—his white apron bright against the dusky light. Conan’s breath caught in relief. Amuro was talking to Ran, his voice low and gentle. Conan strained to listen.

“How was school today?” Amuro asked, his expression soft.

Ran’s voice was quiet. “They all know about my condition now,” she said, sounding like the words tasted bitter. “I’ve been away for so long… and they’re giving me a wide berth.”

Conan’s chest constricted, every breath a fight. That’s the opposite of what she wants. She wanted normalcy—she wanted to be treated the same.

But now even her classmates were keeping their distance. He could hear the hurt in her voice.

Amuro spoke again, his voice patient and calm. “Maybe they’re still processing it,” he said. “It’s hard to know what to say in these situations. Give them some time. I’m sure they’ll come around.”

Ran’s shoulders slumped just a little. “Yeah,” she said, her voice small. “You’re probably right.”

Conan’s eyes burned. He wished he could just wrap her in his arms and tell her—tell her everything he’d been holding back. But he couldn’t. Not like this.

Amuro’s voice came again, lighter this time. “Hey, come to Poirot for a drink,” he said. “I’ve got a new batch of fresh fruits—good for hydration.”

Ran gave him a tired smile. “Okay,” she agreed softly.

Conan exhaled a shaky breath. At least she wouldn’t be alone for now. At least she’d have someone to look out for her, even if it wasn’t him.

He didn’t follow them inside. He knew Amuro had spotted him—and probably the kids too—and he trusted Amuro enough to know he’d keep his secret.

He turned back to where Ayumi, Mitsuhiko, Genta, and Haibara were waiting in the shadows, their eyes wide and expectant.

“Mission complete,” he said, forcing a smile. “She’ll be safe now. Good job, everyone.”

The kids lit up, beaming with pride at their small victory. Ayumi grinned so widely it looked like her face might split in two. Genta thumped his chest. Even Mitsuhiko’s eyes shone.

Conan’s heart clenched with gratitude—and pain. Haibara’s eyes were on him too, quiet and knowing, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.

He thanked them, his voice thick, and watched them head home, their laughter echoing in the fading light. He stood there, hidden in the shadows of the street, listening to the way the wind rattled the leaves overhead and feeling the weight of everything he couldn’t say—everything he couldn’t fix.

Then, alone, he turned toward the detective agency, every step heavy with a complicated knot of worry, guilt, and helpless love.

-

Conan found himself on the rooftop of the Mouri Detective Agency, a place he hadn’t visited in a while.

The night air was cool, brushing softly against his skin as he leaned against the railing, looking up at the sky. A scattering of stars glimmered above him—silent, distant witnesses to his turmoil. This rooftop had become something of a refuge for him over the year, a place to think, to process, to be alone with his tangled thoughts.

Tonight, those thoughts felt especially heavy.

The day had been a storm of emotions—each one swirling violently, leaving him breathless.

The frustration and helplessness he’d felt that morning, when Ran had insisted they wouldn't be coming home together, her adamant refusal for him to wait for her. 

The warmth he’d felt from the kids’ concern—Ayumi’s earnestness, Mitsuhiko’s curiosity, Genta’s clumsy protectiveness. The care that naturally came to them upon knowing Ran was sick. 

The terrifying moment he had in the classroom. The spiraling that he'd almost let himself go through as his emotions overwhelmed him just by thinking about the seriousness of Ran's illness. 

And this afternoon—his own betrayal. Hiding in a bush, trailing her like a shadow, even when she’d specifically asked him not to. The guilt was sharp in his chest.

And then when Sonoko had left and Ran was alone—the look on her face, wistful, contemplative expression. It had cut deeper than any wound. That fleeting expression, as if she were savoring the brief moment of solitude, of freedom. As if she were grasping at a last breath of normalcy, even while her world was anything but.

Then there had been that conversation with Amuro—Ran’s soft, sad confession about her classmates, their classmates, giving her a wide berth. The hurt in her voice had lanced through Conan, because he understood. He knew. How people, even well-meaning ones, didn’t know how to react, didn’t know what to say, so they chose distance over discomfort.

He was aware, right from the start, that his world revolved around Ran. But this, now, alone under the stars, even his emotions were all connected to her. 

His heart torn in a thousand different directions—all of them leading back to Ran. Always Ran.

He clenched his hand around his phone—Shinichi’s phone—and his bowtie voice changer. He hadn’t had many chances to call her as Shinichi lately; he’d been with her almost constantly as Conan, sticking close. There’d been no space, no window. And she hadn’t called him either, maybe because she didn’t want to worry him.

But tonight—he could. Tonight, he could be Shinichi. And yet…

His emotions felt raw, like an open wound. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack, not to betray the overwhelming worry and longing he felt.

But he knew these opportunities were growing fewer and farther between. And in the future…

He swallowed hard. He couldn’t even bear to think about it.

In the future, these opportunities would be even less. 

With a sigh that felt too heavy for his small frame, he thumbed through his contacts and pressed the call button. He adjusted the bowtie, composing himself. He could do this.

The line rang once, twice—

“Shinichi?”

Her voice—bright, warm, so achingly familiar—hit him like a wave.

“Yo, Ran,” he said, forcing a casual grin into his tone. “How’s it going?”

“Hey!” she said, laughing softly. “I wasn’t expecting a call from you tonight. Did you finish your case already?”

“Yeah, I wrapped it up faster than I thought,” Conan replied, injecting some teasing confidence into his voice. “Turns out the suspect was sloppier than I expected.”

“Of course,” she teased back. “It’s you, after all.”

Conan felt his chest tighten. He missed this—her voice, the easy banter, the way she always found a way to make him smile. 

Even though he saw her every day as Conan, he missed Ran. And just by hearing her cheerful, almost energetic voice, he felt glad he decided to call. 

They traded stories—small things, easy laughter. Conan found himself telling her about the case he’d “solved,” making it up on the fly, and she played along, guessing details and laughing at his jokes. It felt normal, and that was the part that hurt the most.

But then—

She coughed. Just a small, short cough, quickly hidden behind her hand, but Conan heard it.

His heart lurched.

“Hey,” he said, his voice sharpening with concern. “Are you okay? Want me to send you some cough drops again?”

Ran laughed lightly. “No, no. I’m already taking something for it. Don’t worry.”

But Conan couldn’t let it go. He felt that familiar pang—frustration, helplessness, the weight of secrets. Why couldn’t she just—

“If you’re taking something for it,” he said, voice low and serious now, “that means it’s something serious.”

She hesitated, then tried to laugh it off. “Shinichi, you’re doing your flawless deductions on me now?”

He felt the breath catch in his throat.

“Oi, Ran,” he said, voice heavy with worry. “What’s wrong?”

She went quiet. He imagined her eyes on the ceiling, lips pursed in thought. For a second, he thought she’d finally tell him—finally share what she’d kept from him all this time.

But then she laughed softly. “There’s nothing wrong. Everything’s fine.”

Conan felt his chest crack open.

“Ran…” he said. He meant it to sound stern, meant to push her, but it came out pleading. And she heard it—he knew she did.

A beat of silence.

“Shinichi,” she said softly, gently, like she was trying to soothe his worries even though he’d tried to hide them. “There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine.” 

Then, with a tone carrying even heavier emotions—warmth, comfort and understanding reigning above them, she added, "Everything will be fine." 

Conan felt like he was struck with lightning upon hearing those words. He knew. He knew that she meant more when she said them, that she wasn't just referring to the cough, she wasn't simply brushing off his worries. 

Ran wasn't simply trying to reassure 'Shinichi' of the now. Those words were reassurance of a much bigger altitude, much wider extent. 

Conan felt his throat tighten, almost choking up with emotions. He let it go, opting to believe her and trusting her confidence. 

They talked a little longer—about Sonoko’s latest gossip, about the new movie playing at the local theater. Conan did his best to sound normal, to sound like Shinichi. But inside, his heart felt like it was being squeezed.

Finally, he said, “Anyway, I should let you rest. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” Ran said softly. “Talk to you soon, Shinichi.”

“Goodnight and... take care, Ran.”

“Goodnight.”

The line went dead.

Conan lowered the phone and stared at Ran’s name still glowing on the screen. The stars above him blinked in the darkness, silent and cold, watching him as he processed everything. He pressed the phone to his chest, feeling the small device warm from his grip.

His chest felt heavy, his eyes prickling with unshed tears. Ran's words resonating through his heart. 

Everything will be fine.

-

Chapter Text

-

Conan sat with his hands folded in his lap, the faint tick of a clock somewhere in the room the only sound that filled the silence between breaths. A soft morning light filtered through the curtains, lending the space a muted, almost clinical calm.

His eyes, normally sharp and perceptive, were distant now—his mind wandering to thoughts he’d rather not examine too closely.

He could still hear Dr. Sakamoto’s voice echoing in his memory: “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” she’d said,  that calm, unwavering tone that made him almost believe it. “Talk about it with someone. Especially since what you’re going through isn’t easy.”

He’d been surprised then, but he agreed with her. And Ran... Ran was the one who’d always known how to carry her burdens with that quiet grace of hers. And maybe she’d considered talking to someone before, but honestly, she seemed to have it handled. Strong-willed. Self-possessed. Unyielding.

Too strong for her own good, sometimes.

But him? He’d never been good at this part—opening up, letting emotions spill out. Even as Kudo Shinichi, he’d been the master of bottling things up, of dismissing feelings with logic and burying everything behind half-smiles and deduced conclusions.

He’d convinced himself he didn’t need help—he was too proud, too sure that admitting vulnerability meant admitting weakness.

Only now, now it was different. Because this wasn’t a puzzle that could be solved by deduction alone. This was Ran. This was about the girl who’d become the center of his world in ways he couldn’t even begin to untangle.

And when it came to her, he just felt everything too deeply—so deeply it hurt.

He shifted in his seat, feeling the soft cushion press into his back. His fingers drummed a quiet rhythm against his thigh, as though trying to ground himself in the moment. The stillness of the room made his own breathing seem too loud, his heartbeat too pronounced.

He had to talk about it. Even if he didn’t really know how.

“I’ve been… sticking to her side all the time lately,” he began, his voice quiet, hesitant, like he was testing the words as they came out. “I hardly let her out of my sight. Even in Karuizawa—I almost walked her to the restroom door without even thinking about it. I was a little distracted with the case, but even then I couldn’t let her go alone.” His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “In the mountain path, I’ve been holding her hand all the time. I know it’s—”

He trailed off, exhaling shakily, unable to finish that sentence. His eyes fell to the floor, memories swirling through his mind. Ran, smiling. Laughing. Clutching his hand as though she didn’t mind. But what if she did?

His voice cracked, and he forced the next words out: “I know it’s not fair to her. She’s stronger than anyone I know. But I… I couldn’t help myself. I kept adding my worries to hers. I just—” He rubbed at his eyes, pressing the heel of his palm into his brow. “I feel too worried.”

A voice cut through the air, calm and composed, but carrying an authority that made him freeze. “Kudo-kun.”

Conan’s head snapped up, startled.

Across from him sat a pair of calm, knowing eyes—eyes that had seen through him far too often, eyes that had dissected every lie he’d ever tried to tell himself.

Haibara.

He'd gone to Agasa's house early in the morning to request for a tweak on Ran's nebuliser. Initially, they'd deliberated whether it was a good idea to combined the nebuliser and the bronchodilator inhaler for Ran's dry cough. 

They'd weigh the pros and cons and compared their purposes. But eventually, they'd decided it was better to have them separately for different functions. 

And now, while waiting for the professor to finish his request, Conan found himself in the company of Haibara. 

She was sitting across from him, hands folded neatly on her lap, posture relaxed but eyes sharp and unwavering. Her expression was serious, but there was a softness there too—a quiet understanding that made his chest tighten.

“I’m not a psychologist, a therapist, or even a counselor, ” she said evenly, but with a note of caution. A warning. 

Conan’s face burned with embarrassment. He dropped his gaze, ashamed of how raw his words had been. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice small. “That’s right. This is stupid. Sorry—”

But Haibara’s voice cut in before he could bury the conversation. “No.” Her tone softened, just enough to make him look at her again. “I’m not telling you to stop,” she clarified. “I just don’t want you to expect me to give you a solution to your problem. I can’t promise that. But—” she paused, her eyes meeting his with an honesty that took him aback, “if you think that just talking about it will make you feel better… then I’ll listen.”

Conan’s breath caught, his chest tightening in a way he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t thought she’d offer. But that was Haibara—blunt and perceptive, but always quietly reliable.

He nodded, once, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

She gave him a small, expectant look, and he felt the dam break just a little more. “It’s just… the way I cling to her,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “I want to keep her home sometimes. Just… just to keep her safe. And that day, before leaving for school, I practically begged her to let me walk her there and back. She always smiles at me like I’m a little kid. But I know I’m—” His voice faltered, his hands balling into fists. “I know I’m smothering her. I wanted to watch her all the time. Every second.”

Silence settled again, thick but not uncomfortable. Haibara’s eyes never left his face, her expression unreadable. Conan’s mind was a whirlwind of guilt and confusion. 

And then the memory struck him like a blade to the chest: Ran’s face that day when she’d been walking home, alone, after parting ways with Sonoko. The look she’d worn—relieved, free, like a bird with a moment to breathe.

His voice dropped, a raw whisper. “Did I do that?” he asked, not needing to explain.

Haibara didn’t speak right away. She looked at him, and he knew she understood.

That day, Haibara had gazed at him as if trying to read his expression, trying to gauge his reaction. She'd seen the look on Ran's face too. And she knew that it had bothered him. 

At last, she answered, her tone blunt but tinged with something gentler than usual. “I’m sure you’re not the only one,” she said. “What she’s going through is… huge, Kudo-kun. The changes are sudden, enormous. Of course she’s overwhelmed. But it’s not just you.” She shifted slightly, her eyes softening as she spoke. “And knowing her… it’s not because she’s sick of the attention. Don’t you think,” she continued, voice dropping lower, “it’s not herself she’s trying to free?”

Conan’s breath hitched. He stared at her, eyes wide, as the truth unfolded in his mind. Ran hadn’t been trying to escape him. She’d been trying to give him—and everyone who loved her—a kind of freedom from the worry, from the burden. She’d been trying to protect him even now.

He'd been really worried that his overprotectiveness had been too much, too suffocating. That he'd been making Ran feel like she was being shackled and caged. But... 

His chest ached with the realization. This was Ran—strong, thoughtful, selfless Ran. 

He couldn’t find the words. But the look he gave Haibara—somewhere between gratitude and understanding—spoke for itself. He'd been enlightened. The doors had been opened for him to see past his emotions. 

She smiled faintly, took a sip of her tea, and regarded him with that calm, measured gaze that made her seem like her original, older self.

For a moment, Conan wondered if this was what talking to a counselor felt like—except, of course, it wasn’t a counselor’s office at all. It was Agasa’s living room, the faint scent of solder and tea in the air, a cluttered workbench just out of sight. Haibara wasn’t a therapist, but she was a confidant in the best sense of the word.

A moment later, Agasa himself bustled in from the other room, holding up a small, sleek device that glinted in the morning light.

“Here it is,” he said proudly. “A new bronchodilator inhaler, lighter and more efficient, perfect for her dry cough. Make sure Ran-kun’s doctor signs off on it, though.”

Conan accepted it reverently, eyes bright with hope and gratitude. “Thanks, Professor,” he said, his voice steadier now. Then he turned to Haibara, adding softly, “And… thanks. For listening.”

She shrugged, a small, almost teasing smile on her lips. “Just don’t get too sappy on me, Kudo-kun.”

Conan chuckled, the sound lighter than it had been in days. He pocketed the inhaler, thanked them both again, and headed for the door. His steps felt lighter now, the burden eased, and with each one he took, he felt closer to seeing Ran with a much fresher mindset. 

She was not just someone to protect, but someone he could stand beside, stronger and braver than before.

The morning went as smoothly as Conan had wished—almost suspiciously so, like a day that couldn’t possibly end badly. The sun had been shining through the living room window with a soft, golden glow, and for once, there hadn’t been any interruptions. Just the kind of quiet that most kids would probably find boring.

But Conan clung to it like a lifeline.

He carried his good mood through the rest of the day, buoyed by the conversation he’d had earlier that morning. Talking—really talking—had helped. It hadn’t solved anything, of course.

He’d only managed to share a fraction of what he was truly carrying. The heaviest burdens, the darkest worries—those were still locked away, too raw, too dangerous to let loose. Those were his undoing, and he’d like to keep them to himself for as long as he could. If he let them slip, if he let himself become completely vulnerable, he didn’t know if he’d be able to pick himself up again.

Those were the thoughts that made his chest tighten at night, when the world was quiet and his mind was too loud.

He remembered something Hattori had told him not too long ago. He'd told him not bottle it in, to talk when he needed to. Hattori’s voice had been stern but tinged with worry—a worry that Conan found himself appreciating more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Hattori had been messaging him frequently lately, checking on Ran’s condition, on his condition. Always asking if he was okay, if Ran was okay. It annoyed him, sometimes, but he also felt a spark of something warm every time the messages came in.

It was good to have him—another confidant, a friend. But he’d never say that out loud. Not yet. Maybe, someday, he’d talk to Hattori, really talk.

For now, it was enough to know that he wasn’t completely alone.

He found himself in the living room of the Mouri home, seated cross-legged on the floor with a battered old game console plugged into the TV. It was one of those ancient systems, the kind that required cartridges to be cleaned with a desperate blow of air when they didn’t load properly.

Conan liked these games because they were straightforward—no complicated graphics, no voice chat, no online rankings. Just pure challenge and skill—or, in his case, pure frustration. Mitsuhiko wouldn’t be able to comment on my incompetence with these, Conan thought wryly. The thought brought a half-smile to his face.

The day was relatively peaceful, or at least as normal as it could get. Ran and Eri were in the kitchen, voices blending together in that familiar mother-daughter harmony that filled the house with a kind of warmth Conan didn’t think he’d ever get tired of. Kogoro was probably in his office downstairs, working on a case.

Lately, Kogoro had been uncharacteristically diligent with his work, taking on every case that came his way without complaint. Gone were the days when he only accepted the glamorous ones, the ones that fit the persona of “The Great Detective Mouri Kogoro.”

Now, he worked hard, every day. Conan didn’t go with him anymore; he refused to leave Ran’s side for a long period of time. But he had no doubt that Kogoro could manage on his own—he was still a detective, after all. And if he chose to get serious, Conan knew he could be great.

Conan’s fingers worked the controller with practiced ease, even as his mind wandered. Half of his attention drifted toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of laughter and casual chatter.

Ran’s voice, bright and melodic, rose above the hum of kitchen utensils. She was telling Eri about a movie she wanted to see—something Conan had heard about but hadn’t given much thought to. Eri’s voice was soft, humming in agreement, and she was saying that next time they could watch it together.

The sense of normalcy they’d tried to incorporate into their daily lives had become almost automatic. Like breathing. They’d all learned how to pretend—how to make the days feel just a little more like before.

But for Conan, no matter how hard he tried, that sense of normalcy still felt unnatural sometimes. Like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit, no matter how you turned it.

He didn’t know what they were cooking, but suddenly, Ran’s laughter burst out—a clear, bright sound that hit him like a wave of warmth. He glanced toward the kitchen, his heart catching in his chest. Eri was apparently the one doing most of the cooking, and Ran was supervising—or maybe just there to laugh, if the tone of her voice was anything to go by.

Conan could picture it perfectly: Ran leaning against the counter, Eri fumbling with some kitchen utensil, both of them sharing an easy, unguarded moment that felt… safe.

He let the controller rest in his lap, listening. Eri was talking, but Conan couldn’t catch every word. Then Ran’s voice lifted above the conversation. “Oh, right,” she said, that spark of sudden inspiration in her tone. “Why don’t I teach you a recipe, Mom?”

Eri’s voice sounded distracted, probably focused on whatever culinary challenge she was facing. “A recipe?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Ran replied. “Like… like a proper recipe for a beef stew.”

Conan’s brow arched in surprise. Beef stew? That was… oddly specific.

Eri let out a soft laugh, a touch of pride in her voice. “I’ll have you know, beef stew is my specialty.”

Ran’s laugh came quick and bright, the sound filling the space like sunshine. “Yeah, but we both know it’s bad enough to make Dad—and even Conan-kun—run away.”

Conan let out a quiet chuckle despite himself. He’d never forget that one time Eri had tried to impress them all with her cooking skills—and failed so spectacularly that Kogoro had pretended to be on a diet, and even Conan had tried to disappear under the table.

Eri turned quiet, and he could almost see her giving Ran a playful glare before she finally said, “Yeah, that’s right. Even Goro-chan runs away when he smells it.”

Ran’s laughter rang out again, and Conan felt it like a balm to his frayed heart. But then, like a shadow slipping across the sun, her laughter caught in her throat, turning a little raspy as she coughed. They all ignored it—he’d learned that routine by now, the way she waved off the coughs and shortness of breath as if they were nothing. He’d learned to pretend, too.

Eri’s voice cut through the moment, curious and a little suspicious. “Why all of a sudden?”

Ran paused—a long, deliberate pause that made Conan’s skin crawl with anticipation. He felt the dread settle in his chest like a weight.

She was going to say something again—something that sounded normal but carried a meaning that hit like a knife to the gut.

“Oh, you know,” Ran said, her tone light but too casual, too deliberate. “For the times you and Dad are back together... and you’re the one who’ll cook his meals.”

Conan stopped breathing. His fingers went slack on the controller, his eyes fixed on the floor, unseeing. He imagined Eri’s face—surprised, maybe even stricken.

It was too quiet for a moment, and Conan was right to be anxious.

Eri cleared her throat, her tone slightly different—gentler, but strained. “Ran… it’s too early.”

Ran’s reply came small, almost childlike, but with that same iron will Conan had come to both admire and fear. “Come on, Mom. It’s never too early to be prepared.”

Conan felt his heart shatter all over again.

Ran…

She’d been doing this more and more lately—dropping comments like that, words with double meanings that weighed too heavy for anyone to carry. Preparing them, piece by piece, for a world without her in it.

When she’d done it to Kogoro, he’d gotten angry—told her not to talk like that, not to give up. But Ran hadn’t backed down. There was a determination in her eyes that none of them could ignore.

She was right, of course—someone had to face the truth. And she’d decided it was her.

Conan wondered if he could get away with saying he had a toothache if they found him crying right now. But they’d all seen too much. They all knew he wasn’t just a child anymore—he’d shed too many layers of his masks after Ran’s diagnosis. He’d let them see him serious, let them see him scared. No one would buy his excuses now. Not even Ran, who always saw straight through him.

He was just glad she hadn’t singled him out—hadn’t looked him in the eye and said something meant just for him. If she did, he might just break right there. Might just cry in her face and let every secret spill out. And he couldn’t afford that. Not yet.

So instead, he pressed his lips together, took a steadying breath, and gripped the controller again, eyes fixed on the screen. The game was paused, the pixelated hero frozen in time, oblivious to the weight Conan carried.

Outside the game, life continued on—like it always had—but Conan’s heart ached in ways he couldn’t begin to describe. And still, he tried to be strong. For her. For them all.

Lunch turned out to be curry rice.

Originally, it was supposed to be nikujaga, but Eri had apparently forgotten to add the soy sauce at the beginning—the key step to letting the beef and potatoes stew properly.

She’d sighed in mild frustration, muttering something about her memory slipping, and then pivoted to curry, improvising with the ingredients she already had. Ran had laughed at that, recalling with a gentle smile how she and Kazuha had made the same mistake once, turning their nikujaga into curry instead.

It was a small, bright memory, and Conan found himself smiling, too, even though his chest ached at how precious each of these moments felt now.

They were all at the table now, eating the curry, warm and a little too peppery, but comforting in its own way. Conan’s spoon clinked softly against his plate, the sound punctuating the quiet, domestic noises—the shuffle of chopsticks, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional sigh from Kogoro as he hunched over his meal.

But despite the relative normalcy of the scene, Conan could feel Ran’s gaze on him, lingering, thoughtful. He didn’t need to look up to know.

There was a particular weight to her stare these days—heavy, contemplative, like she was memorizing his face. Still, he looked up anyway, met her eyes, and saw that she’d stopped eating. Her spoon was resting on the table, abandoned.

“Are you done eating, Ran-neechan?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Ran smiled at him, soft and a little tired. “Yeah,” she said gently.

Eri, whose tone held a delicate balance of concern and reprimand, spoke up next. “Ran, you’ve hardly eaten at all.” Her voice was calm but carried the weight of too many sleepless nights.

Ran’s smile stayed in place, practiced and bright, as she waved a hand dismissively. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m already full. I’ll eat a snack later.”

Conan forced a small grin. But inside, worry gnawed at his heart. Ran’s appetite had been fading for a while now, one of the many things Dr. Araide and Dr. Sakamoto had warned them about.

It was different seeing it firsthand, though—her portion growing smaller, her once healthy glow fading. He’d overheard her telling Eri in hushed tones the other night that most of her clothes were getting too loose now. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—he’d just happened to pass by her room—but that conversation had lodged itself in his mind like a thorn.

Trying to keep things light, Conan piped up, “The curry is really good, Ran-neechan. You should eat a bit more.” He put on his best grin, the one he used for cheering her up at times like this.

Ran’s eyes softened as she looked at him—like she saw straight through his mask—and she didn’t pick up her spoon. She simply smiled, almost apologetic, and Conan’s chest felt heavy all over again.

Kogoro, perhaps feeling the weight in the air too, cleared his throat and spoke, his voice gruff but with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “Ran, you should go with Sonoko to that Beika Hotel cake buffet again. Eat lots of sweets.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but Conan could hear the underlying worry in his voice.

Ran’s eyes lit up with genuine delight, and she laughed—light and soft, that ring of sound that made Conan’s heart both soar and ache. “Yeah, that sounds like fun. I’ll ask Sonoko when she’s free.”

They continued eating—or at least, Conan and the adults did, while Ran mostly pushed her rice around on her plate. When they’d finished, Ran sat back, hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression thoughtful.

She turned her attention to her parents, her voice casual but with that deliberate edge that Conan had learned to recognize. “So, what’s your schedule like today, Mom? Dad?”

Conan frowned faintly. Ran wasn’t just making conversation—she was fishing for something. Or maybe letting him overhear, like she’d done before.

Eri put her chopsticks down and smoothed her napkin on her lap. “I’m heading to my office. I have a trial the day after tomorrow, and I need to prepare my materials,” she said, sounding brisk and professional, but Conan noticed her eyes soften just a little when she looked at Ran.

Kogoro grunted as he folded his arms across his chest. “Got a small case in Shinjuku. Nothing complicated, but I’ll probably be out most of the day.”

His tone was almost dismissive, but Conan knew better. Kogoro had been taking every case that came his way lately, probably as a distraction—and a way to keep the house from feeling too quiet.

Ran turned her gaze to Conan then, and the shift in her expression made his stomach twist. “Conan-kun,” she said, her voice bright but carrying a certain weight, “why don’t we go to the hospital today?”

Conan blinked. “Are you feeling unwell?” he asked quickly, worry spiking.

Ran shook her head lightly, the smile never leaving her face. “No, nothing like that,” she said gently. “I just thought we should have Dr. Sakamoto approve the bronchodilator inhaler you brought home earlier.”

Conan exhaled a small breath of relief, though the tension didn’t completely leave him. “I can do that alone,” he offered quickly, hoping to spare her the strain. “You can stay home and rest.”

Ran’s eyes widened just a fraction, as if she were genuinely surprised by his offer. “You’re going to leave me home alone?” she teased lightly, but there was a soft, pleading note behind her smile.

Conan was quick to backtrack, heat rushing to his face. “No! I mean—of course not! I’ll stay,” he stammered. Then he added, more quietly, “I can do it some other day.”

Ran shook her head, her smile tinged with that determined edge that both comforted and terrified him. “But what if I need it soon?” she asked, and her voice was so gentle, so full of quiet urgency, that Conan felt his heart skip a beat.

He looked at her, completely torn. “What… what do you want to do, Ran-neechan?” he asked softly.

Ran’s grin widened—big and bright and mischievous, like the old days—and she leaned forward just a bit.

“We should go today,” she said, the words light on her lips, but carrying a weight that made Conan’s chest ache.

Ran turned to Eri, who was in the middle of clearing the table, and asked if it was okay.

Eri paused, her eyes soft and searching. “If you think you can make it, then it’s alright,” she said, her tone carefully balanced between concern and reluctant acceptance. Then, more firmly, she added, “But promise me you’ll be honest, Ran. If you get tired, you’ll say so.”

Ran beamed, that determined spark in her eyes again. “Of course,” she said brightly. “I promise.”

Conan frowned, worry bubbling up in his chest. “Are you sure, Ran-neechan? It might be too much—”

Ran’s smile turned gentle as she looked at him, the same way she might look at a small child who didn’t quite understand. “Conan-kun,” she said softly, her voice coaxing and patient, “it’s been a while since we’ve gone out, just the two of us. It’ll be like a date.”

A date. 

Despite himself, Conan's face flamed in embarrassment and anticipation, and he tried to sputter a protest, but the words tangled in his throat.

Ran’s big, pleading eyes were focused on him—eyes that had seen too much pain and yet still shone with a fierce light—and he felt himself give in.

Pink flooding his cheeks, Conan muttered, “O-okay.” He couldn’t bear to disappoint her. It was only a play on words — a date with Conan — but if she wanted a date, then he’d give her one. 

Ran’s smile turned radiant, and she clapped her hands together softly. “Great! Let’s get ready then,” she said, pushing herself up from her chair and heading to her room.

Conan sat there for a moment, still stunned by the word “date,” before he felt a rough hand clap his shoulder. He turned and saw Kogoro looking at him, eyes serious in a way that made Conan sit up straighter.

“Take care of Ran,” Kogoro said, his tone low but firm. “Make sure you take the taxi on your way there. If Ran insists on walking or taking the bus, tell her you have money for the fare.” Then Kogoro pressed some folded bills into Conan’s small hand. “And don’t let her push herself too hard.”

Conan nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I will,” he said, his voice stronger than he felt.

He noticed the worry lines etched deeply into Kogoro’s face now, lines that seemed to have carved themselves there permanently. Lately, Kogoro had been relying on him more, trusting him with Ran in ways Conan had never expected.

It was both an honor and a burden, one that pressed down on him with every breath. And yet, he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to take it. 

When Ran emerged from her room with her bag—heavier than usual—Conan immediately stopped her. “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “What’s in your bag, Ran-neechan?”

Ran blinked, surprised. “Oh, just… some essentials,” she said with a small laugh. “I’m prepared for the day.”

Conan took the bag from her gently, feeling the weight of it, and frowned.

“It’s too heavy,” he said. He rummaged through the bag, removing the water bottle, the nebulizer, and a folding umbrella, transferring them to his own small backpack. He left the wallet, phone, handkerchief, and a small medicine case with her. Satisfied, he handed the much lighter bag back to her.

Ran watched him, her eyes soft and fond, but she didn’t say anything. She simply accepted the bag and thanked him, her smile tinged with that same quiet determination that both broke and strengthened his heart.

As they headed toward the stairs, Ran paused at the top step and looked back at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Aren’t you going to hold my hand, Conan-kun?” she teased lightly.

Conan flushed, surprised by the question. Kogoro had installed a non-slip tread and an extra handrail to make the stairs safer, but that didn’t erase Conan’s worry.

He stepped forward, his small hand reaching for hers, and grasped it tightly as they descended.

At the bottom, Ran suddenly squeezed his hand. Alarm shot through him—was she breathless? Had she felt dizzy? But when he looked up, he saw her smiling down at him, her eyes full of an apology he didn’t quite understand.

“I’m sorry about the past few days, Conan-kun,” she said softly.

He blinked in confusion. “Huh? What are you talking about, Ran-neechan?”

Ran’s smile trembled slightly as she explained, “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” Her voice was quiet, but the guilt in her tone was unmistakable. "You've been in a mood lately, aren't you?" 

Conan felt a pang in his chest as he realized what she meant. His own worry and grim moods had probably bled through, and Ran had noticed. She’d seen right through him, and she thought it was her fault.

There was worry, of course, that was perpetual now. Sadness too, and fear. But Conan thought that the one Ran was referring to this time was his sullenness. 

When Ran was pulling away, when she was trying to give him 'freedom', Conan had felt morose, brooding, like having a withdrawal symptoms of some addiction. 

Because he didn't need freedom from her, he didn't want to be apart from her. 

He thought he'd hidden it well, but... apparently not. 

Was that why she’d been looking at him like that lately? Was that why she’d asked him to come out today? 

He opened his mouth, wanting to tell her it was okay, that he'd been sulking by himself, and that none of that was her fault. But the words tangled in his throat.

He couldn't express himself well without giving away too much. So instead, he squeezed her hand back, his grip small but steady, and smiled. “I’m looking forward to today, Ran-neechan,” he said.

Her smile brightened, warm and grateful, and Conan felt his heart lift, just a little, as they stepped out into the sunlit street together.

When they arrived at the hospital, Ran looked a little tired but determined. Conan held her hand as they walked through the bright, sterile corridors.

He noticed her small, careful steps, the way her other hand gripped her lighter bag—a sign of how much thought she’d put into this trip. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights filled the space between them.

When they reached Dr. Sakamoto’s office, a handwritten sign on the door said, “Out until 3 p.m.” Ran’s smile wavered, but she didn’t seem too disappointed.

Instead, she glanced at Conan and said, “Let’s try Dr. Araide’s office, okay?” Her voice was soft, hopeful. Conan nodded.

They walked down the hall and found Dr. Araide’s door open. Conan knocked lightly and poked his head in. “Excuse me, Araide-sensei?”

Araide turned from his desk with a warm smile. “Ah, Conan-kun! Ran-san! Come in.”

They stepped inside the familiar office. Araide wore his usual white coat, sleeves rolled up a little, a stethoscope draped around his neck. His expression, as always, was kind and patient. Conan could tell Ran relaxed just a bit more in his presence.

“Sorry to bother you,” Conan said. “We were hoping to have Dr. Sakamoto check this bronchodilator inhaler.” He pulled the small device from his backpack and handed it to Araide.

Araide took the inhaler and examined it carefully, turning it over in his hands. It was a compact, lightweight device with a bright yellow base and a smooth plastic casing designed by Professor Agasa, featuring a small built-in dose counter and a twist-lock mechanism.

“Professor Agasa really knows his way around making things user-friendly,” Araide said with a small smile. “The nebuliser you have, the one that is also custom made by the professor, is portable and can be used in emergencies, right? This inhaler however, is designed to deliver a measured dose of medication—specifically, a bronchodilator. Its main function is to open up the airways in your lungs, making it easier for you to breathe when you’re experiencing shortness of breath or a tight chest.”

He looked at Ran, his expression gentle but serious. “Basically, Ran-san, this inhaler works by relaxing the smooth muscles around your airways. When you inhale the medication, it helps reduce that tight feeling in your chest and allows air to flow more freely. You’ll usually notice it working within a few minutes.”

Ran nodded slowly, her brows furrowed in concentration.

Araide continued, “You should use this inhaler if you start feeling breathless—like during mild exertion, climbing stairs, or if you get that familiar tightness in your chest that sometimes happens with your condition. Don’t wait too long. At the first sign of those symptoms, that’s when you take a puff. I understand that Dr. Sakamoto prescribed this as a remedy for your cough?"

Ran nodded. "Yes, she did."

"Okay, good," Araide said before adding, “Of course, don’t use it too frequently. If you find yourself needing it more than a couple of times a day, or if it doesn’t seem to help, that could be a sign your condition is getting worse, and you need to let us know immediately.”

Ran’s eyes were wide, focused on every word. “Okay,” she said softly. “I understand.”

“Good.” Araide smiled encouragingly. “And remember: always keep it with you. Check the dose counter regularly so you don’t run out, and keep the mouthpiece clean.”

Conan watched the exchange, feeling a pang of relief that Ran was listening so attentively. Even though the reminder of her condition tugged at him, he was grateful that Araide had explained it so clearly—and kindly.

Araide nodded, then his eyes softened. “By the way, Ran-san, how are your classmates treating you these days?” he asked, his tone casual but kind.

Conan watched Ran hesitate, just for a second. “It’s... slow,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “They’re... trying, I guess. It’s just that sometimes it’s a little awkward. I know they mean well, but...”

Araide leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing lightly. “Well, let me tell you a secret,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. Conan felt his curiosity sharpen, and Ran’s eyes widened, her shoulders tensing in anticipation.

“What is it?” Ran asked.

Araide’s eyes twinkled. “Your classmates—especially your homeroom group—have been coming to me for advice on how to make school easier for you.”

Ran’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Conan’s own eyes widened, too. “They have?” Ran asked, disbelief and wonder in her voice.

Araide chuckled. “Yes. They’ve been asking about things like which scents might bother you, or what to do about chalk dust. They asked me how to keep the air clean, how to arrange the desks so you’d have space if you needed it. They even asked me what cleaning supplies to use so it wouldn’t be too strong for you.”

Ran’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide and glossy. “I... I didn’t know that,” she whispered. “I thought they were just... avoiding me.”

Araide’s expression was gentle. “I think they're doing it unintentionally. Some of them are shy, or afraid of making a mistake, so they try to help in ways you might not even notice.” He leaned back slightly, his voice warm. “Did you notice there haven’t been any strong scents in the classroom lately? The blackboard is always clean, the desks wiped down carefully.”

Ran blinked, thinking. “I... I did notice that,” she said. “I just thought it was... normal.”

Araide smiled. “That’s them. They’re clumsy about it, but they really care. So don’t think you’re alone, okay? You’re not. You’ve got your friends—and your classmates—behind you. Always.”

Ran pressed her lips together, her eyes shimmering. “Thank you, Araide-sensei,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Conan felt a warmth bloom in his chest at Araide’s words. He watched Ran’s expression, saw how the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease just a bit.

It made him feel grateful too, knowing that even the small gestures—like wiping the desks or opening a window—were their way of caring for Ran.

Araide gave them both a warm smile. “You’re both doing great,” he said. “And if you need anything at all, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you so much,” Ran said, bowing her head, her voice stronger now. Conan echoed the sentiment, nodding his thanks.

They left Dr. Araide’s office a little lighter than when they came in. Ran was still smiling, her eyes thoughtful but softer, no doubt replaying Araide’s words in her mind.

As they walked down the hall, she looked at Conan. “Conan-kun,” she said, voice bright again. “Let's stop by the shopping center, okay?”

Conan hesitated, wanting to say they should go home and let her rest, but then he saw the spark in her eyes—the spark that had returned after hearing about her classmates. He didn’t want to extinguish that spark.

“Okay,” he said, giving her a small smile. “Let’s go.”

Ran grinned at him, her eyes shining, and Conan felt his own heart lighten just a bit. 

Just as they stepped into the bustling shopping district, the air changed—filled with laughter, the scents of sweet crepes and grilled squid, the bright colors of storefronts beckoning eager shoppers.

Conan’s eyes scanned the crowd, noting the vibrant atmosphere and the steady stream of people weaving through the open-air lanes.

His gaze landed on a small rest stop nestled beside a cluster of food stalls—a patchwork of tables and chairs under large, multicolored umbrellas. Families sat there enjoying snacks, while others simply paused to catch their breath.

Conan’s mind made a quick calculation. Perfect. He didn’t waste a second.

Wordlessly, he reached for Ran’s hand and gave it a gentle tug, guiding her toward one of the empty tables.

“Conan-kun?” Ran called, a small frown on her face, half-worried, half-curious.

He didn’t answer, just guided her to a seat, his small hand firm but kind. Once she was settled, he rummaged through his backpack with determined efficiency—like a tiny butler on a mission. Out came the mini battery fan—Professor Agasa’s trusty little device—and he placed it carefully on the table in front of her. He flicked it on, the soft whir of the blades immediately cooling the air.

Ran blinked, a half-laugh stuck in her throat as she watched him fuss over her.

But Conan wasn’t done yet. He snatched up her water bottle, twisted the cap with practiced hands, and held it out to her. “Here,” he said simply.

Ran’s expression softened, a blend of confusion and amusement written across her face. Conan was all seriousness, his brows furrowed like he was solving a case, determined to take care of her whether she liked it or not.

She sighed—defeated, but in that fond way that only Ran could muster—and accepted the bottle. “Thank you, Conan-kun,” she said, her voice gentle, her smile small but genuine.

Conan settled into the seat next to her, scanning the crowd, half-focused on the way Ran’s shoulders relaxed as the fan gently cooled her.

The day was warm, the sky streaked with a few wandering clouds. A perfect day, but the crowds were thick, and he could already see how overwhelming it might be for her.

Navigating these crowds was going to be a challenge. If Ran wanted to wander, they’d need to take breaks often to avoid her getting too tired.

His gaze drifted back to Ran, who seemed to be enjoying the gentle breeze from the fan. Before he could say anything, though, she spoke. “Is there somewhere you want to go, Conan-kun?” she asked, probably assuming he was scoping out a toy store or a detective-themed café.

He was about to answer—no, not really—when a high-pitched voice called out, “It's Conan-kun!”

He turned, half-startled, only to find Ayumi waving at them, practically bouncing on her feet, with Mitsuhiko and Genta close behind her. Behind them—arms crossed and watching them like a silent little guardian—stood Haibara, her calm eyes taking in the scene.

The trio rushed toward them, faces bright. “Ran-oneesan too!” Ayumi beamed.

Ran’s smile bloomed like sunshine. “Ayumi-chan, Mitsuhiko-kun, Genta-kun—hello!” she greeted, her voice warm and affectionate. Then, noticing Haibara lingering a few steps behind, she added with equal warmth, “Ai-chan too, hello.”

Haibara gave a small, cool wave, but Conan—ever the detective—noticed the hint of softness in her eyes.

Ayumi’s smile shifted to worry. “Ran-oneesan, are you feeling better today?” she asked, voice small but sincere.

Mitsuhiko leaned in, studying her face like a pint-sized doctor. “You still look a bit sick though,” he observed, frowning slightly.

“Yeah!” Genta said, his hands on his hips. “Are ya okay?”

Ran blinked, caught off guard by their concern. She glanced at Conan, a silent question in her eyes, and Conan shifted in his seat, suddenly wishing he’d explained more.

Ran turned back to them, her smile returning. “I’m still a bit sick, but I’m okay right now,” she assured, her voice steady.

Conan’s chest tightened at that. He knew exactly what those words meant—okay right now was a fragile thing, balanced on a knife’s edge. But he swallowed the worry and looked at the kids instead.

“You guys,” he said, trying to sound casual, “what are you doing here anyway?”

Ayumi’s eyes lit up again. “We’re here for the opening of the new Kamen Yaiba store!” she declared, practically bouncing on her toes.

“Yeah!” Mitsuhiko added, leaning over slightly. “We even invited you, remember? But you said you couldn’t come.”

Genta crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. “But now you’re here after all—just not with us.”

Conan winced inwardly, memories clicking into place. Right—that was today.

He sighed. “That’s not it,” he tried to explain. “I’m not here for that.”

Ran watched the exchange with a soft smile, and Conan tensed, half-expecting her to tell him he should go with them instead. He was prepared to refuse—no way was he leaving her alone in a crowded shopping center—but he didn’t want Ran to say that.

But then Ran surprised him. She turned to the kids and said with a playful glint in her eye, “Sorry, guys, but Conan-kun promised me a date today, so he can’t go with you.”

Conan immediately blushed hearing that word again. And as he turned to see the kids' reactions, he found them, sans Ayumi, grinning at him, eyes alight with teasing glee, just as he expected. 

Even Haibara was looking at him with knowing eyes, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. 

Conan’s face flamed even hotter. “I-it’s not like that!” he protested, but his voice only made them giggle harder.

Then, thankfully, Haibara felt he'd had enough of the teasing from the kids and coaxed the three to go. “Come on, you guys,” she said, her voice cool but tinged with amusement. “The opening’s going to start soon. Let’s leave Edogawa-kun to his… date.”

Her tone made Conan bristle, but he was grateful nonetheless. Mitsuhiko and Genta giggled at each other as Ayumi bid them goodbye. “Bye, Conan-kun! Bye, Ran-oneesan!"

Before they disappeared into the crowd, Ayumi turned back and rummaged through her little bag, her eyes shining with purpose.

“Ah! I almost forgot!” she said, producing a small envelope decorated with colorful stickers. “Ran-oneesan, this is for you. I’m glad I put it in my bag today, even though I didn’t think we’d see you!”

She held it out with both hands, eyes bright and earnest. “Please get well soon, okay?”

Ran blinked, her eyes glistening, lips trembling with a tender smile. “Thank you, Ayumi-chan,” she said softly, voice catching just a little.

Genta, gruff as ever, chimed in. “Yeah, get well soon, Ran-oneechan!”

Mitsuhiko nodded vigorously. “We’re all cheering for you, Ran-san.”

Ran’s smile grew, and she thanked them both just as warmly.

Haibara lingered behind them, her eyes meeting Ran’s, soft but steady. “Take care,” she said, her voice quiet, but there was an unmistakable warmth there—something Conan felt deep in his chest.

Ran’s smile, already glowing, turned even gentler. “Thank you, Ai-chan,” she replied, her voice bright with gratitude.

As the kids finally disappeared into the crowd, Conan watched Ran carefully open the small envelope, her fingers trembling slightly. Inside was a handmade card—colorful, with Ayumi’s neat, childish handwriting and a drawing of Kamen Yaiba giving a thumbs-up. Ran’s eyes misted over, her lips parting in a soft, trembling smile.

Conan let out a small sigh, a smile curling at his lips too. The kids’ sweet, innocent gestures had stacked up like building blocks today—Professor Agasa’s inhaler, Araide’s reassurance, Ayumi’s card—all of them culminating in that smile on Ran’s face.

Then—like a light flickering on—he remembered something from lunch. I'll eat a snack later, she'd said that to Eri. 

He turned his head, eyes scanning the row of food stalls just across from where they sat. The air was thick with the smell of grilled squid and sweet red bean paste, but his eyes locked onto the crepe stand. The line that had snaked through the crowd before was now manageable—only a handful of customers.

He turned to Ran, his voice bright, almost casual. “Ran-neechan,” he said, “you said you wanted to eat a snack, didn’t you? Should we buy a crepe?”

His words came out like a suggestion more than a question, but he watched her carefully, hoping she’d say yes.

Ran blinked and followed his gaze to the crepe stall, then let out a soft, surprised laugh. “A crepe sounds nice,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I’d like that.”

She started to stand, but Conan was quicker—he reached out a small hand to her shoulder, halting her before she could even push herself up. “No,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “I’ll go. Just sit here and rest, okay?”

Ran opened her mouth to protest, but Conan was already up and moving, his small feet carrying him across the warm pavement. He could almost hear her sigh of exasperation behind him—he’d heard it a hundred times before—but he didn’t look back.

At the crepe stand, the smell of freshly grilled batter and sweet cream filled the air. The vendor—a kindly woman with laugh lines—smiled at him as he approached. “What’ll it be, kiddo?”

Conan scanned the menu quickly, his mind focused. Ran needs something with fresh fruit—something with nutrients. He pointed decisively. “One fruit cream crepe, please. And… one choco banana.”

The woman grinned. “Good choices. That’ll be just a minute.”

He watched her work, carefully folding the crepes and filling them with cream, fruit, and chocolate for his. The portions weren’t too big—he thought with relief that Ran should be able to finish hers without too much trouble.

He paid, thanked her, and carefully carried the two crepes back toward the table. His small hands balanced the delicate paper wrappers like precious cargo.

“Here, Ran-neechan,” he said, his voice bright but a little breathless.

Ran’s eyes lit up as she took the fruit cream crepe from him. “Thank you, Conan-kun,” she said softly, her voice warm with gratitude.

They unwrapped their crepes and began to eat, the soft hum of the fan carrying a sweet, comforting breeze between them.

Conan watched her closely, his own crepe forgotten for a moment as he noticed the way she took small, careful bites—no sign of hesitation, no sign of nausea or pain. Just Ran, enjoying her food.

His heart lifted, glad that her appetite wasn't protesting this time. 

He took a bite of his own crepe, the chocolate and banana sweet on his tongue, but his eyes never left her.

Ran paused between bites and met his gaze, her smile gentle and bright. Then she set her crepe down for a moment, reached into her bag, and pulled out a soft, neatly folded handkerchief. With a sisterly little huff of amusement, she reached across the table and dabbed at his cheek.

“Cream’s getting on your cheek, Conan-kun,” she teased, her voice light, her eyes sparkling.

Conan’s face went red. “A-ah, th-thanks,” he stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. His heart fluttered like a trapped bird, her simple, caring gesture sending a warmth through his chest that he didn’t quite know how to name.

They finished their crepes slowly, the conversation drifting from the food to the sights around them—clothing stalls, toy shops, the bright banners advertising summer sales.

Conan gathered their wrappers and stood, carefully folding them before tossing them into the nearby trash bin. He took a moment to steady himself, brushing off the emotions that always came with these small, perfect moments.

When he returned to the table, Ran was already standing, her smile gentle but determined. “Let’s go for a walk,” she said.

Conan hesitated, his eyes searching hers. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice quiet but serious.

Ran paused, her brows furrowing just slightly. She took a slow breath in, closing her eyes as if checking every corner of herself. Then she exhaled and opened her eyes, her smile bright but steady. “I’m okay, Conan-kun,” she said, her voice calm and warm.

Conan let out a small sigh, relief washing over him. She wasn’t brushing him off. She was actually taking the time to check. That was all he could ask for.

“Okay,” he said, and a small smile touched his lips. “Let’s go.”

They wandered the shopping arcade, weaving between the dwindling crowds until they found themselves at a small clothing shop, its entrance tucked away between a pharmacy and a shoe store. The shop was nearly empty, the air inside cool and quiet—a welcome break from the noise outside.

Conan followed Ran inside, his small feet pattering softly on the linoleum floor. At first, he thought she might be looking for clothes, but she bypassed the racks without a glance. Instead, she guided him straight to the back wall, where scarves and mufflers hung in neat, colorful rows.

“Autumn’s coming,” Ran murmured, her fingers trailing lightly over the soft fabrics. “I want to get something for Mom and Dad.”

Conan’s heart ached at the gentle, wistful tone in her voice. He stood a little straighter, determined to help however he could.

She started picking through the scarves, her eyes focused but distant. Conan’s own eyes softened as he watched her—a small ache settling in his chest.

She paused over a dark gray muffler, her fingers curling around the fabric as she spoke, her voice low and tinged with sadness. “I want to find something they can use… when it’s only just the two of them.”

Conan’s chest tightened. There she goes again, he thought, that ache turning into a sharp pain. Thinking about leaving them behind.

He forced himself to smile, determined to keep the mood light. “You should get a pair for couples,” he said, his voice bright but a little shaky. “That way they’ll be matching.”

Ran let out a laugh that was soft but genuine, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “That’s a good idea,” she said, a smile blooming across her face. Then she turned, her eyes meeting his, bright but serious. “And then we should get another pair for us, right?”

Conan felt his breath catch in his chest, the weight of her words sinking deep. He opened his mouth to answer, his voice trembling just slightly. “Y-yeah,” he said, and his smile felt fragile but real. “Yeah, that’s right.”

They browsed the scarves together, Conan watching her every move—the way her fingers traced the fabrics, the way her eyes lingered on the brighter colors, her quiet hum of approval when she found something she liked.

Time seemed to slow, the world shrinking to just the two of them in that quiet, almost sacred space. Ran was smiling, truly smiling, and Conan felt something inside him glow with a fierce, protective love.

For a brief, fleeting second, he saw himself—his teenage self—standing beside her, taller, older, and smiling just the same as he enjoyed a date with Ran.

Shinichi and Ran. Just like it was supposed to be. If only… if only I…

The thought vanished like smoke as Ran called his name. She held up two pairs of scarves, one a soft mouse gray and the other a bright, cheerful red.

“This one’s for them,” she said, her smile a little sad but determined, holding up the gray pair. “And this one’s for us,” she said, showing him the red.

Red. Their favorite color. 

Conan felt his throat tighten, but he nodded. “They look nice,” he said softly.

Ran carried them to the counter and paid, asking the clerk to gift-wrap each pair separately. She tucked them carefully into her bag and turned to Conan, her eyes warm and bright.

She handed him one of the wrapped packages. “Here,” she said. “Keep this one for a while, okay? Open it when you need to.”

Conan took it, his small hands trembling just slightly. The implication hit him like a stone—when she’s gone, to remember her. He smothered the thought as quickly as it came, shoving it into the darkest corner of his heart.

He forced a smile—fragile but warm—and looked up at her. “Thank you, Ran-neechan,” he said, his voice thick with emotion he didn’t want to name.

She smiled back at him, eyes glistening.

As they stepped out of the clothing store, the air felt a little lighter, a quiet contentment hanging between them like a secret. Conan walked beside Ran, his small hand unconsciously brushing against the side of her skirt now and then, as if drawn by an invisible tether.

She hadn’t let go of the quiet smile she wore earlier, and for a moment, Conan wished time could freeze right here—just her and him, in this perfect simplicity.

They continued down the path, lined with small shops and kiosks, until the arcade’s bright lights caught their attention. Outside, rows of claw machines glittered with colorful prizes—stuffed toys, keychains, phone straps—each one tempting the passerby to try their luck.

Ran’s eyes sparkled as they landed on a particular claw machine, her steps quickening as she gestured towards it.

“Ah, look, Conan-kun! It’s that character we were watching the other day!” she exclaimed, pointing excitedly. The prize was a phone strap, its miniature plushie likeness peeking out from within the machine—a perfect replica of the anime they’d been following together on the evenings she felt well enough to watch.

Conan glanced at it and felt a rush of affection. Her excitement was so genuine, so pure, that it made his heart ache with fondness. “Yeah, it is,” he replied, his voice soft. Then Ran’s hand dove into her pocket, fishing out a coin with determined enthusiasm.

“Let’s try it!” she declared, her eyes sparkling. Conan couldn’t help but smile at her infectious energy, his heart lifting at her playfulness.

Ran’s fingers trembled slightly with anticipation as she slid the coin into the slot. She leaned forward, studying the claw’s position with the focus of a detective on a case. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips pursed adorably, and Conan watched, utterly captivated.

Every little shift of her expression was a treasure—he felt so close to her in that moment, like he could see all the facets of her heart shining through.

The claw descended, catching hold of the plushie, and for an instant, Ran’s face lit up with triumph. Conan’s heart leapt too—he wanted her to win, he wanted to see her victorious, even in something as small as this.

But the prize slipped from the claw’s grip, tumbling back down with a soft, mocking thud. Ran’s eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in a playful, frustrated glare at the machine.

“Hey!” she huffed, cheeks puffed out in an exaggerated pout. Conan bit his lip to stifle a laugh, finding her reaction impossibly cute. She turned back to the machine, determined, and tried again. Her small, determined frown returned, and once more the claw grasped the plushie—but again it slipped, and again it fell.

Ran let out a quiet groan, her breath fogging the glass in front of her. “Oh, come on,” she muttered under her breath, and Conan’s heart squeezed with affection. Even in these small failures, she was so endearing, so completely herself.

Undeterred, she tried a third time, her posture tense with concentration. Conan watched the claw move—he almost willed it to grab hold tightly—but once more, it slipped. Ran let out a small sigh this time, softer, almost accepting.

She stood there, a small, resigned smile on her lips as if acknowledging the futility, but her eyes were still bright with good humor.

She turned to Conan then, her expression warm and gentle. “Conan-kun, why don’t you give it a try?” she said, offering him a coin with a hopeful look.

Conan’s heart gave a little jolt. He took the coin, his fingers brushing against hers, and the contact, though fleeting, felt electric.

“Okay,” he said, his voice steady even though his heart wasn’t. He stepped forward and focused, feeling Ran’s silent encouragement radiating from beside him. Her faith in him felt like a protective shield, bolstering his confidence.

He studied the claw’s movement with the practiced precision he’d honed through countless cases—measuring angles, timing, the subtle shifts in mechanics.

With a flick of the button, the claw descended, closing around the plushie with a precision that made his own heart race. He held his breath as it lifted—once, twice—higher this time.

And then it dropped, right into the prize chute, with a satisfying clatter.

Ran’s gasp was immediate, her eyes wide with amazement. “Conan-kun, you’re amazing!” she cried, her hands clapping together. 

Even with her paler complexion and thinner cheeks, her smile was radiant, her eyes shining with pure delight. For a moment, Conan almost forgot how small he was, how trapped he felt in this child’s body. He felt like himself, like Shinichi, the one who always tried to make her smile.

Heat rose to his cheeks at her praise, but he didn’t hesitate. He reached into the prize chute and retrieved the small phone strap. Holding it out to her, he smiled softly. “For you, Ran-neechan,” he said, his voice trembling just a little with the depth of his feelings.

Ran’s eyes widened, and she blinked in surprise. “Are you sure? Conan-kun worked so hard to get it,” she protested gently, her voice tinged with worry.

Conan’s heart clenched. I worked hard for you, he thought, but instead he only managed a small, sincere smile. “It’s an exchange,” he said, his voice steady. “For the scarf you gave me earlier.”

Ran’s eyes softened, and her lips curved into the sweetest, most tender smile he had ever seen. “Thank you, Conan-kun,” she said, her voice hushed and full of gratitude. “I’ll treasure it. I really will.”

Conan’s heart felt like it might burst.

That smile. That smile I could never forget.

The same smile she’d given him all those years ago in kindergarten, the one that made him vow, even as a child, to protect her forever. That same smile that had rooted itself deep into his heart and never let go.

From the very first time she’d looked at him like that, he’d known—there was no one else for him. It was always her. Always.

How long can I hold on to this smile? 

With a perpetual ache in his chest, Conan watched as Ran held that small, silly prize in her hands like it was the most precious thing in the world. He felt a fierce, protective warmth wrap around him.

He wanted this. He wanted to see her smile like this every single day. He wanted to be the one to bring that joy to her, to protect that happiness, no matter the cost.

In that moment, he promised himself—again—that he would treasure this precious smile from the most precious girl. 

He would never stop fighting to be by her side. Because even if he was trapped in this small body, even if he couldn’t hold her hand the way he longed to, his heart would always belong to her.

Forever.

-

Chapter Text

-

“Huh? Ran-san?”

Conan’s head snapped up at the sound of the familiar voice, a slight hitch in his breath as he turned toward its source.

Detective Takagi stood near the arcade entrance, a warm but surprised smile on his face. His casual jacket seemed slightly rumpled, and his eyes were tinged with fatigue that only hinted at long hours on the job.

Conan’s eyes flickered to Ran beside him, catching the way her expression lit up at the sight of Takagi. “Takagi-keiji!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying a note of genuine happiness that always managed to put a crack in Conan’s carefully constructed walls.

Takagi’s smile grew, the lines at the corners of his eyes softening with warmth. “Oh, Conan-kun too,” he added, his tone brightening as he acknowledged him.

Before Conan could speak, another voice joined them—a voice laced with gentle authority, and a familiarity that tugged at Conan’s heart. “Ran-chan, Conan-kun, hello.”

Conan turned his head to find Detective Sato seated at one of the outdoor tables of a small café across from the arcade, half-turned in her chair.

She had one arm draped over the backrest, and her bright aura exuding even at rest. Her uniform blazer was folded neatly beside her, and the loose strands of her hair danced in the late afternoon breeze.

Ran’s smile grew even warmer, her steps naturally carrying her toward Sato’s table. “Sato-keiji! Are you here on a case?” she asked, her tone curious but light.

Sato paused, and for a fleeting second, Conan saw her expression shift—something like hesitance crossed her eyes, as if she weighed her answer carefully.

Then she smiled, gentle but just a bit too quick, and waved her free hand in an easy gesture. “No, no. We’re just grabbing a coffee break.” Her voice was calm, but Conan could hear the undercurrent of something unspoken beneath the surface.

Takagi cleared his throat and stepped forward. “You should join us." He gestured at the table and pulled the seat beside Sato for Ran to take. "Here, come and take a seat." 

Ran didn’t hesitate. She simply smiled, bright and gracious, as though the idea of sitting down with them was the most natural thing in the world. “Thank you, Takagi-keiji,” she said, her voice sincere.

Takagi’s eyes softened. “No problem. I'll go get us something to drink." The he glanced down at Conan, his expression inviting. "Want to come with, Conan-kun? "

Conan scanned the café—just a few meters between the tables and the counter. Close enough to keep Ran in his line of sight. He nodded. “Sure.”

They walked together, the muted hum of evening traffic and the glow of neon signs mixing with the faint scent of roasted coffee beans and sugary pastries wafting from the café’s open door. Conan’s small shoes padded against the smooth pavement, every step feeling a little too heavy for his small frame.

When they reached the line, Conan glanced up at Takagi, his brows knitting together. “Ne, Takagi-keiji,” he asked quietly, keeping his voice low, “is something happening around here?”

Takagi blinked at him, momentarily taken aback. Then he sighed, the breath leaving his lungs with a soft weariness that spoke of long hours and too many unsolved questions.

“Nothing gets past you, does it, Conan-kun?” he said, his tone fond but tinged with resignation.

Conan didn’t answer, just tilted his head slightly, waiting.

Takagi scratched at the corner of his eyebrow, hesitating as though choosing his words carefully. “Well,” he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “there have been reports about a suspicious person seen around this area. Nothing’s happened yet, but with that event at the store opening, there’s a lot of people around.”

Conan’s pulse quickened. “Has he been seen again today?” he pressed, his mind already sketching out possibilities.

Takagi shook his head slowly. “Not so far,” he said.

Conan’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly is he doing that’s suspicious?”

Takagi leaned closer, his voice grave. “He’s been lingering near shop entrances, staring at people a little too long—like he’s studying them. Witnesses describe him as mid-thirties, wearing a dark coat, baseball cap, scar near his eyebrow. Nothing concrete yet, but…”

Conan’s mind was already spinning, images of shadows and hidden dangers weaving through his thoughts. The idea of Ran in the middle of it all made his stomach twist painfully.

Takagi sighed, his tone heavy. “We’re still checking it out, but it’s better to be cautious. If you and Ran-san can head home soon, I’d feel better.”

Conan nodded. “Alright. I understand.”

They moved up in line, the café lights casting a soft glow over Takagi’s features. Conan studied him for a moment, noticing the lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes.

Then, Takagi turned to Conan again, his voice suddenly quieter, eyes filled with a gentle understanding that made Conan’s heart squeeze.

“So…” he began, hesitant but determined. “How are you holding up, Conan-kun?”

Conan blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

Takagi’s lips curved into a small, sad smile. “When you see the person you care about suffering…it’s hard, isn’t it?”

The words hit Conan like a stone to the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. He felt his throat tighten, the burn of tears he refused to let fall. He looked away, trying to find something—anything—to focus on.

Takagi’s voice softened even more. “Mouri-san told us,” he continued gently. “He said it was alright to share it with some of us at the MPD—people he trusts. When Megure-keibu heard, he could barely keep himself together.” His eyes softened further. “And... we can all see how deeply affected Mouri-san is, which is understandable, of course.”

Conan swallowed hard, the air feeling thick and heavy in his chest.

Takagi’s eyes locked onto his, unwavering. “And you?” he asked, his voice gentle but insistent. “How are you doing, Conan-kun?”

Conan opened his mouth, but no sound came out at first.

How was he doing? Honestly, he felt like he was breaking apart. Every time he saw Ran struggling, every time he heard her try to catch her breath or saw her forced smile—it was like a piece of him shattered all over again.

And he felt so helpless. So utterly, pathetically helpless.

But then he remembered Ran’s strength. Her determination. Her stubbornness to face it head-on, to still smile despite everything. He couldn’t let himself break. Not when she was fighting so hard.

So he forced a smile, bright and childish, the one he always wore when he needed to hide the truth. “Ran-neechan is so strong, Takagi-keiji,” he said, his voice small but steady. “So I’m fine.”

Takagi blinked, taken aback for a moment. Then a smile spread across his face—sad but proud—and he reached out to ruffle Conan’s hair gently. “You’re strong too, Conan-kun,” he said softly.

Conan felt the warmth of that hand on his hair, and even though he couldn’t quite believe it, he let it sink in—just for a moment.

Their turn at the counter arrived, and Takagi ordered two café lattes for himself and Sato. “And for you?” he asked Conan.

Conan straightened, his voice a little steadier now. “Iced coffee for me, please,” he said. “And a caffeine-free iced tea for Ran-neechan.”

Takagi gave him a small nod and repeated the order to the cashier. The barista moved quickly, the hiss of the espresso machine filling the air with the comforting scent of coffee.

Drinks in hand, they turned back toward the table. As they approached, Conan’s eyes immediately found Ran’s face—and the smile he had hoped would be there.

But instead of the bright laughter he expected, he felt the heaviness in the air.

Ran sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze downcast. Sato was leaning forward, her brows drawn together, a line of worry etching her usually bright expression.

A tension that Conan had become so familiar with this past few months had enveloped the air around them, giving him an idea of where the topic of their conversation had led to. 

They returned to the table in silence, Takagi setting the tray down as Conan gently placed Ran’s iced tea in front of her.

She looked up with a warm smile and whispered, “Thank you, Conan-kun,” before turning back to Sato, who was accepting her own coffee cup from Takagi. The faint clink of porcelain echoed in the still moment between them, soft and fragile.

Conan climbed up into his seat beside Takagi, wrapping his hands around the cold glass of iced coffee, but not drinking it. His ears strained toward the conversation unfolding across the table. Something in the air still felt dense. Like a cloud that hadn’t quite decided whether to rain.

Sato reached for her cup but didn’t take a sip. Instead, she looked over at Ran, her expression gentle but serious.

“You’re probably tired of hearing this,” she said, her voice low and careful, “but… how are you really, Ran-chan?”

The question hung in the air, simple but heavy. Conan held his breath. His eyes moved instinctively to Ran’s face.

She blinked once, then smiled. It wasn’t forced. Not exactly. But there was a soft weariness behind it—like someone who had grown used to carrying something too heavy for too long.

“I’m not tired of hearing it,” she replied softly, shaking her head. “Not at all.”

Her fingers lightly traced the condensation on her tea glass before she continued. “I’m really fine,” she said. “I know it looks bad, and I know people worry, but… I got to fight, I want to keep fighting, so I’m fighting.”

Conan’s eyes narrowed slightly. He studied her carefully—the tilt of her smile, the steadiness in her tone, the calm assurance in her eyes.

Was it the truth? Or was she saying it just to reassure Sato, to keep everyone from worrying too much?

He didn’t know.

He wasn’t sure if even she knew.

But even if it wasn’t the full truth, there was something in her voice—an unwavering clarity, a refusal to be crushed—that made his heart clench.

That optimism, that unbreakable will… that was Ran. That was the part of her he had always admired, would always admire. No matter how much it hurt to see her like this.

Sato didn’t respond right away. Her eyes lingered on Ran’s face, thoughtful. Conan could tell she was wondering the same thing he was. But then, something softened in her gaze—an understanding, perhaps—and she smiled, warm and encouraging.

“That’s really good thinking,” she said, nodding. “If you have this kind of mindset, I know for sure you’ll be just fine.”

But her smile faltered, just slightly. Her eyebrows creased as if a memory had stirred. She looked away for a moment, toward the soft glow of the street lamps and the faint blur of passersby in the distance.

“I know what terminal illness can do to people,” she murmured, quieter now, more to herself than to anyone else. “Not just physically…”

Then, without warning, she reached out and gently took Ran’s hand in hers.

Ran startled a little at the sudden contact, her eyes widening. But she didn’t pull away.

Conan’s breath caught. His gaze flicked to Sato’s face. There was a weight there now—a sorrow she couldn’t quite hide. Conan shifted slightly in his seat and glanced at Takagi.

The detective hadn’t said a word. He was staring down into his coffee, his expression distant, his fingers tight around the cup. It was as if he’d gone somewhere else entirely. Somewhere far from this cozy café table.

They knew.

They knew someone.

Ran seemed to notice too. “Sato-keiji?” she asked gently, concern blooming in her voice.

Sato didn’t respond at first. She was still staring down at their joined hands, her thumb brushing softly across Ran’s knuckles. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak—but no sound came.

“Did… did something happen?” Ran asked again, quieter now. Conan leaned forward without realizing it, waiting, the chill from his drink long forgotten.

Sato’s jaw tightened. She bit her lower lip, struggling with something unspoken.

Then Takagi spoke, his voice quiet and hoarse.

“We had a senpai,” he began, pausing to clear his throat, or maybe to compose himself. “At the MPD. He… he was diagnosed with chondrosarcoma. Bone cancer.”

The words landed heavily. Conan felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine.

Takagi continued, haltingly. “He was in pain. Suffered a lot. He used to tell us, over and over, how much it hurt. And when the tumor didn’t respond to chemo or radiation therapy…”

He stopped. His voice broke slightly.

“…He lost hope,” he finished, almost in a whisper.

Ran let out a soft gasp. Even Conan’s own eyes widened. The silence that followed stretched out painfully long.

“Did he…?” Conan asked, afraid to finish the question.

Takagi nodded.

Conan opened his mouth, his thoughts catching up. “But chondrosarcoma is—”

“Yes,” Sato interrupted gently, her voice firmer now. “There’s surgery. There was a way.”

Silence returned. A quiet too sharp, too suffocating.

Conan looked between them. There was a heaviness in the way Takagi held his cup, in the stillness of Sato’s shoulders. They weren’t just remembering—they were reliving it.

Then Sato spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “Back then… his family had gotten so busy. Everyone working overtime, trying to make money for the treatment. He… he must have been lonely. He must have felt alone.”

The words stabbed deep.

Across the table, Ran’s expression changed. That thoughtful, strong-willed look Conan had seen so many times before appeared on her face. She shifted slightly forward and, with surprising gentleness, placed her other hand atop Sato’s.

Sato blinked in surprise.

Ran smiled. A smile as bright as she could manage, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. “Don’t worry, Sato-keiji,” she said, her voice filled with light. “I’m different.”

Sato looked at her, eyes widening.

Takagi raised his head.

Conan stared, frozen.

Ran’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know I’m not alone,” she said. “I know there are people who care about me. There are a lot, actually, and I'm grateful for that.”

Then she paused—and her eyes turned directly to Conan.

The smile she gave him then…

It wasn’t just warm.

It wasn’t just grateful.

It was everything.

A smile that said thank you, that said don’t worry, that said I see you, that said you matter to me. A thousand unspoken words, all in one look.

Her gaze still fixed on him, she said, “I have my most important people by my side.” 

Conan could only stare back, breath stolen. Something swelled in his chest—too large, too raw to name. It wasn’t just admiration. It was awe.

Then, turning back to Sato, she added, “My family. My friends. I have all of you. So I’ll keep on fighting.”

Sato let out a slow breath. The worry on her face gave way to something gentler, something proud.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Yeah… that’s right.” She nodded slowly, her smile returning with a quiet glow. “You’ve always been an admirable girl, Ran-chan. That’s good. That’s really good.”

Takagi echoed her with a soft smile of his own. “As expected of Ran-san, you're really strong.”

Ran gave them both a small, grateful smile. “Thank you… for thinking about me.”

Sato chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “Of course we think about you. We all think about you.”

Ran’s smile deepened—sweet, touched, and full of quiet gratitude. Conan felt it again then, the warmth blooming in his chest, curling behind his ribs. A flicker of something beautiful in the middle of all the pain.

Then—

Just as Conan let himself breathe—just as that small, precious moment of peace began to settle in his chest like a fragile bird—

A scream tore through the air.

Sharp. High. Terrified.

It sliced through the hum of conversation and the low city sounds like a blade through silk.

The café fell dead silent.

All four of them snapped to attention at once.

Takagi and Sato’s hands were already halfway to their holsters as they stood, chairs scraping loudly against the floor. Their heads turned instinctively toward the direction of the sound—somewhere down the street, not far from the plaza.

Conan’s focus, however, shot to Ran.

Her eyes had widened. The color had visibly drained from her face. He could see the pulse fluttering at her neck like a trapped butterfly.

“Ran…” he breathed, already rising to his feet, his heart lurching.

Her head turned toward the scream too, a flash of alarm crossing her face. “What… what was that?” she asked, voice barely audible, more to the air than to anyone specifically.

He watched her chest, sharp and trained. Her breathing hadn’t spiked into panic—yet. It was fast, yes, but still rhythmic. Her fingers were curled tightly around the glass of iced tea, knuckles pale, but she hadn’t spiraled.

Relief seeped into Conan’s chest—but only briefly. There was still tension in her shoulders, a wariness in her posture, as though she was bracing herself for something worse.

Only when he confirmed she was okay—for now—did he look up.

Takagi and Sato were exchanging glances, grim and silent. They nodded to each other with a kind of practiced urgency.

“We’re going to check it out,” Sato said quickly, already stepping toward the sidewalk. “Stay here, you two.”

Ran stood up without thinking. “Sato-keiji—!”

But she didn’t get any further.

Her voice cut off with a gasp.

Conan whipped around.

Her hand was pressed against her chest, her lips parted in a silent struggle for air.

“Ran-neechan!”

He rushed to her side, catching her elbow just as she swayed, gently guiding her back into the chair. “Sit down—Ran-neechan, breathe slowly, okay? Slowly.”

His fingers flew to his backpack and yanked it open. Within seconds, he had the bronchodilator inhaler in his hands.

“Here,” he said, placing it in hers.

Ran’s hands were trembling, but she knew the motion well. She brought the inhaler to her lips and pressed down, taking the deep breath she needed. The hiss of aerosol and the sound of her breath pulling through echoed harshly in the silence between them.

Sato had turned on her heel the moment Ran gasped. She was kneeling in front of Ran now, her eyes wide and urgent.

“Ran-chan,” she said gently, cupping one of Ran’s hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Just stay here with Conan-kun, all right? We’ll be back.”

Ran, between slow, measured breaths, nodded.

Sato didn’t move immediately. She waited—waited until Ran’s breathing steadied just enough, the worst of the attack passing—before standing up and running to catch up with Takagi.

Conan stayed crouched beside Ran, his hand still lightly resting on her knee. He watched her breathe, watched the strain in her face slowly ease.

Her eyes were closed, her lashes trembling against her cheeks. It looked like she was concentrating on every single breath, as if sheer will alone could force her lungs to cooperate.

And maybe it could.

Because she was Ran.

His throat tightened.

He wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came. Not until she opened her eyes and looked at him. Those familiar eyes, always full of light—now searching, scared, trying so hard not to show it.

The plaza outside the café had grown louder—people talking, some shouting across the street, speculation turning into panic—but for now, all he could hear was the soft whistle of Ran’s breathing. Her eyes were closed tight, her lips parted slightly, sweat glistening at her temple as she concentrated.

He swallowed hard.

“Ran-neechan,” he said, quietly but firmly, “it’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen. I’m right here.”

Her eyes fluttered open at that. And in them—fear. But also… hope. A quiet trust that rooted him to the ground.

Then came the sound of hurried footsteps. A passerby sprinted past them toward the sidewalk, calling to someone in the crowd.

“There’s been a hostage taking!” the man shouted breathlessly. “Right now!”

Conan and Ran both froze.

The color drained from her face again. His own heart leapt into his throat.

The man had caught up to a group by the crosswalk and was gesturing wildly, his voice still loud enough to hear. “It’s happening at the new store opening event,” he said. “That Kamen Yaiba store—!”

Conan felt his blood run cold.

Ran’s eyes met his, and they both spoke at once.

“Kamen Yaiba…?”

“The kids,” Ran whispered, the words escaping her lips with a weight that made Conan’s stomach drop.

His thoughts spun rapidly. The store opening. The promotional event the kids wanted to go to. Ayumi had been talking about it all week. They've all been so excited to go. There was no doubt—she and the others had gone.

And now—

“Th-they’ll be okay,” Conan said quickly, trying to reassure Ran, trying to anchor himself to the words even as dread built in his chest. “Takagi-keiji and Sato-keiji are on the scene. There are other officers too.”

He wanted to believe it. But he couldn’t.

Then the passerby’s voice rose again, cutting through the crowd.

“He has a gun!” the man shouted. “And his hostage is a child. A little girl!”

The words hit like a hammer.

Ran lowered the inhaler instantly, her hands trembling. “A little girl!” she gasped.

Conan didn’t even have to say it. He’d already come to the same conclusion. His entire body tensed with urgency. He had to move. Had to get there, assess the situation, save the kids. 

He surged to his feet. His instincts screamed at him to move. Now. Go to the scene. Disarm the hostage-taker. Get the hostage out. Find the others.

If this was before, he would've been at scene right now, probably even earlier, since he'd heard about the suspicious person from Takagi. He would've scouted the area, checked every nook and cranny, made sure he didn't miss any hint, any clue. 

But—

He turned.

Ran.

Ran was his first priority right now. She took precedence over anyone, over anything. There was no way—no way—he was going to leave her side, not like this. 

She was watching him. Breathing hard, but no longer panicked. Her eyes—still red at the edges—were locked onto his. Something fierce in them. Steady. Braver than he ever felt.

She stood up. “Conan-kun,” she said, voice low but clear, “let’s go.”

He stared at her, stunned. “What?!”

“Ayumi-chan, or Ai-chan—there’s a chance it’s one of them, right?” she said quickly. “Even if it’s not—if any of them are there—if there’s danger—”

“No!” he shouted, louder than he meant to. “You can’t!”

She blinked at him, surprised.

His chest heaved. His fists trembled at his sides. How could she say that? How could she think he could let her run into danger again—so soon after her attack, so soon after everything?

How could she easily dismiss her safety and well-being just like that, as if he wasn't just about to lose himself worrying over her?

Ran reached out, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. Her grip was steady, firm, grounding him.

“Conan-kun,” she said, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not—” he started, but she held up her hand.

“I promised I’m fine,” she repeated, her gaze burning with resolve. “And I’ll panic even more if I sit here wondering what’s happening to them.”

Conan stared at her. His mind warred with itself—reason and fear colliding.

He understood—of course he did. That was who Ran was. She couldn’t sit still while someone she cared about was in danger.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

“But…” he whispered, voice cracking.

Her fingers curled gently around his arm. “I know you’re worried too,” she said, softer now. “Let’s go, okay?”

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

But then he looked up, and saw that she wasn’t asking for his permission. She was asking for his trust.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

They turned toward the street together, the peaceful café now behind them, the chaos ahead. Conan’s heart thundered with dread, with panic—but also with something else.

They would go. He would go. He would save the kids, or at least make sure they were out of danger. 

But his priorities were set. 

Ran was first. 

They didn’t run. Conan made sure of that.

Ran had tried to, her legs twitching with urgency, but Conan was firm—he had stopped her with a hand on her arm and a sharp, “No.” His tone had allowed no room for argument, and she’d looked down, nodded once, and fell into pace beside him. Their steps were fast, brisk, but measured. Conan stayed slightly ahead, subtly shielding her body with his smaller frame. 

The air had turned sharp since the scream rang out earlier, slicing through the calm like a blade. A hush had settled over the area as they neared the source of the panic—an unnatural silence broken only by whispers, the distant wailing of a child, and the occasional orders being barked by uniformed officers.

Curious onlookers had gathered, and frightened bystanders were being ushered back behind improvised barricades. Conan and Ran slipped through the small spaces between the crowd, inconspicuous amid the chaos.

But Conan’s thoughts were spinning, mind frayed.

Each step forward, he could hear her breathing—too loud, too fast, and uneven. His brows knit together as he glanced sideways.

Ran’s face was taut, her mouth pressed into a firm line, but her gaze never wavered. She was staring ahead, past the crowd, as if sheer will alone could pull her to where she needed to be.

That determined look twisted something inside Conan—part frustration, part admiration. She was fighting her body again, determined not to be held down by the weakness she hated. Even as her breath hitched, even as her grip on his hand trembled slightly, she refused to stop.

He said nothing. Instead, he tightened his grip and guided her forward.

He must focus. The quicker they could solve this, the quicker he could take Ran home. And the quicker she could relax and take a rest. 

Then, he saw it.

Just ahead, the small event stage that had earlier been decorated with bright Kamen Yaiba posters and streamers was now a scene of horror.

Police tape had been strung up hastily, and Takagi and Sato were already conferring with two other detectives. Their expressions were grim. Officers were positioning themselves with quiet urgency, trying not to escalate the already volatile situation.

Then Ran gasped beside him—“Ayumi-chan!”

Conan snapped his eyes to where she was looking.

There. On the platform, clutched tightly around the waist by a large man in a dark coat, was Ayumi. Her tiny body was pressed against the man’s chest, one of his arms holding her roughly, the other holding a gun that hung limply at his side—for now. His face was exactly as Takagi had described earlier—scarred, gaunt, unshaven. But it was Ayumi’s face that made Conan’s blood freeze.

She was crying.

His heart plummeted.

They pushed closer, and he saw Mitsuhiko and Genta standing nearby, both on the verge of tears, anger flashing in their eyes. Haibara was with them, holding them back, her own face pale but resolute.

“Haibara!” Conan called sharply.

She turned, her eyes wide with surprise—and relief. “Edogawa-kun!” she gasped. “Please… Yoshida-san is—” she pointed to the stage with a trembling hand. 

Conan’s eyes snapped to the hostage-taker. The man wasn’t aiming the gun—yet—but the way he held it was dangerously loose, like it could swing in any direction at any moment. His posture was erratic, twitchy. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Conan recognized the type. Deranged. Unstable. Dangerous.

A negotiator stood nearby, doing their best to reason with him, but Conan could tell it wasn’t working. The man wasn’t listening. He was focused entirely on keeping control, on being heard, on holding power.

And Ayumi…

Ayumi’s pain was showing through her cries now. The man’s grip had shifted, digging into her side carelessly. Her fear had twisted into something more painful.

Conan cursed under his breath, brain already racing through options. The risk was too high to make any move. One wrong step and the man could fire. Into the crowd. Into Ayumi. Into Ran—

Ran.

He felt her squeeze his hand. His eyes snapped to her, a sudden rush of dread surging through his chest.

“She’s getting hurt,” Ran said, her voice tight with fury and helplessness. Her eyes never left Ayumi.

“Ran—”

Before he could say more, she took a step forward and called out.

“Please!” she shouted. “The child is hurting—don’t hold her so carelessly!”

Conan’s entire body seized.

The hostage-taker turned.

So did Ayumi. “Ran-oneesan…!”

Sato immediately rushed over, voice low and urgent. “Ran-chan—stay back!”

The man’s eyes were sharp now, his attention zeroed in on Ran like a hawk spotting prey. Conan tensed, heart hammering.

Ran didn’t back down.

“Please…” she said again, her breath catching.

The man’s gaze didn’t leave her face. Then— “Fine,” he said.

Conan didn’t dare relax.

“I’ll release the kid,” the man continued, voice calm. Too calm.

Everyone around them held their breath. Conan didn’t believe it for a second.

Then—

“In exchange for you.”

The words hit Conan like a punch to the chest.

His hand tightened around Ran’s instinctively, yanking her behind him. He planted his feet in front of her, his small frame rigid like a living shield.

“No,” Conan said immediately, voice sharp and unyielding.

Sato stepped in too, flanking Ran’s other side. “You’re not taking her,” she said coldly.

The man smirked. “No?” he echoed, amused by their defiance. “Then no,” he added with a sneer, and tightened his grip on Ayumi.

The child cried out, her pain rising to a scream.

“I’ll go,” Ran said suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension.

Conan’s head snapped to her. “No!” he said again, this time to her, voice trembling.

She squeezed his hand harder.

Sato step forward. "No. Take me instead." 

The man laughed. Then fury, his gun pointed spontaneously toward their direction. "Don't take me for an idiot! I know for a fact that you're a cop, why would I want you? That long haired girl, or no exchange at all." 

“I’ll go,” she repeated. 

“No,” Sato said again, more desperate this time. 

“It’ll be fine,” Ran insisted, turning to Sato. “Please take care of Ayumi-chan. And the others.” 

Then she turned to Conan.

“Conan-kun… let go of my hand.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

His fingers clamped tighter, like iron around hers. His whole body trembled. He knew there was an anger that wasn't quite directed at her being reflected on his eyes as he looked at her.

Ran’s eyes softened. She reached up with her other hand and placed it over his, gently but firmly.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice filled with something unshakable. “Did you forget who I am?”

No. He didn’t. She was Mouri Ran. A karate champion. A fighter. Brave. Unshakable.

But she was also still recovering. Still breathing too hard. Still too pale.

She was everything to him. He can't just—

He shook his head slowly, silently.

His gaze at her turned pleading, asking her not to do this, not to put herself in danger. 

Ran smiled at him—smiled—and it broke him.

She pulled her hand from his grip, slowly but resolutely, and stepped forward.

“It’s okay,” she said again, softly, and nodded. "We need to take Ayumi-chan back, can't let her get hurt any further." 

And all Conan could do was watch.

His hand hung in the air, empty, shaking.

His heart shattered as she walked away from him—again—into danger, into the eye of the storm.

He said he would do anything to keep her safe. He promised. And yet... 

Conan shook his head. Not the time. He tried to focus instead at the threat present. 

His mind raced even as his body stood still. His eyes locked on the hostage-taker, studying everything—the angle of his limbs, the twitch of his fingers, the weight of his grip on Ayumi, the subtle movements of the gun in his other hand.

Every breath the man took seemed heavy, erratic. Sweat clung to his forehead, darkening the collar of his coat. He looked like he was unraveling at the seams—his eyes too wide, darting in paranoid little flicks from person to person, and then anchoring back to Ran.

He’s unstable.

Conan’s gaze dropped momentarily to his own wrist, hidden beneath the sleeve of his jacket. The tranquilizer gun was primed, a fresh needle loaded. All it would take was a quick aim, a press of the trigger, and if it hit—if—the man would go down in seconds.

But Conan knew better than to rely on hope. The man’s body was half-shielded behind Ayumi’s, and his erratic swaying made it impossible to line up a clean shot. Any miscalculation—even a second’s hesitation—could end with the man jerking in surprise, tightening his grip, or worse... pulling the trigger.

His fingers inched toward the buckle of his belt instead, brushing against the familiar compact cylinder of his soccer ball inflator. The ball was there. One swift motion and it could be airborne in seconds—he’d knocked out criminals before, shattered windows, disarmed gunmen with a single well-placed strike.

But here, now, he couldn’t see a way to get the angle right. The man was on a raised platform. The crowd was close. The kids were too close. Ayumi was practically in his chest—her small body trembling with every shuddered breath—and the man had the gun loosely dangling, but still in control.

He was too unpredictable.

Too volatile.

And Conan couldn’t guarantee that even if he struck, it would be fast enough. The moment the man registered a threat, even felt something was off, he might fire. The gun was pointed downward, yes—but it could swing up in a fraction of a second. Toward Ayumi. Toward Ran. Toward the crowd.

Conan’s jaw clenched. There was no clear shot. No opportunity. Not yet.

He was a detective—he was supposed to solve things. Think three steps ahead. But right now, all he could think was that every second this dragged on, the danger deepened. Every beat of the man’s pulse could be the one that drove him over the edge.

Conan’s hands were curled into fists now, trembling by his sides.

He had options. But none of them were safe.

And the worst part was—Ran was stepping forward. She was walking into that danger. Into the line of fire. 

Willingly. 

And he couldn't stop her. 

Every step Ran took forward reverberated like the steady toll of a funeral bell in Conan’s chest. Slow. Certain. Dreadful.

The scene before him seemed almost detached from time—too surreal, too quiet. The bustling city behind them had vanished into static. The murmur of the crowd was nothing more than a distant echo.

His entire world had narrowed to the trembling edge of the platform, to the man with the gun, and to Ran’s back as she approached him with the calm courage of someone marching into a storm.

Conan could barely hear his own thoughts over the pounding in his ears.

What am I doing just standing here? How could I let her walk into this? What kind of detective am I? What kind of protector…?

His hands were clenched so tightly that his nails cut into his palms. The sting grounded him, but barely. His chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a rope around his ribs and pulled. It was hard to breathe.

And Ran kept walking.

Conan’s eyes flicked to her shoulders, watching how they rose with each breath—and how unsteady that rise was. The faint catch in her inhale. The too-slow exhale. She was pushing her lungs to keep up, and he knew it. Knew that each step cost her more than any of them could see.

If her breathing turns erratic now… if she collapses now…

The thought carved into his gut like a blade. His legs moved on instinct, a desperate step forward.

But she stopped him.

Her hand lifted—subtle, yet firm. And her voice…

“Please, Conan-kun. Stay back.”

The softness of her plea rooted him to the spot.

She had never sounded like that before—gentle and steady, but holding back something deep, something fraying at the edges. That single word—please—shattered whatever protest he might’ve thrown. He stood frozen, eyes wide, helpless and hurting as the moment slipped further out of his control.

“Ran-oneesan!” Ayumi cried, voice small, trembling.

Ran took another cautious step forward. “Shh,” she said softly, “It’s okay, Ayumi-chan. It’s going to be okay.” Her hand brushed gently along Ayumi’s cheek, wiping away a tear with such care it made Conan’s chest ache. The man’s hand twitched—the gun raised and pointed directly at Ran’s shoulder.

She didn’t even flinch.

Her breathing was uneven now, Conan could hear it even from where he stood. But her eyes... her eyes were fierce. Burning. Unshaken.

“Please let her go,” she said, calm despite the tremor in her lungs.

The man’s eyes darted—scanning the crowd behind her, the police, the still forms of the other children—and finally rested back on Ran. Silence stretched. Conan felt the weight of a dozen held breaths pressing into his skull.

Then, slowly, the man let go of Ayumi onto the platform.

The little girl dropped to the ground with a gasp. Ran moved again, fluid and deliberate. Conan could see it now—the signs of mastery, the discipline that had been drilled into every muscle, every joint. Even under duress, even with uneven breath, she moved like a black belt. Like someone who had trained not just in combat, but in grace.

She crouched and helped Ayumi up, whispering to her, ushering her gently. 

“Stand up,” the man barked, the gun now leveled to her shoulder.

Ran did, but not before whispering to Ayumi, “Run to them. Go.”

And then she turned her body, subtly, keeping herself between the gun and the child until Ayumi stumbled off the platform, running into Sato’s arms. The moment Ayumi crossed to safety, a ripple of relief moved through the crowd—but Conan didn’t feel it. He was too focused.

Focused on him. The man.

His eyes were on Ran. Only her. Conan’s gut twisted.

Why is it always her?

“Stand up,” the man said again, and Ran obeyed.

But this time—this time, Conan’s instincts screamed.

Because he recognized that look on her face.

The tightening of her jaw. The flicker of her gaze toward the man’s arms. The way her knees bent just slightly. That split-second breath as she lowered her center of gravity.

And his heart dropped. 

No. Not this time, no. 

“Ran, no!” Conan cried, voice cracking from his chest.

But she had already exhaled. Already made her decision. 

“It’s alright,” she whispered—barely audible—but he heard it. Felt it. In his bones.

And then, she moved.

A single breath. That was all the time it took. 

First a slap—a blur of motion as her palm cracked the man’s arm aside, the gun flying from his grip. A sharp turn of her torso, her footing precise as a dancer’s, her body pivoting for balance. Then a whip of her hand across his face, snapping his head sideways with the sheer force of the blow.

The man barely had time to react before she spun—her right leg sweeping up in a graceful arc, a full roundhouse that caught him under the chin and lifted him off his feet. His body crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud.

The crowd gasped. Even the detectives were stunned.

And Conan… Conan forgot to breathe.

Ran landed. Her form—perfect. Her technique—flawless.

But—

She staggered.

Just a step. A brief, telling falter.

Her body lurched ever so slightly as her knees buckled before she steadied herself. She clutched her chest, her breathing sharp now—quick, shallow. Her lips parted, seeking air that refused to come easy.

And Conan felt it too.

The breathlessness.

As though the air around them had been sucked away. His chest rose and fell, but it wasn’t enough. Not as he watched her. Not as he saw her wobble and right herself again. Not as he reached her and pulled out the nebulizer with shaking fingers.

He pressed it to her lips. “Ran-neechan,” he murmured, “Breathe. Please…”

She obeyed, inhaling the mist, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. The wheeze in her breath began to fade—just slightly—but her skin had gone pale, too pale.

Still, she kept her eyes on the man, watching as Sato and the others cuffed him. She didn’t look away until he was fully subdued and dragged to the car.

Then—

“Ran-oneesan!”

Ayumi’s voice broke through the haze.

She ran to them, tears flowing anew. “Ran-oneesan! Are you okay?” 

Mitsuhiko, Genta, and Haibara followed. Even Sato. All eyes focused on Ran. 

Ran pulled the nebulizer away, managing a fragile smile. “I’m fine, Ayumi-chan,” she said softly, even as her lungs fought to keep up. Her hand trembled when she brushed Ayumi’s hair, and her breaths were still shallow—but her tone was gentle, comforting.

“You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

Ayumi hiccupped and nodded, clinging to her. “Thank you…”

Ran nodded. “Of course.”

Conan watched, wanting to believe it. Wanting to feel the relief rising in his chest. And for one brief moment, he did.

Until he noticed her hand.

Trembling harder now.

And then her lips—drained of color. Her smile dimmed.

“Ran-neechan?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She turned to look at him.

But her eyes… they were glazed, unfocused, unseeing. 

“Ran,” he said again, louder this time.

She blinked—slowly. Too slowly. As though it took everything in her just to keep her eyes open.

This is bad... This is really bad... 

“Ran!”

Her lips trembled.

“Conan-kun…” she murmured, her voice a whisper too fragile to hold.

And then her knees gave out.

Conan lunged and caught her before she hit the ground. Her body was limp in his arms, the nebulizer falling from her fingers. Her lips were blue, her fingertips too. Her pulse was fluttering beneath her skin, faint and rapid.

“No—no, no, no, Ran!” he shouted, holding her close.

The place burst back into motion—shouts for medics, hurried footsteps, the radio chatter of police springing into action.

But all Conan could do was hold her and call her name, his heart pounding with terror, his whole world breaking with Ran's fall. 

Please, breathe. Please please please.

-

Chapter Text

-

The ride to the hospital blurred into nothingness.

Conan sat stiffly in the corner of the ambulance, one hand clenched around the edge of the stretcher, the other holding on to Ran’s hand—or trying to.

It felt like gripping fog. Like nothing real. The sirens howled overhead, a shrieking, keening noise that should’ve been deafening, but to Conan it was muffled, distant, like he was submerged underwater and the sound only echoed around the edges of his consciousness.

He knew Sato was there. He could see her in his peripheral vision, leaning over, her voice low and steady, trying to comfort him, trying to keep him grounded. Her hand on his shoulder, firm and warm.

He knew she was telling him things—probably reassurance, maybe explaining procedures. Maybe even giving hope.

He couldn’t hear her. Not really. Not over the sound of his own heart beating too fast and too loud in his ears.

He also knew he had spoken. He remembered giving the EMTs information—about Ran’s recent condition, her breathing difficulties, her diagnosis, her attacks. His voice had come out somehow, robotic and cold, clinical even, as though someone else had taken over his mouth.

But the words felt distant, like he was reading from a script in a dream.

He had recited her medication history. Her current breathing capacity. Her triggers. He’d told them about the previous breathlessness attacks, that she’d used her nebulizer just minutes before collapsing. He had begged them to be careful. To be fast.

But it didn’t feel like he was doing it.

It felt like watching someone else.

Like watching a boy in a drama, clinging to his sister’s hand as paramedics tried to stabilize her, his mouth moving, his eyes dull.

Like he was floating just outside his own body, watching a tragedy unfold from behind a screen he couldn’t break through.

The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and movement. People in scrubs, gurneys rolling, double doors opening and slamming shut. He remembered arguing. Pleading. Trying to follow Ran into the emergency room. Trying to tell them that he had to stay with her, that he couldn’t leave her, not now.

But his words didn’t matter.

He had a child’s voice. A child’s height. A child’s strength. They held him back gently but firmly, and it was like trying to push against steel.

He could do nothing.

And now, he was in the waiting room. Cold and sterile. Too quiet, and somehow too loud.

The seconds dragged. Minutes, longer. No one came to tell him anything. He sat on the plastic chair, still as a statue, feet dangling above the floor, hands clenched on his knees.

Everything was numb.

His fingers, his toes, his limbs. Like he was back underwater, a deep, thick sea of tar pulling him under. His lungs felt like they were being crushed.

Each breath took effort, but it wasn’t for lack of oxygen—it was grief. Fear. Guilt. It pressed against him like invisible hands.

He didn’t know how much time passed before Sato returned and sat beside him. Then the door burst open again.

He looked up.

Eri and Kogoro.

Conan didn’t know what his own face looked like. Maybe blank. Maybe worse. Maybe the kind of face that made people stop in their tracks because it showed too much.

They did stop.

Both of them froze the moment they laid eyes on him. Neither scolded him. Neither said anything.

Instead, their expressions shifted into something unreadable—shock first, then something softer. Sadder.

Sato rose quickly from her seat and crossed to them, her voice steady and low as she filled them in. Conan couldn’t hear what she was saying, not clearly—just snippets, a broken record of words like “collapsed,” “brave,” “saved Ayumi-chan,” and “emergency care.”

But Conan didn’t move, he didn’t interrupt. He sat there, stiff, head bowed. Waiting.

He was ready for it. The yelling. The blame. He wanted it. Kogoro had trusted him, had asked him to take care of Ran.

And he said yes.

He promised.

And now…

Ran had collapsed. She was lying behind those doors, unconscious, because he couldn’t stop her. Because he let her take the risk. Because he wasn’t fast enough, not smart enough, not strong enough to protect her.

What good is being a detective if you can't protect the person you love?

He’d failed her.

He looked at Kogoro then, almost desperately, bracing himself for the anger, for the slap, for something—anything—that would make this feel real. That would punish him like he deserved.

Kogoro looked at him with unreadable eyes. Silent for too long.

Then, slowly, he raised a hand.

Conan readied himself, instinctively tightening his jaw.

But the hand didn’t strike.

It landed on his head. Roughly. Calloused fingers pushing through his hair, ruffling it—hard, but not cruel. Not angry. Not blaming. 

It startled Conan more than a slap would’ve.

He stared, wide-eyed, lips parting, trying to say something. Anything.

But Kogoro cut him off.

“Sit down.”

Just two words.

The voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t angry.

It was… tired. Heavy. Like someone who had lost a battle before it began. Like someone who had yelled all the way here, but had no voice left by the time he arrived.

And that somehow felt worse.

Conan sat, stiffly, awkwardly, unsure what to do with the guilt burning in his chest.

Eri stepped up next.

She didn’t say anything either.

She only gave him a sad smile, her eyes glistening behind her glasses, and placed a soft, warm hand on his shoulder.

A pat. Light. Gentle. Forgiving.

Then both of them—Ran’s parents—sat beside him on either side, as though they had no interest in fighting. No interest in blame.

Only waiting.

Only Ran.

Conan stared at the ground.

He didn’t understand.

Why weren’t they angry? Why weren’t they shouting at him? Why weren’t they telling him what he already knew—that this was all his fault?

He didn’t deserve this. This kindness. This... grace.

It hurt.

Because it made him remember who Ran was.

How kind she was. How forgiving. How selfless.

And now, seeing the people who raised her, Conan understood. She didn’t become that way by accident. That warmth, that strength—it came from somewhere.

From them. From this.

They had lost everything once already—when Ran got sick. And now this.

And still, they chose to be kind.

Conan clenched his fists, fingers trembling.

And as he sat between them, silent and heavy, still feelingt like his world was about to lose its axis, all he could ever do was wait for the news. 

-

He didn’t know how much time had passed.

It could have been ten minutes. It could have been an hour. Time had long since lost its rhythm. Every second dragged like years, but looking back, it all felt like a blink.

All Conan could hear was the soft hum of the air conditioning, the shuffle of shoes against linoleum, the distant rustle of pages turning at the nurse’s station. Sounds too mundane for a moment this terrifying.

He sat sandwiched between Eri and Kogoro, their presence like bookends trying to hold him upright. He wasn’t sure they were succeeding.

His spine was stiff, but not from strength—from tension. From fear. He couldn’t even fidget. His limbs felt leaden. Dead.

Then—finally—the doors opened.

All three of them stood at once.

The sound of quick steps echoed against the hospital walls. A man in his early forties wearing a white coat and a standard-issue badge approached them first. A stethoscope hung around his neck, his expression sharp with practiced urgency. Just a step behind him was another doctor—Dr. Sakamoto.

Conan’s breath caught.

The general physician—the emergency responder—was the first to speak. He glanced at all three of them before focusing briefly on Conan, acknowledging his presence without condescension, something Conan appreciated more than he expected.

“She’s stabilized for now,” he said, his voice calm, measured. “The patient—Mouri Ran—experienced a significant hypoxic episode before arrival. She was unconscious on admission. We began oxygen therapy immediately.”

Hypoxic.

The word hung in the air like smoke.

The doctor continued. “Hypoxia occurs when the body’s tissues don’t receive enough oxygen. It can be triggered by multiple factors, especially in patients with compromised pulmonary function. In her case, the episode likely began with breathlessness—short, shallow breathing that rapidly escalated.”

He paused for a moment, giving them space to absorb the information.

“She presented with classic symptoms,” he went on. “Cyanosis—her lips and fingertips had turned blue. Disorientation. Blurred vision. Focus loss. And then, collapse.”

Conan swallowed hard. He could still see her blinking slowly, lips blue, her gaze struggling to find him in the blur. He could still hear her voice.

“Conan-kun...”

The doctor’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “It’s fortunate she was brought in as soon as she was. Her oxygen saturation upon arrival was at seventy-five percent.”

Kogoro made a choked noise. Eri covered her mouth.

75%

That was… too low. Dangerously low. Fatal, in some cases.

The doctor continued. “She’s unconscious, but she’s stable. The oxygen therapy is helping, and we’ll continue monitoring her stats throughout the night.”

He offered a brief bow of his head. “Her pulmonologist will take it from here.”

Dr. Sakamoto stepped forward.

Her face was drawn, pale beneath the harsh white lights. There were shadows under her eyes, and her jaw was tight, like she was holding something back.

“Thank you, Dr. Miura,” she said quietly. The emergency physician nodded and excused himself, leaving the three of them facing the woman who, more than anyone else, understood the weight of Ran’s condition.

Eri and Kogoro both nodded their thanks, subdued and shaken. Sato had returned to the hallway as well, hovering close.

Dr. Sakamoto looked at each of them carefully. She didn’t rush. She didn’t sugarcoat.

“We’ll continue with the oxygen therapy, and we’ll be keeping her in ICU until we’re absolutely sure her condition stabilizes. But... we need to perform further tests to determine the extent of what just happened.”

Conan’s chest tightened.

Dr. Sakamoto didn’t soften her words.

“This could be part of a progression. From early stage to middle. Or—” she hesitated, briefly, and then her voice dropped an octave. “—this could be the beginning of something more serious. An acute event.”

She didn’t say the word. Not yet. But it echoed in the silence all the same.

“Either way,” she continued, voice low and grave, “you have to be prepared.”

That was when Conan felt the ground shift.

The walls were still white. The lights were still bright. But everything else tilted sideways, like someone had taken the whole world and spun it just off balance.

Be prepared.

Those words rang in his ears, bouncing around his skull, loud and soft and deafening.

Prepared for what?

For loss?

For goodbye?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that his heart had dropped out of his chest. That his breath had shortened. That his vision tunneled—just slightly—but enough to make him feel like he was falling.

They had been waiting all this time—for what? For news. For clarity. For hope.

But there was no good news here.

Only bad. And worse.

Only more waiting. More unknowns.

Only more fear.

All this time, Conan had been clinging to something. A faint hope. A belief that if he just tried hard enough, ran fast enough, solved quickly enough, loved hard enough—he could fix this. Protect her. Carry her through this dark place.

He realized now how naïve that was.

He had imagined this as a tunnel. A dark, endless tunnel with only a single light at the end. A light named Ran. A light that was warm and steady and guiding him home.

But now...

Now the light was dimming.

The darkness crept in from the corners. The tunnel was cold, and getting colder. His legs felt heavier. He kept running, but there was no more sound of footsteps. No echoes. Only silence. And the light—his light—was flickering.

What if the tunnel didn’t end?

What if it never had?

What if there was no exit?

What if he was just running in circles, forever chasing something that was fading with every step?

What if... he was already too late?

He gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles white.

He wanted to scream. To stand up. To demand they do something. Anything.

But what would it change?

He was just a boy in this body. A detective with no power in this world. No matter how much he knew, how much he could deduce, he couldn’t diagnose. He couldn’t heal. He couldn’t breathe for her.

And so he stayed frozen. Small. Useless.

The tunnel stretched on, dark and unrelenting, and Conan realized—

He was trapped. And there was no escape. 

There was no hope. 

None at all. 

-
-

It was past midnight by the time they left the hospital.

The halls had grown quieter, the bright fluorescents dimmed slightly as the night shift took over. Eri didn’t remember walking to the car. She didn’t remember the drive.

All she could recall was the soft hum of the engine and the weight of silence pressing down on all three of them. No one spoke. Not her. Not Kogoro. Not even Conan.

Especially not Conan.

Ran was in the ICU, under close monitoring. They’d been told she couldn’t have any visitors until morning. Not even her parents. Not even Conan, who had refused to leave her side in the ER, who had clung to the hope of being allowed just one more moment, one more second, by her side.

But not this time.

Rules were rules, and the ICU didn’t bend them.

The doctors said they would assess her again tomorrow. If her oxygen levels improved. If she stabilized through the night. If. So many ifs. So much left hanging on a single thread.

Sato had long since left, after offering her support and one last squeeze of Eri’s hand. Kogoro, unusually subdued, had simply nodded and thanked her. The sight of him so quiet had been strange in and of itself—like watching a lion tuck his tail, caged and helpless.

And then there was Conan.

The boy who never ran out of ideas, the boy who always had a plan, always knew what to do next, had become a ghost of himself.

Eri had watched him carefully after they stepped out of the hospital, expecting him to argue, to fight, to demand to stay. But he hadn’t.

He hadn’t even looked at her when she told him they were going home for the night. No nod, no shake of his head—just blank, distant eyes staring at something that wasn’t there.

He moved with them like he was made of mist, like a balloon whose string had been severed, caught in the current of someone else’s decisions. A child in body, yes—but one who had clearly aged decades in a few hours.

Eri didn’t know how much he truly understood. But at the same time, she had the gut-wrenching suspicion that he understood everything.

He hadn’t said a single word the entire trip home.

And when they arrived, when she gently urged him to take some rest, he only nodded once. Just once. No eye contact. No complaint. He walked down the hall without looking back.

Eri watched him until he disappeared into the bedroom, the faint sound of the door closing echoing louder than it should have.

Kogoro glanced down the hall and muttered, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Eri said nothing. She simply gave a small nod, unable to say more.

Now she sat at her desk, tucked in the spare room she sometimes used as a home office. The light overhead was cold and unforgiving.

Her files were strewn across the desk, papers she had left in a hurry the day Ran collapsed. Legal documents. Notes. Closing arguments for a trial she wasn’t sure she could even continue.

She didn’t know if she could stand in a courtroom anymore, not when her heart was stranded somewhere between sterile white hospital sheets and the beep of a monitor.

Still, she picked up her pen.

Still, her eyes traced lines of text, correcting, annotating, underlining, moving mechanically through the motions of work.

Because if she didn’t...

If she let go, even for a second...

She might fall apart.

She pressed her lips together and forced herself to read. To write. To pretend.

But her mind was never far from her daughter.

Her daughter.

Her little girl who used to run around the house, grinning as she helped her mother with chores. Her teenage daughter who always tried to act mature but still so easy to cry. Her Ran who, even as her body weakened, never let go of her kindness, never allowed her spirit to break.

Her daughter who had said “it’s okay, I’m okay” even with her chest heaving and her breaths becoming uneven.

Ran had always been Eri’s anchor.

Not the other way around.

People often assumed that Eri, with her steel-edged confidence and courtroom prowess, was the pillar of their family. But the truth was far simpler—and far sadder.

Ran was the warmth that made Eri human.

Without her, Eri didn’t know who she would have become. Maybe just another ice-cold lawyer, married to the law and nothing else. Maybe someone who had long since stopped remembering birthdays and what joy felt like.

Ran had changed that.

Ran was the one who sent her text messages saying “good luck” before trials. Ran was the one who cooked her miso soup when she worked late and forgot to eat. Ran was the one who still bought her silly birthday gifts, who still hoped for their family to be whole again even after all these years.

She was the warmth in Eri’s life. Her reason to smile. 

And now she might lose her.

They've been told to be prepared. Ran had hinted so many times, too. 

But no mother could ever truly prepare herself for the loss of her child. Not for her only daughter. Not for the person who made her feel alive.

It was just too hard, too cruel. 

Eri’s pen trembled in her fingers, the line she was drawing smearing across the page. She let out a quiet breath, closed her eyes, and pressed the bridge of her nose.

She could not break.

Not now.

She still had to work on these files. If she couldn’t be in the hospital with Ran, she had to do something. She had to move. She had to fight.

Because if she stopped—

If she allowed herself to feel everything at once—

She might never be able to stand again.

She stared blankly at the page in front of her, the letters swimming into shapes she no longer recognized.

In the silence of the room, her tears finally fell.

But her hand kept writing.

Because it was the only way she could keep breathing.

-

She hadn't slept.

Not really.

Eri had closed her eyes for maybe an hour, slumped forward on her desk, but her mind never shut off. It had been buzzing with legal phrases and courtroom procedures and the haunting wheeze of her daughter’s breath, even in silence.

Still, she rose at dawn and moved as if she'd slept soundly, methodically brushing her hair back into a tight bun, as if the firmness of her appearance might hold her heart together.

She didn’t feel tired.

Or maybe she did—had been tired for so long that exhaustion had become her default state. A bone-deep weariness that began the moment the diagnosis was confirmed. That tiredness, like a weight in her blood, had never left. It only shifted, rebalanced, found new places to settle.

She’d simply grown used to it, learned to live with it like an extra limb she never asked for.

When she stepped into the hallway, she wasn’t surprised to see Conan already waiting near the door, fully dressed, shoes on, his tiny backpack slung over one shoulder like a soldier preparing for battle.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Eri didn’t even blink—of course he was ready. Of course he wouldn’t stay behind.

She nodded in acknowledgment, wordless but understanding.

Before they stepped out, Kogoro came around the corner, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked older than yesterday, like a man who’d aged a decade overnight. He’d been quiet through all of this—strangely quiet—but his presence had never wavered.

“Are you going to your office today?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” Eri said, glancing down at the neat folder she’d packed with all her notes. “Just to drop these off. I won’t stay long.”

Kogoro gave a small grunt of understanding, then offered, “We’ll take turns. You go to the hospital this morning. I’ll come later when you need to head to your office.”

Eri paused, blinked, and nodded. “All right. That’s a good idea.” Then, after a beat, she added, “Call Ran’s friends. They… they might want to know.”

“Yeah,” Kogoro muttered, eyes cast down. “I will.”

With nothing more to say, Eri opened the door. Conan followed her, still silent, his footsteps light and soundless. The air outside was crisp and too bright for how she felt inside.

When they reached the hospital, the receptionist guided them to the row of chairs outside the ICU. The walls here were whitewashed and cold, lined with posters on hygiene and emergency numbers—sterile, empty things.

Eri took a seat, Conan beside her, their figures dwarfed by the wide corridor.

“They’ll let you in after the doctor checks her vitals,” the receptionist had said gently.

So they waited.

Conan stared at the closed ICU door as if it might crack open if he willed it hard enough.

Eri turned to him, her voice soft, hesitant. “Ne, Conan-kun…”

He didn’t look at her, but his eyes flicked briefly in her direction, acknowledging.

She pressed on, cautiously, “Do you want me to call your parents?” She hesitated even more, but added, "Maybe go home for a while?" 

His shoulders stiffened. His head turned to her, and for the first time, there was a visible shift in his expression—panic, fear, a flash of desperation.

“No!” he said, too quickly.

Then, gentler, eyes wide and pleading, “Please let me stay.”

Eri blinked, taken aback.

She hadn’t expected such a strong reaction. She’d only meant to offer him rest, comfort, familiarity. But now she saw the truth in his eyes—not childish stubbornness, but something else entirely. Desperation. Grief. Guilt, maybe. A thousand emotions storming behind the barrier of his young face.

“But, Conan-kun…” she began, worry creeping into her voice.

He shook his head. “I’ll take care of myself. You don’t have to worry about me, Auntie. Just… please let me stay.”

She studied him, really looked at him, and what she saw made her chest ache. He looked so small, yet the burden on his shoulders was so clearly not child-sized. The dark shadows under his eyes. The way his hands twisted nervously in his lap. That silent, unrelenting focus on Ran’s room.

He wasn’t just scared.

He was breaking.

“Can I really trust you with that?” she asked quietly.

Conan looked up at her, and there was steel beneath the softness now. A strength that shouldn’t belong to someone so young. “Yes,” he whispered.

Eri nodded. “Okay. But don’t push yourself. Please.”

He gave a small nod, and she let the conversation end there, her heart heavy but slightly eased. A deal had been struck, however fragile it may be.

Not long after, Dr. Sakamoto arrived. She greeted them politely, her face neutral but her eyes tired. Eri stood as the doctor entered the ICU, watching her disappear behind the frosted door.

Minutes passed—agonizing, drawn-out minutes where every beep, every shift of a nurse in the hallway, made her flinch.

Then the door opened.

Dr. Sakamoto gestured them inside.

Eri's breath caught in her throat. She rose quickly, Conan beside her, and followed the doctor into the room.

Ran lay motionless, pale and small in the sterile white sheets. The oxygen mask covered most of her face, mist fogging up the clear plastic every few seconds as she labored to breathe. Her skin was almost translucent, lips dry, hands limp at her sides.

The wheezing—it hadn’t stopped. That awful, unnatural sound that filled the room and stabbed at Eri’s heart like a blade.

Her baby.

Her strong, beautiful daughter, reduced to this fragile, suffering figure.

“Ran…” she breathed, her voice cracking.

Dr. Sakamoto glanced at the monitors and clipboard. “She’s still unconscious. We’ve been running tests—mainly to check if there’s any organ damage. But I’m optimistic she’ll wake up today. Her body’s just… recovering from the sudden drop in oxygen.”

She hesitated. “Her saturation levels are still dangerously low. She’ll need to stay in the ICU.”

Eri nodded numbly, her hand drifting up to cover her mouth.

“We should have test results by tomorrow,” Dr. Sakamoto continued. “We’ll discuss everything then.”

Eri managed a hoarse, “Okay.” It was all she could say.

The doctor offered a small bow, then stepped away. “I’ll check on her again later.”

When she left, Eri walked toward Ran’s bed, every step feeling like she was walking underwater. The room felt too cold. Too white. Too quiet, except for the raspy, struggling breaths of her daughter.

She reached out with trembling fingers and gently brushed Ran’s hair from her face.

“So sorry…” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She didn’t even know what she was apologizing for.

For the pain?

For not being able to fix it?

For not noticing sooner?

Maybe for everything. Maybe for nothing. Maybe just for being helpless in the face of something that could not be fought with logic or law or cross-examination.

Tears slipped from her eyes and fell onto the sheets, but she wiped them quickly, fiercely, as if ashamed of them.

She felt sorry for her daughter. Seeing her like this, unconscious and looking so fragile on her hospital bed. 

She felt sorry that Ran had to go through this—that she had to suffer like this, that she had to be in pain. 

She felt sorry that Ran was having a hard time, that even as simple as breathing had become a difficult thing to do—something that she needed to fight for. 

She leaned down, placed a soft kiss on Ran’s forehead, and lingered there.

She’s supposed to be warm, Eri thought.

But her skin was cool, too cool. 

She was Eri's warmth. She was supposed to be warm. 

And now she was fading.

Eri’s hands clenched at her sides.

She couldn’t do this. Not for long.

She stepped back, turned to Conan, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word.

“I’ll be just outside,” she murmured.

Conan gave her a small nod, eyes still locked on Ran.

Eri turned to leave—but just before the door closed, she looked back.

She saw Conan reach for Ran’s hand, hesitating, his fingers trembling as if afraid she might break under his touch. Then he took it, gently, with reverence, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

His head bowed, forehead touching their clasped hands. 

A boy in prayer.

And Eri—Eri let the door click softly shut, her heart breaking all over again.

When she stepped out of the ICU room, the hallway felt too bright—white lights bearing down on her like judgment. The antiseptic tang in the air stung her nose, and the steady hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead felt too loud, too persistent. The silence of the corridor was not real silence. It was filled with tension. With grief. With breath held too long and the heavy stillness of waiting.

She closed the door behind her softly, the click echoing down the corridor like the closing of something final. And there—just ahead, on the row of chairs they’d waited on earlier—was Sonoko.

Eri paused.

The girl sat stiffly, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap, white-knuckled. Her hair was messier than usual, frizzed at the edges, like she’d run through the wind. Her eyes darted up the moment she saw movement, and then she sprang to her feet.

“Auntie!” Sonoko’s voice cracked slightly. Her eyes were wide and rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears.

Eri barely had time to respond before Sonoko rushed forward, her voice rushed and trembling. “Is Ran…?”

She couldn’t finish the question.

Eri looked at her, really looked at her. The panic behind the eyes. The uneven breath. The sheen of sweat on her forehead. The way her fists clenched at her sides like she was preparing herself to be hit with something she couldn’t bear to hear.

The ache in Eri’s chest deepened.

So young. Ran. Conan. And now, Sonoko. Children who had barely begun their lives, already drowning in pain too big for their shoulders.

Eri reached out gently and touched Sonoko’s arm. “Sit down,” she said softly, her voice the kind used to soothe skinned knees and childhood nightmares. “Breathe.”

Sonoko’s legs seemed to give out beneath her as she dropped back onto the plastic chair, and Eri sat beside her. The younger girl’s chest rose and fell rapidly, but her eyes were fixed, desperate, pleading.

“Ran is still asleep,” Eri said quietly. 

A sharp exhale burst from Sonoko’s lips, her shoulders sagging in relief. She slumped forward, resting her elbows on her knees, hands covering her mouth.

“I came as soon as Uncle called,” Sonoko said, her voice muffled but trembling. “I—Is Ran okay?”

And there it was again. That question.

Is she okay?

Eri opened her mouth but no words came out. Not because she didn’t want Sonoko to worry. Not because she wanted to protect her. But because she genuinely didn’t know the answer.

What did ‘okay’ mean in this context? Breathing, but struggling. Alive, but unconscious. Stable, but slipping.

Eri turned her eyes downward, watching her hands twist together in her lap. She hadn’t even noticed she was doing it. Her nails dug into her palms.

“Ne, Sonoko-chan…” she began, her voice soft, distant. “Ran’s always been the strong one, hasn’t she?”

Sonoko lifted her head, confused but listening.

“Our strength,” Eri continued, her voice catching, “our protector. She’s always been the one to keep us grounded. Always there when we needed her. You, me, her father… Conan-kun. All of us. She’s always carried us.”

Sonoko nodded slowly, her brow furrowed.

Eri swallowed the lump in her throat. Her nose stung, her eyes burned. She turned her face slightly, ashamed of how easily the tears threatened to spill.

She sniffled, trying to hold them back, but it was too late—Sonoko had seen.

And her eyes, already glassy, immediately filled.

“Auntie…”

“I’m sorry,” Eri whispered, blinking fast. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sonoko’s hand crept up to her mouth, trembling, as tears spilled over her lashes. She shook her head rapidly. 

Eri took a shaky breath and placed a hand on Sonoko’s knee gently.

“She needs us now,” Eri said, quietly but firmly. “Now it’s our turn. To be by her side. You said I can ask your family for anything, didn't you? Now I ask of you, will you continue to stay with Ran?”

Sonoko’s face crumpled. Her lips trembled violently as she tried to hold back the sob working its way up her throat. But she couldn’t stop it. A soft, broken sound escaped as tears streamed freely down her cheeks.

“Of course,” she said, voice cracking. “Of course, Auntie—I’ll stay. Ran is my best friend. I’ll be with her through this. Always.”

Eri nodded, placing a hand over hers. Warm and trembling. Still childlike.

But there was more. Something Eri needed to say before she broke down herself.

She had watched these two girls grow up—inseparable from the moment they met. Loud, bright, inseparably bonded by something stronger than blood.

Sonoko had always been the spark, the laughter, the life. And through her, Ran had found joy. Found a way to live instead of just endure.

When Ran laughed—truly laughed—it had almost always been because of this girl.

“You’ve given her so much,” Eri said quietly. “Do you know that? You gave Ran something that even I couldn’t. A chance to be young. To be wild. To smile and forget all her responsibilities, even for a little while.”

Sonoko’s eyes widened with fresh tears.

“You helped her be more than just someone who looks after her father,” Eri whispered. “You helped her be a teenager. And she loves you for that.”

Sonoko bit her trembling lip, sobbing again.

“I just—” she choked, “I just want her to get better. I want to hear her voice again. I want her to scold me for dragging her to sales. I want her to laugh at me when I do silly things. I want—everything. I just want everything back.”

Eri’s hand tightened around hers.

“The doctor told us,” she said softly, bracing herself. “Told us to be prepared.”

Sonoko froze.

Her head jerked upward, her eyes locking with Eri’s.

“What… what do you mean?” she whispered.

Eri didn’t flinch.

“The news will come tomorrow,” she said, “after the test results. But... it's not going to be a good one.”

Sonoko’s expression collapsed. Like a wave breaking.

She turned away sharply, folding over herself as a sob tore from her chest. Her hands flew to her face, and the sound of her crying filled the hallway—raw, sharp, guttural.

“Ran…” she sobbed. 

Eri didn’t try to stop her.

Didn’t try to quiet her.

Because there was nothing to say. Nothing that could make it better. Nothing that could change what they were all being asked to face.

All she could do now was sit in the aftermath.

And wait.

Eri simply sat beside Sonoko, eyes fixed on the sterile white floor, the cries of this girl echoing the same ones in her own heart. 

-
-

The small conference room felt like a cage.

Windowless, quiet, walls bare and colorless, a rectangular table surrounded by three plastic chairs—the kind that wobbled if you shifted your weight wrong. A single air conditioning vent hummed above, stirring nothing but coldness into the room.

Kogoro sat with his arms crossed, not in defiance, but because it felt like the only way to hold himself together.

Eri sat on his left, silent, her hands pressed flat on the table like they were keeping her grounded. Conan was on his right, unusually still. No muttering. No fidgeting. No pretending to be the curious child. Just silence.

And then there was Dr. Araide across from them, his face unreadable but his eyes full of empathy. A quiet presence—gentle, composed. Someone who knew the weight of the words they were all about to hear, even before they were spoken.

Kogoro’s fingers twitched. His chest felt tight. He couldn’t tell if it was dread or something worse.

Ran had woken up yesterday afternoon.

He remembered it like it was happening now—her eyelashes trembling faintly before her eyes finally fluttered open. Slow. Uncertain. Like the wings of a dying butterfly struggling to beat just once more. Her skin was pale, her lips dry, her breath thin and shallow through the oxygen mask. But her eyes... they found them, even through the haze. She saw them.

She saw him.

And the first thing she said—the first thing—was a whisper so frail he’d leaned in just to catch it.

“...Sorry.”

That one word tore through him harder than any bullet ever could.

He wanted to grab her then. Pull her to his chest. Feel her heartbeat against his own just to remind himself she was still there, still alive.

But she was too thin, too weak, too breakable. His arms hovered uselessly above her, and instead of the embrace he ached to give, he did what he always did—he barked.

He’d told her off. Scolded her for worrying them. For running into danger. For apologizing when she was the one barely hanging on. His voice cracked even as he tried to sound strong, tried to hide the way his throat was closing up, how tears prickled at the corners of his eyes.

And she… she just smiled.

That sad, quiet smile.

That resigned smile.

It was becoming all too familiar lately.

Gone were the fierce reprimands, the bright eyes that used to shine with fire every time she called him out. The grins that used to break through any bad day.

Now, it was always that same soft, almost apologetic smile—like she knew something the rest of them didn’t. Like she had already made peace with something they hadn’t even realized they were supposed to fight yet.

Kogoro didn’t know how long that image haunted him before the door clicked open and Dr. Sakamoto entered the room, a clipboard in hand and a tight expression on her face. She gave them a small bow before taking the seat beside Araide.

She was young, probably around Eri’s age, but her eyes looked older now—clouded with concern, tempered by sorrow. The lines on her forehead were deeper today.

“Thank you for waiting,” she said, voice quiet, gentle. Like she was trying not to disturb something sacred. “We’ve reviewed all of Ran-san’s tests and imaging results. I’ll explain everything as clearly as I can.”

No one said anything. Not even Conan. He had that same look on his face Kogoro had seen before—stone-cold calm, as if any emotion would shatter him into pieces.

Dr. Sakamoto folded her hands and took a breath. “There is no evidence of heart failure or blood clots. We also didn’t find any signs of stroke or infection in the initial tests. However…”

She paused.

Kogoro’s stomach twisted.

“Based on her CT scans and blood work, we are diagnosing Ran-san with an acute exacerbation of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.”

The words echoed in the room like the bang of a gavel.

Acute Exacerbation

Kogoro didn’t even know what it meant, not fully, but the way it sounded—sharp, clinical, damning—he could already feel the weight of it pressing on his chest.

Dr. Sakamoto continued, her voice never rising above a careful, sympathetic cadence. “This means there’s been a sudden, widespread increase in inflammation and damage to her lungs, on top of the existing fibrosis. It’s a sharp, severe worsening of her condition that can happen unpredictably in IPF patients.”

Eri’s breath hitched beside him. Conan’s fists clenched on his lap.

Kogoro couldn’t move. He could only listen. Only absorb. The way he had the first time they’d told him Ran was sick. The same way he had sat there, stunned and silent, while his world cracked quietly down the middle.

“It’s like the disease—already chronic and progressive—suddenly accelerates,” she went on. “What was supposed to be a slow decline becomes a sudden drop. Her oxygenation has worsened. Her lung capacity has diminished even more in just a few days. And imaging shows fresh, diffuse opacities layered over the old scarring. That’s the inflammation.”

Each word stabbed a little deeper.

“Right now, she’s on high-dose intravenous corticosteroids to try and reduce the inflammation. If she doesn’t respond well enough to that, we may have to start immunosuppressive therapy.”

Her voice turned heavier. A weight she didn’t want to deliver.

“Unfortunately,” she said slowly, “the prognosis for acute exacerbation in IPF is… poor. Many patients don’t recover fully. Some don’t recover at all.”

High risk of death

She didn’t say it outright at first—but Kogoro heard it. Loud and clear in the silence that followed. That silence that throbbed with the beat of his heart, each thud like thunder in his ears.

Eri’s hand flew to her mouth. Conan stared at the table with eyes that were dark, unreadable.

“If Ran-san recovers,” Dr. Sakamoto added, “she will likely require long-term oxygen therapy going forward. Even small tasks may be exhausting. The damage done during exacerbation is rarely reversible.”

It was too much.

Kogoro felt like he was underwater, the air sucked from his lungs. He wanted to scream. Wanted to rage. But all he could do was sit there, still and silent, as his daughter’s life was quietly dismantled in front of him.

“Why?” Eri’s voice trembled, thick with tears. “How did this happen? She was—she was stable before. What could’ve caused this?”

Dr. Sakamoto’s expression softened. “There are several potential triggers. Infections. Air pollution. Acid reflux. Certain surgeries. Physical stress. But in almost fifty percent of cases…” she looked them in the eye, “we never find the cause. It’s idiopathic. Meaning—unknown.”

She let the words settle. The helplessness of them.

“And in Ran-san’s case, that’s what we believe happened. There was no clear trigger. Nothing we could predict. No way we could have stopped it.”

The words landed like stones.

Kogoro’s mind screamed. So what now? Are they supposed to just watch her fade away? Wasn’t it already cruel enough that she had this disease in the first place?

He looked to Eri. Her face was streaked with tears now. Quiet. Helpless. She wasn’t arguing. Wasn’t questioning. Just crying into her hand like it was the only thing she could do to stay upright.

The room blurred a little, and he realized his own eyes were wet.

Finally, Dr. Sakamoto and Dr. Araide both stood and gave a deep, solemn bow.

“We’re truly sorry,” she said, “that we can’t offer more clarity. Or better news. We’ll continue to do everything we can. But… there are limits to what medicine can do. And that is the hardest part of our job.”

They excused themselves with quiet dignity and slipped out of the room.

Then Conan rose too.

Without a word. Without looking at them.

And he walked out.

Just like that.

Leaving behind only silence and grief so thick it could choke them.

Kogoro turned slowly to Eri.

She was crying openly now, curled slightly into herself, her shoulders trembling. He reached out—wordless—and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her gently against his chest.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t say anything.

Just leaned into him, one hand still over her mouth, the other clutching at his sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her anchored.

And Kogoro sat there.

Holding his wife in a cold, colorless room.

The only sound he could hear were Eri's soft sobs and his own heart cracking open. 

-

Kogoro went home to the detective agency after making certain Eri would be alright. But that woman was really Ran's mother. She was strong. 

After shedding a few tears and having her moment of quietude, she was already back on her feet and sending Kogoro home to pick up some supplies and things Ran might need. 

So here he came. 

But... the agency felt different.

Not in any way one could point out by eye. The furniture was the same—the beaten couch with its sagging cushion, the cluttered desk covered in papers and neglected case notes, the faint smell of instant coffee lingering in the air. But Kogoro could feel it.

Something about the silence in this place, usually filled with the rattle of the fan or the distant voice of the TV, felt thicker now. Oppressive. As if it knew what he had come home carrying.

He moved automatically, walking into his office and placing his coat on the rack with a kind of aimless discipline. The chair at his desk creaked beneath him as he sat down, the familiar groan oddly comforting. His hands rested on the cluttered table, motionless.

There was no case to solve today. No client. No deadline. Just a list of toiletries and clothes Ran might need when she’s moved into her new room later this evening.

She was finally stable enough to be transferred. They said it like it was good news.

But Kogoro couldn’t feel anything like relief. Just a numb, hollow ache in his chest that pulsed with every breath.

He leaned back in his chair and turned his head toward the open window. From there, the city below carried on as usual. The faint hum of conversation drifted up from the sidewalk—neighbors chatting, children calling to each other, a shopkeeper setting out merchandise and greeting customers with practiced enthusiasm. A delivery bike sped past with a rattle of wheels and a short honk. Somewhere down the block, a small dog barked, prompting laughter from someone unseen.

The sky was a clear blue, streaked with the kind of soft white clouds that looked like they belonged in childhood picture books. The sun was warm, bright, almost mocking.

And Kogoro sat still, staring, wondering how the world hadn’t stopped turning.

His daughter was in the hospital, barely able to breathe without the hiss of oxygen beside her bed, her future tied precariously to a prognosis lined with quiet dread—and yet the people down there bought groceries, laughed, lived.

He shut his eyes for a long moment.

How?

How could the world stay so normal, so whole, when his had already fallen apart?

It felt like a kind of cruelty. A betrayal.

The hardest part of being a detective was always the aftermath—walking away from a case knowing the pain wouldn't end just because the criminal was caught.

But this? There was no culprit. No shadowy figure lurking in the background. No motive to decipher or weapon to trace.

Unlike his usual cases, there were no physical threats, no criminal or villain to apprehend.

The one betraying them right now was Ran's own body. 

Her lungs, those same lungs that used to carry her laughter across the dojo, that had screamed encouragement at karate tournaments, that had breathed in the night air after long walks with her friends—they were turning against her.

How was he supposed to fight that?

How could he protect her from something he couldn’t punch, interrogate, or put behind bars?

He exhaled, a slow and bitter sound.

The door to the agency opened behind him with a soft sound, and Kogoro stood up immediately, mask falling back into place like armor.

“Megure-keibu!” he greeted, the smile already stretching across his face, a practiced flash of energy in his voice. “What a surprise! It’s good to see you.”

Megure stepped in, looking the same as always—broad-shouldered, hat low over his eyes, coat neatly buttoned even in the warm weather. But there was a quiet weight behind his gaze as he nodded.

“Good thing you’re here,” he said without preamble, stepping forward and setting something down. “I brought Ran-kun’s bag. It was left behind in the shopping district. My subordinate’s been holding onto it until now.”

Kogoro blinked, then reached out, gently taking the bag. He unzipped it.

Inside, he saw a clear plastic pouch holding a few small, gift-wrapped items—something she must’ve picked up while shopping. There was a phone strap in the inside pocket, a design he didn’t recognize. Her wallet and phone were there too, confirming it was definitely hers.

“She must’ve been buying gifts…” he muttered.

Megure watched him silently as he zipped the bag back up.

“Thanks, keibu-dono,” Kogoro said with a crooked grin. “You didn’t need to bring it yourself.”

“I wanted to,” Megure said simply.

Then his gaze sharpened just a touch, his voice softening, steady.

“Have you been eating properly, Mouri-kun?”

Kogoro barked a laugh. It came too fast. Too loud. It sounded fake even to his own ears.

“Of course, keibu-dono. You know me—I’m indestructible!”

But Megure didn’t smile.

“I do know you,” he said gravely. “That’s how I know you haven’t.”

He pulled something out from behind his back—a small stack of neatly packed bento boxes. Kogoro blinked.

“Here,” Megure said, placing them on the desk. “Eat this. Midori made them. She’s going to find Eri-san later and make sure she eats too.”

He didn’t ask if Kogoro wanted to. He just told him.

Kogoro clapped his hands together in mock celebration. “Wow, is this Midori-san’s famous bento? You shouldn’t have, but... since it’s here already... Thanks for the food!”

He opened the first box.

Inside, the onigiri was shaped with gentle precision. Tamagoyaki, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a sweet potato croquette rested in neat rows—colors vibrant, like a home-cooked rainbow of care.

He picked up the chopsticks.

The first bite of onigiri hit his tongue—and he froze.

It was warm. The rice perfectly seasoned. The texture soft and comforting. But what struck him wasn’t the taste.

It was the feeling.

There was care in this food.

Love and worry and effort—every grain of rice an unspoken message from a friend who knew.

And suddenly, he was somewhere else.

A memory from years ago unfurled itself without permission.

Ran, five years old, skipping into the police station with a bento clutched in her tiny hands. Eri beside her, proud and regal even then, telling Kogoro he’d better eat every bite of what Ran made.

“I helped Mom make it!” Ran had chirped, grinning up at him. “I even put the pickles like you like!”

That grin.

That joy.

He'd always looked forward to seeing little Ran, his baby girl, smile so big as she'd passed him the bento. 

That little girl who had run into his arms, always so full of light—

She was fighting for her life now.

And he might lose her.

The food in his mouth turned to lead.

His throat constricted. His eyes blurred. His chopsticks lowered slowly to the desk.

He bit his lip to stop it. But it was no use. The dam had been broken, triggered by thoughts of young Ran grinning and smiling to her father. 

The tears came.

One by one at first, then all at once. He curled forward in his chair, shoulders trembling, his hand rising to cover his mouth as the sobs broke loose. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to break.

But Megure didn’t say a word.

Didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just let him grieve.

Right then and there, mouth still filled with half-chewed onigiri, Kogoro—weary, proud, stubborn Kogoro—broke down. 

Because the truth was this:

He couldn’t save Ran.

There was no villain to fight, no case to solve. Just a ticking clock in a hospital room, a girl behind glass and machines, and a father who could only watch.

He might lose her.

He might lose the only good thing he ever helped create.

And the sun would still shine. And the world would still turn. And people would still laugh outside that window.

But inside this small, cluttered room…

Kogoro's world was falling apart.

And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

-

Chapter Text

-

The hallways of Haido Central Hospital were polished and quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t invite peace but instead reminded you of waiting rooms and bad news. It was a clinical stillness—cold, sharp, sterile.

Agasa walked at a slower pace than usual, his footsteps softened by the glossy tiles, though the small shuffling behind him reminded him that he wasn’t alone.

Four small pairs of feet followed close behind.

Ayumi, Mitsuhiko, Genta, and Ai. His little flock of curious, bright-eyed kids—though today, their eyes weren’t so bright. Their shoulders sagged with the weight of something none of them could truly understand, and yet somehow, were being made to bear.

Agasa had taken the role of guardian more times than he could count. Their school trips, overnight science camps, spontaneous treasure hunts in the woods.

But today, as he walked them through the pristine white corridors, there was no sense of excitement. No chatter about theories, no arguments between Genta and Mitsuhiko over snacks or discoveries. Even Genta, who usually couldn’t keep his voice under a whisper even when asked, was unusually subdued.

Ayumi walked closest to Agasa, the small bouquet of soft pink and purple flowers she held nearly trembling in her hands. The ribbon around the stems fluttered with each step. Her head was down, hadn't spoken much all morning, and Agasa noticed how she kept biting her lip whenever the others tried to reassure her.

He didn’t need to ask. He knew.

She thought this was her fault.

Agasa had heard what happened at the store opening the other day. How Ran had saved Ayumi before she collapsed. But it was never the child's fault that she was taken hostage. 

And still, children carried blame more willingly than they ever should have.

They reached the private room slowly. Room 513. The nameplate on the door still read Mouri Ran-sama. The weight of seeing her name there—so formal, so out of place in this sterile setting—settled uneasily in his chest.

He reached out and slid the door open as gently as he could.

Inside, the lighting was soft, the window curtains drawn halfway to block the midday sun. The room smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral—probably from a previous bouquet. The gentle beeping of a monitor underscored the silence.

Ran lay on the bed, unmoving. Her dark hair, once thick and full, was splayed thin across the white pillow, and her face had lost much of its warmth, now pale and sunken. Her breathing was uneven even with the clear tubing of a nasal cannula taped beneath her nose. The oxygen machine nearby gave a soft mechanical hum.

Agasa almost mistook her for asleep.

He turned to the children and whispered, “Try to keep your voices down, okay? She’s resting.”

But then he noticed something—Shinichi.

He sat in the chair pulled close to her bedside, his back facing the door, still as a statue. One small hand dangled near Ran’s, barely grazing the bed sheets. His other hand was tucked under his chin, propping his face up, but not in a way that looked comfortable. It looked... tired.

No—he looked tired. So small. So thin. As if the weight of everything had compressed him into something even more fragile than his de-aged body already made him.

Agasa couldn’t see his expression, but he didn’t need to.

He could feel it from the way Shinichi hadn’t moved an inch since they entered. As if he didn’t even hear them. Like he was lost in his own world—a world that consisted only of the girl lying unconscious beside him.

Then, the faintest sound of shifting fabric. Ran’s eyes fluttered open, two slivers of violet visible beneath heavy lids. She blinked slowly, her gaze adjusting to the soft lighting. The room seemed to collectively inhale.

Agasa turned quickly, guilt flickering in his chest. “Ah—Ran-kun, I’m sorry. Did we wake you?”

Ran’s response was slow, a small shake of her head, almost imperceptible. Her eyes stayed unfocused for a second longer, before flicking toward the door—and the group of children standing there.

Only then did Shinichi turn around.

His face was as pale as Ran’s, eyes red around the edges. It was the blankness in his expression that unsettled Agasa the most—like someone whose heart had been wrung out too many times and had nothing left to feel.

“You guys,” he said softly, voice hoarse. Just two words, and yet they carried exhaustion no child should ever know.

The Detective Boys moved forward, a few tentative steps, almost shy. Genta gave a little wave. Mitsuhiko bowed his head slightly. Ai’s eyes stayed fixed on Ran, unreadable.

But it was Ayumi who stepped forward with the bouquet pressed tightly to her chest, her arms stiff with nerves. She stopped at the foot of the bed, her eyes locked on Ran.

“H-Hello, Ran-oneesan,” she said softly, voice trembling. “I... I brought you flowers.”

Ran turned her head slightly toward her, her gaze softening. Her lips twitched in something close to a smile. Ayumi inched closer and placed the bouquet on the small side table next to the bed. The silence stretched. Ran’s breathing rattled faintly with each inhale.

Then Ayumi looked down. Her little fists clenched.

“I’m... I’m really sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking at the end.

Ran's hand lifted slowly, shaking from the effort. The one that wasn’t attached to her IV.

Agasa watched, heart in his throat, as Ayumi hesitated—then reached out and took it gently, her own small fingers wrapping around the frail hand.

Ran’s smile deepened, weak but filled with a tenderness that cracked Agasa’s chest open.

“It’s not your fault, Ayumi-chan,” she rasped. Her voice was barely audible. Just a breath and a whisper, each syllable slow and strained like it cost her something to say them. “None... of this... is your fault.”

Ayumi’s hand trembled faintly in Ran’s, and her gaze lowered, lashes fluttering as though trying to keep tears from falling again. Her lip wobbled. She hadn’t let go of Ran’s hand, but her small shoulders hunched as if trying to protect herself from the gentleness of those words.

“…But…” she whispered, barely audible.

The single syllable dangled in the air like a loose thread—one that tugged at Agasa’s chest with painful familiarity.

She didn’t believe it. Not really.

Ran, ever perceptive, shifted her eyes to the side—toward Shinichi. A subtle, silent look passed between them. Agasa caught the moment clearly.

Ran’s throat worked faintly as she swallowed and gave a tiny, pleading glance in Shinichi's direction. It was quiet, but it was unmistakable: Help me explain.

Shinichi responded with a slight twitch of his fingers on the blanket, like someone anchoring himself to something solid before speaking.

“Ah,” he said, voice quiet, strained. “It’s really not your fault, Ayumi-chan.”

Ayumi looked up at him, surprised. Her wide eyes searched his face. Agasa could tell she wanted to believe him—her trust in 'Conan-kun' was almost unshakable—but her guilt hadn't yet let her go.

Shinichi met her gaze, and for a brief second, something flashed behind his glasses. Weariness, maybe. Or something deeper. But when he spoke again, his voice had adopted a steadier rhythm, a soft matter-of-fact tone that children often found comforting, even if it wavered at the edges.

“It’s Ran-neechan’s illness,” he said, threading each word with deliberate care. “I told you before, remember? That it’s something serious. That’s just... how it is.”

Agasa’s heart twisted.

To the kids, it probably sounded calm—reassuring, even. But Agasa could hear it. Could feel it. That tightness beneath Shinichi's words. Like someone swallowing broken glass and pretending it was nothing. Trying to be the rational one. The strong one.

But no child should ever have to learn to speak like that.

Ayumi slowly turned back to Ran, blinking through the last of her tears. Ran gave her a small nod, as if to confirm Shinichi's words. Her expression was gentle, her lips curved faintly upward. Encouraging. Forgiving.

Then Genta stepped forward, breaking the heavy silence with his usual bluntness, though even he seemed to hesitate.

“But… you will get better, right?” he asked, voice smaller than usual, but still undeniably Genta. “Right, neechan?”

Agasa turned to look at him sharply, but before he could say anything, Mitsuhiko stepped up beside Genta, looking at him as if saying he didn't even need to ask that. 

“What are you saying, Genta-kun?” Mitsuhiko said, his tone half-scolding. “Of course Ran-san will get better. Japan’s medical technology is one of the most advanced in the world. We can cure almost anything now. I read that last year alone, there were breakthroughs in over two dozen rare diseases.”

Ayumi’s face lit up a little. “That’s right!” she said quickly, clinging to the idea. “Ran-oneesan will get better soon, I just know it!”

Genta puffed up again, encouraged. “Yeah! And when she gets better, she can play with us again! We’ll go to Tropical Land or that new arcade that opened near Beika Mall!”

“Or maybe a mystery scavenger hunt in the park!” Mitsuhiko added, clearly swept up in the excitement. “We’ll plan it all out and give her clues—make it extra special!”

Ayumi bounced on her feet. “And we’ll bring snacks and juice, and we’ll have a picnic, and—and—Ran-oneesan can wear that pretty scarf I gave her last year!”

Their voices grew brighter, overlapping one another, vivid with unshaken belief and innocent hope. The kind of hope that came from not knowing how dark things truly were.

Agasa watched them quietly. They had moved toward the long bench across the room, chattering now, planning their imaginary future reunion with a kind of unshakable certainty only children possessed. Joy bloomed on their faces like spring returning to cold soil.

And still, on the other side of the room, the cold lingered.

Shinichi didn’t join them. He sat quietly by Ran’s bedside, his fingers absently tracing the corner of the blanket as he stared down at the hem of Ran’s hospital gown. His face was unreadable now—not blank, but bracing. As though trying not to crumble.

Ai moved silently to the other bench, not far from Shinichi but not close either. She sat down with the air of someone who already knew the outcome and had known it for a long time. Her eyes didn’t go to the children. They stayed on Ran. Her expression was hard to read—Ai’s expressions often were—but the slight tension in her posture said enough.

And Agasa… he stood between them.

On one side, the laughter of children dreaming of recovery. On the other, the stark, immovable truth. A girl lying pale and breathless in a hospital bed, and a boy in a child’s body sitting beside her, holding in grief with everything he had left.

And in the middle—himself. Helpless. Useless.

Agasa’s gaze dropped to his hands. The same hands that had built thousands of gadgets over the years. That had tinkered with voice-changing bowties, turbo-powered skateboards, tranquiliser-gun watch, and hidden microphones.

And recently—air purifiers. A personalized inhaler. A nebulizer with adjustable strength.

That was all he could offer. Gadgets.

Not a cure. Not hope. Not a second chance.

He swallowed back the ache that crawled into his throat and looked back at Ran. She was watching the kids now, her smile still soft. Amused, perhaps, or touched. Grateful. Maybe even relieved that they still had the strength to believe in something brighter.

But there was no bittersweetness in her eyes. No glimmer of regret. Just quiet acceptance.

And somehow… that made it all the more painful.

She had already accepted it. Whatever future the children were painting for her in vivid, colorful tones—Ran had already stepped away from that picture.

Agasa clenched his jaw. If only he had chosen medicine over machines. If only he had studied the human body instead of robotics. If only he had read more medical journals instead of tinkering with toy-sized tanks and multi-purpose glasses.

Maybe then he could have done something.

Maybe then, Shinichi wouldn’t have to sit like this, broken behind his usual stoicism, watching the girl he loved fade quietly beneath a smile.

Maybe then Ran wouldn’t be—

knock knock.

A soft, polite tapping broke through his thoughts. Agasa turned toward the door, startled. It was gentle, hesitant—two short knocks that didn’t demand, only asked for permission to enter.

He blinked.

And the moment cracked, just a little, as reality shifted again.

The soft knock had barely faded when the door creaked open, just a sliver at first, a cautious peek inside. Agasa turned instinctively, expecting perhaps a nurse or another visiting friend—but what greeted him instead was the familiar, youthful face of Kudo Yukiko, peering inside with her usual flair of mischief hidden beneath warm poise.

Her head popped in first, eyes scanning the room before her lips curled into a gentle smile—relieved, even glad.

“Oh, good,” she whispered, slipping the rest of her body through the doorway with careful grace. “She’s awake.”

Agasa blinked in surprise, straightening. “Yukiko-kun…”

He hadn’t known she was in town.

But as the initial startle faded, it was quickly replaced with something else—something close to relief. It was like a sudden breeze in a suffocating room.

Yukiko had always been bright, but now, her presence held something more than that. Support. Familiarity. Understanding. Someone who could stand beside Shinichi, even in secret, and offer comfort when so few could.

She hadn’t come in with dramatic flair or sweeping fanfare like she sometimes did. No. Today, her cheerfulness had been tempered—quiet, subdued. Appropriate. She greeted them all with a lightness that carefully tiptoed around the gravity of the room.

“Hello, everyone,” she said softly, her voice like wind brushing against fragile glass. “Sorry to intrude.”

Agasa nodded and returned her greeting, still watching her in some surprise. Shinichi, too, had turned to look. The boy seemed taken aback at first, his eyes rounding ever so slightly behind his glasses, but he didn’t say anything. Just looked at her in silence.

Yukiko’s gaze met his for the briefest of seconds. That was all.

Then she turned her attention toward the kids, her smile blooming a little more—still gentle, still aware of the room’s atmosphere, but gaining a brightness like the soft glow of a lantern.

“Oh, hello there, kids!” she said, clasping her hands together. “Perfect timing! I brought food for everyone. How about we all share and eat together, hmm?”

Without waiting for an answer, she knelt down and began rummaging through the bag she had brought, the soft rustle of plastic and paper a stark contrast to the beeping monitors in the background.

The Detective Boys had stopped talking the moment the door opened, and now they watched her in silent confusion. Mitsuhiko leaned toward Ayumi, whispering behind a raised hand, “Do you know her?”

Ayumi shook her head quickly, whispering back, “No... I think I've seen her before but...”

Genta shrugged, less discreet. “Who’s the lady?”

Agasa stifled a cough.

“She’s—uh—the woman who owns the mansion next door to mine,” he said quickly, stepping forward to deflect their curiosity. “She’s also a good friend of Ran-kun’s mother.”

He deliberately avoided any mention of Shinichi’s name. Fortunately, the children accepted the explanation without further suspicion, curiosity momentarily appeased.

“Ohhh,” Ayumi said, nodding.

Yukiko, having retrieved her neat stack of wrapped sandwiches and juice boxes, began passing them out like a well-practiced hostess. “Here you go! Egg salad, ham and cheese, tuna, and there’s some fruit ones too. Don’t worry, I remembered the juice!”

The kids accepted them with bright, grateful voices—though Ayumi, still subdued, offered only a soft thank-you. Yukiko smiled, brushing a hand lightly over the girl’s head. “Eat up, sweetie. You need your strength.”

Agasa declined politely when she offered him a sandwich, and she gave a nod of understanding before continuing around the room.

Then she approached Ai. Her footsteps slowed only slightly as she offered the younger girl a sandwich as well. Ai looked up, her expression unreadable as always, but she accepted it with a quiet “Thank you.” She didn’t touch the food after that. She only held it on her lap, silent.

Then Yukiko turned to Shinichi.

Agasa couldn’t help but watch—closely.

She stopped in front of him, her movements no longer quick or rehearsed. Her hands stilled, and for a moment, her face softened in a way only a mother’s could.

It was barely perceptible to the children or even the casual observer, but to Agasa—who had known her long enough—it was unmistakable.

Her eyes took in every inch of the boy: the pallor of his skin, the way he sat stiffly with his shoulders slumped, the weariness etched into the corners of his eyes. The quietness. The heaviness.

“Here,” she said, her voice lower now, more tender. “You should eat this now, Conan-kun.”

He accepted it wordlessly, murmuring a “Thanks” without looking at her.

She reached out and gently ruffled his hair. The touch was slow, affectionate, her fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. A gesture that said I’m here. You’re not alone. Let me take care of you. Even if she couldn’t say those words aloud.

“You must be tired,” she said softly. “You’re doing a good job, taking care of your Ran-neechan.”

Shinichi didn’t reply. He lowered his head instead, letting his fringe fall further over his eyes.

Agasa felt something tug hard in his chest. Yukiko’s voice had shifted again—so subtle, so careful—but he heard the truth in it. She was still playing her role, still acting as “a friend” to this boy, but that tone—that tone—was all mother. Worry seeped through every word she tried to contain. It clung to her like perfume and sorrow.

Shinichi hadn’t touched the sandwich. Just held it in his lap with limp fingers.

Yukiko gave him one last stroke of his hair before finally, finally turning to Ran.

Her smile returned—this time more genuine, though touched by something faintly sorrowful. “I missed you, Ran-chan,” she said, crossing the small space to the bed. “I’m sorry I only managed to come now.”

Ran blinked slowly at her. She looked so tired—breath labored and shallow, skin so pale against the stark white of her hospital pillow. But she managed a faint shake of her head.

“No… it’s okay…”

Her voice was barely a whisper. Raspy and slow, like every syllable took effort to carve out. Agasa could hear the strain in it again—how even speaking was a battle for her now.

Yukiko crouched beside her, careful not to disturb the IV line. “I arrived just last night,” she said with a small wink. “I was with Eri-chan earlier. She had to run off to the pharmacy, so I thought I’d come here first.”

Ran nodded slightly, once.

She didn’t speak more. It was as if conserving her breath had become instinct.

“Your mom’s been so busy,” Yukiko continued with a dramatic sigh. “Later I’m going to drag her to eat with me, even if she kicks and screams.”

Ran’s eyes softened. She smiled—barely, but it was there.

“I appreciate it…” she murmured.

Yukiko reached up gently, brushing a stray strand of hair from Ran’s forehead. Her touch was light, reverent, motherly.

“I’ll be here for a while,” she said, quieter now. “I’ll take care of you… and Eri-chan too.”

Ran’s lips parted in another faint breath of a smile. “Thank you…” she whispered. “Please… take care of Mom…”

The sentence was simple. But Agasa heard what she meant.

When I’m gone… be there for her. Please.

Yukiko’s hand froze on Ran’s forehead. Her lashes fluttered. And then she drew in a breath, carefully clearing her throat.

“Of course,” she said, voice just a bit too bright. “Don’t you worry about Eri-chan. I’ll be here.”

Agasa didn’t miss how she paused after that. Nor how she looked away for a second, blinking harder than she needed to.

Then, Ran’s eyes shifted to Shinichi.

Agasa followed her gaze.

Shinichi hadn’t looked up once since Yukiko knelt beside the bed. The sandwich still lay untouched in his hands. He was still, like a statue. Listening, absorbing everything, but silent.

Yukiko turned her head.

“Conan-kun,” she said softly. “Eat your sandwich too, okay?”

The boy looked up, startled by the sound of her voice again. Then he looked at Ran, whose tired gaze was already on him—pleading.

And slowly… Shinichi lifted the sandwich to his mouth and took a small bite.

Agasa looked away.

His eyes burned behind his glasses.

Yukiko smiled again, radiant and warm. She kept up the act, but even in her practiced cheerfulness, the heaviness never lifted from the room. Not truly.

Because this wasn’t just lunch.

This was a moment of pretending everything was normal.

Of trying to hold back the reality that pressed down on them like gravity.

And Agasa, watching it all from the sidelines, could only feel his heart slowly, silently breaking.

-
-

The soft, steady pulse of the oxygen machine filled the air, a low mechanical breath that faded in and out like waves against the shore. It had become the background music to these visits—constant, inescapable.

But Sonoko was determined not to hear it today.

She had marched into Ran’s hospital room with a flourish, her phone already unlocked, her tone deliberately bright, bordering on theatrical.

“Okay, Ran, ready to see what utter chaos looks like? I have visual evidence.”

Ran was reclined slightly on the bed, two pillows propping her up as she rested beneath the pale blue comforter. Her eyes were open wider than yesterday, a faint glimmer in them that Sonoko hadn’t seen in days. Not quite energy—but interest, maybe. Presence.

Conan sat quietly in the corner, legs dangling from a chair a little too big for him, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He’d barely looked up when she entered. Sonoko gave him a quick glance—mental note made—but returned her attention to Ran.

With a swipe of her thumb, she pulled up a photo.

“This is our class, arguing like absolute gremlins about the cultural festival theme. Three meetings in, and we still can’t agree. It’s pathetic, really.”

She turned the phone so Ran could see the screen: a group of students mid-debate, several gesturing wildly, one looking dramatically pained on the floor.

Ran’s lips curved slightly, amused.

“We’re stuck between three choices,” Sonoko continued. “Retro cafe, maid cafe, or haunted cafe. And naturally, some genius suggested combining all three. A haunted maid cafe with retro decor. I said no. Absolutely not. I draw the line at ghost waitresses serving me tea.”

Ran gave a soft laugh—breathy, weak, but unmistakably real. She shook her head slowly. “That sounds… horrifying.”

“Exactly!” Sonoko exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “And we both know you’d never survive that. You’d faint at the first flickering light.”

Ran smiled, her eyes closing just a bit as if in agreement. “You’re not wrong.”

“I never am,” Sonoko said with a mock flip of her hair, earning another chuckle. Her heart soared.

It had been so long since Ran laughed—really laughed, even softly. Sonoko clung to the sound like a treasure, wrapping herself in it like a blanket to shield against the ever-present cold reality of this place.

“So anyway, I told them to just let me decide. Because obviously, I have the best taste,” she went on, swiping to another photo—this one of her holding a sign-up sheet with a dramatic expression. “I said: no haunted stuff, no weird Victorian menus, and absolutely no blood-dripping fake chandeliers.”

“Bold of you to assume they’ll listen,” Ran murmured, her voice drier now, a little teasing.

Sonoko grinned, emboldened by the sass. “Well, if they don’t, I’ll just not show up. And we all know I’m the heart and soul of the class.”

Ran’s eyes glinted with something fond. “Of course you are.”

In that moment, Sonoko could almost forget the setting. The sterile hospital walls faded into the background. The smell of antiseptic, the soft beep of machines, the faint echo of nurses walking the hallway—none of it seemed to matter as long as Ran was here, like this, laughing and present.

She swiped again.

“And here—check this out. Makoto-san just sent me this. He's in... somewhere. Honestly, I forgot the name already.”

She turned the phone toward Ran again, revealing a wide, sweeping photo of a misty mountain range. The clouds hung low over jagged peaks, the sunlight hitting them just right so it looked like something out of a travel magazine.

“Apparently, it’s where his karate tournament is happening. Can you believe it? A karate tournament. In a place like this. I thought karate only happened in gymnasiums and high school basements.”

Ran blinked slowly, taking in the photo. Her lips parted with a quiet breath. “Wow… it looks beautiful.”

Sonoko nodded, voice softening. “Right? I mean, imagine seeing that in person.”

She hesitated. Then, as if trying not to scare the moment away, she added, “We should go someday.”

She said it lightly. Like a dream.

And for just a second—just half a second—she let herself imagine it. She and Ran, maybe in cozy coats, standing on that mountain, wind in their hair, laughing about something stupid like they always did. Not sick. Not scared. Just together.

It hung in the air for a second too long. Too heavy. Too real.

Sonoko kept her eyes locked on her phone screen. She didn’t want to look at Ran right then. She didn’t want to see the smile she knew would come next—the one that hurt more than anything else. That small, sad smile Ran gave when she didn’t want to crush Sonoko’s hope, but had too little of her own left to agree out loud.

There was no answer. No “yes.” No “we should.”

Sonoko swallowed. The lump in her throat rose anyway.

Maybe it was naive of her. Maybe even selfish. But she wanted to keep pretending. Just for a little longer. She wanted to believe that “someday” wasn’t completely out of reach. That it still had shape. That it still had hope.

She pushed through it, clutching onto her energy again like armor. “Remember that glamping trip we had before in Okuhoku Glamping Park?” she said quickly, with a little too much brightness. “I mean, yeah, sure, a murder happened, but the food was great. And we did a lot of activities too.”

She forced a chuckle, elbowed the air, then turned toward Conan.

“Right, Conan-kun?”

The boy flinched slightly, clearly startled to be addressed.

Sonoko blinked, then offered him a small smile. “You remember, right? That trip was kinda fun, wasn’t it?”

She’d noticed it. How quiet he’d been. Even for someone like Conan, who was always weirdly calm and composed, this… this was different. He looked like he was carrying something he shouldn’t be. Something far too heavy for his age.

He looked up slowly, then at Ran, searching her expression, assessing her reaction. 

Ran smiled at them both—gentle, tired.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “It was fun.”

Conan’s lips twitched into a smile—small, but sincere. “It was.”

Sonoko leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms behind her head with a mock groan. “Well, next time we go on a trip like that, I guess we can bring you along again, Conan-kun. I mean, you’re basically a murder magnet, but… you’re considerate sometimes, so I’ll allow it.”

That earned her a laugh from Ran and a quiet chuckle from Conan. Sonoko grinned wider. There it was. That little flash of normal.

She would take it. She would fight for it.

They talked a little more after that—more school updates, gossip about a teacher with an obvious crush on another, Sonoko’s dramatized account of tripping over a paper mache tiger someone left in the hallway.

But she noticed it gradually: Ran’s eyelids starting to droop. Her responses becoming fewer. Her breathing slowing.

Sonoko set her phone down and leaned closer.

“You should sleep,” she said gently. “You’ve been a good audience. But even I know when to stop the show.”

Ran didn’t protest. She simply gave a small nod, her hand shifting beneath the blanket.

“I’ll stay here,” Sonoko added, softer this time. “So don’t worry, okay?”

Ran didn’t answer—not with words. But her lips curled into a tiny smile, and within seconds, her eyes closed fully. Her face relaxed. Her body gave in to sleep with the kind of quiet surrender that only came from deep exhaustion.

Sonoko stood slowly. She stepped over, pulled the comforter up higher over Ran’s shoulders, tucking it in gently near her chin. She brushed a bit of hair away from her friend’s forehead.

Even though Ran seemed stronger today, Sonoko could feel the truth sitting in her chest like a stone.

This good moment… it was fleeting.

She settled back into the chair, folded her arms, and looked between them. And then she let her mind wander. 

The room had settled into a quiet hush.

Only the oxygen machine broke the stillness now—its soft rhythm like a sighing breath, rising and falling, keeping time in a room where everything else seemed to slow. 

Ran looked peaceful, but not in the way Sonoko remembered from their sleepovers or beach vacations. Back then, Ran’s sleep was restful, strong—like someone recharging for another bright, energetic day.

This… this felt different.

Even now, her chest rose unevenly with each breath. The soft whoosh of the oxygen line at her nose looked out of place on her delicate face. Her skin, once so vibrant, glowed pale under the hospital’s fluorescent light. Her features had thinned, her hands—now resting above the blanket—looked frail, almost transparent beneath the skin.

And yet… Sonoko still wanted to believe.

She’d been telling herself that all this—this sickness, this hospitalization, this drawn-out nightmare—was something temporary. Something they would laugh about later. That Ran would get better. That someday they'd walk under that mountain sky together, go shopping again, complain about their classmates. Or talk about how the boys in their lives were both somewhere far away. 

But sitting here now, in the silence after Ran’s laughter had faded, with only the sound of breathing machines and the distant rattle of carts in the hall, Sonoko could no longer keep lying to herself.

The future wasn’t something they could take for granted anymore.

Her throat tightened as she stared at her best friend. The weight of it—of everything—pressed in around her ribs, making it hard to breathe, like the grief had moved in before it even had a reason to exist.

She didn’t want to believe it. But it was here. It was in the way Ran had tired so quickly. In the way she drifted to sleep like her body couldn’t handle being awake too long. In the way the doctors never made promises. In the way her parents looked at her when they thought no one was watching.

This wasn’t a cold. It wasn’t a temporary thing.

Sonoko swallowed thickly. If that truth couldn’t be changed, then she would at least make sure that Ran—her Ran—was surrounded by comfort, by warmth, by everything she needed in the time she still had.

And that thought brought her to one person.

Kudo Shinichi.

Her jaw tightened slightly.

That idiot.

Where was he?

Sonoko had wondered that so many times. She’d thought about it late at night when she couldn’t sleep. Wondered where that guy was, what he was doing, what could possibly be so important that he hadn’t shown up once in all these weeks.

Maybe Ran had talked to him on the phone. Maybe. She never mentioned it. And Ran wasn’t the type to volunteer information unless she was asked.

Sonoko hadn’t pried, not back then—maybe part of her didn’t want to admit that Shinichi might actually not come. That he might choose not to be here.

But now… now she was starting to get angry. Angry and afraid.

Because if Shinichi didn’t come now—now—then when?

Sonoko had tried calling him once. She’d even gone through his weird detective voicemail with that stupid smug tone and left a message, voice trembling with frustration. She didn’t even remember exactly what she said—something like: “If you care about Ran at all, you better show up, jerk.”

But there had been no response. Nothing.

She turned her gaze toward Conan, still sitting quietly across the room. He hadn’t moved much the entire time.

Sonoko had always found him precocious, even strange—too sharp for a kid his age. But she also knew he was close to Shinichi. Had been in contact with him more than once, from what she remembered. If anyone could reach him, it was probably him.

So she leaned forward, voice quiet, careful not to wake Ran.

“Ne, Conan-kun…”

The boy lifted his head slightly, surprised by her tone.

“Do you know where Shinichi-kun is?”

He stiffened—just a fraction, but Sonoko caught it. His eyes dropped, gaze lowering to the floor as if it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

She looked back toward Ran—still sleeping—and let out a slow, shaky breath. “If you can contact him… can you call him?” Her voice cracked a little toward the end, but she pushed through. “I’m sure he knows what’s happening. That guy always has ways of knowing things about Ran, right? So tell him… to at least visit her. Please.”

She paused, let her eyes fall to her lap. Her hands were clenched together tightly without realizing.

“Ran isn’t saying anything… but I know she needs that guy.”

Conan didn’t speak. Not right away. The silence stretched again, too long, too uncertain. Sonoko looked up, ready to press again, but then he finally spoke.

His voice was quiet. Lower than usual. Strangely serious.

“Shinichi-niichan…”

He stopped. His mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more, but the words seemed to choke for a moment.

Then, more certain this time:

“Shinichi-niichan will be here. He’ll come back to Ran-neechan.”

Sonoko’s brows furrowed.

There was something in the way Conan said it. Something solid. Like a vow. Like a promise made with more weight than a child should be able to carry.

She stared at him for a long moment. He didn’t look up. Just kept his eyes lowered.

And somehow… that reassurance—coming from someone so small, so quiet—settled into her heart more than she expected.

She leaned back into the chair and let the tension in her shoulders fall.

“...He better,” she murmured, her voice soft now. “That guy’s an idiot, but… Ran would want to see him.”

A faint, fragile smile played on her lips.

“I used to tease her about it, you know? All the time. Back when we were kids, I’d always say she should just confess already. And she’d get all flustered and tell me to shut up.”

She glanced at Ran again, her heart tugging painfully.

“She’s always waited for him. Always believed in him. Even when he disappeared, even when people said he might never come back… she never stopped hoping.”

Her voice dropped into something almost like a whisper.

“And now, she needs him more than ever.”

There was a long silence between them.

Conan remained quiet, but she saw the way his fingers curled tightly in his lap. The way his mouth was drawn into a thin, serious line. Like someone preparing for something heavy.

Sonoko didn’t know what it was. She didn’t understand what was going on in that little head of his—but she trusted the emotion in his voice, the strange gravity of it.

She turned her gaze back to Ran, who was still asleep beneath the thin comforter.

So still. So quiet.

“Come back soon, Shinichi-kun,” she whispered. “Don’t let her wait again.”

And as the machine continued to hum, as the early evening light filtered through the window in gold and shadows, Sonoko prayed with all her heart that the boy who’d stolen Ran’s heart would show up before it was too late.

-
-

The sterile, chemical scent of antiseptic hit Heiji the moment the elevator doors slid open on the fifth floor.

Even out in the hallway, it was sharp and clinical, a stinging contrast to the warm, crowded air of the plane they’d just disembarked from barely an hour ago.

Tokyo had welcomed them back with rush hour traffic, too many bodies in the station, and now this—this quiet, cold corridor of Haido Central Hospital that stretched long and empty toward an inevitable truth.

Heiji shifted the strap of his duffel bag higher on his shoulder. Kazuha walked beside him, her steps slightly quicker than his, like her heart had already arrived at Ran’s room before the rest of her could.

Their expressions were grim. They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the airport, and when they had, it had been clipped, quiet. Not because of any tension between them—but because anything more than silence felt like pretending that this wasn’t real.

They turned the final corner.

Room 513.

Heiji could already feel the chill seep deeper into his skin, heavier than the summer air outside. This wasn’t the same kind of chill as wind or rain. This was the kind of cold that came from knowing something bad was waiting just beyond a door.

Kazuha reached out first and gently pushed it open.

The room was dim, washed in pale blue light from the monitor screens and the late evening sky pressing in from the window. It was quiet. Too quiet. Not a silence filled with peace—but one weighed down by restraint. It felt like every breath in the room had to ask permission.

Heiji’s eyes adjusted.

Ran lay on the hospital bed, her body half-sunken into the mattress, a maze of wires and tubing curled around her like ivy. The gentle hiss of the oxygen machine was steady in the background, barely loud enough to distract, but never silent enough to ignore.

Across the bed sat Sonoko, her face drawn in a tired smile as she lifted her head upon seeing them.

On the other side—almost perfectly still—was Kudo. The boy sat stiffly in his chair, his hands resting on an open book that he wasn’t reading. His shoulders were rounded, slumped in a way that was unfamiliar, almost unnatural for someone usually so self-assured.

Kazuha stepped forward first. “Sonoko-chan.”

“Hey,” Sonoko whispered with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her voice was soft, as though any louder would be too much for the air around them.

Heiji followed, nodding once at Sonoko in greeting but his attention was already moving across the room—his senses absorbing everything at once.

The smell of disinfectant was overwhelming. Not just the usual clinical tang that clung to hospitals, but stronger, like they’d doubled the sanitation in this room. A sign that everything here had to be clean—pure. That the person inside was vulnerable to even the air itself.

Heiji swallowed hard.

They were taking every precaution. Because they had to. Because they knew things could tip over with the smallest push.

Kazuha had dropped her bag quietly beside a chair and now sat next to Sonoko, close enough to lean in. “How is she?”

Sonoko glanced toward Ran, her expression softening. “She’s… stable for now. The doctors are still monitoring. They said there’s a risk of respiratory complications, infections—anything really.”

Her voice lowered.

“Her oxygen’s been dropping. She’ll need to sleep more. That’s what they said. She’s… she’s going to be tired most of the time now.”

Kazuha nodded, but the way her shoulders sagged gave her away.

Heiji’s throat tightened. It hurt. Seeing Kazuha so quiet, Sonoko trying so hard to keep her expression level, and Ran… like this.

His eyes went back to Kudo.

The boy hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t even looked up. His fingers curled slightly around the book on his lap, not turning the pages, just holding them there like an anchor.

Heiji knew better than most what kind of weight that kid was carrying.

Because he wasn’t really a kid.

Kudo... Heiji thought, watching him with a furrowed brow.

Kudo had always been reckless when it came to the people he cared about. He could solve a murder in thirty seconds flat, but when it came to emotions—especially Ran—he’d always been clumsy, slow to act, but all heart.

And now? Now he looked like a shell. Quiet. Still. But Heiji could see the way his eyes flicked back to Ran every few seconds. The way his lips parted, just barely, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t trust his voice to hold.

Heiji looked away, heart heavy.

From the research Heiji had done before—back when the diagnosis was first whispered to them in uncertain, sterile terms—he’d tried to understand it all. Scarring of the lungs that never healed, only worsened.

On paper, it was a gradual condition. Most cases had a median survival rate of three to four years. That gave people time—time to adjust, time to prepare, time to breathe.

But then there was something else.

Acute exacerbation.

The term still chilled him.

It was like a sudden plunge—like falling from the first step of a staircase straight down to the last. Rapid deterioration. No clear trigger. No warning. And once it happened, the slope was steep, and unforgiving.

In Ran’s case, it had only been months since her diagnosis. Not even a year. But her condition had already skipped ahead like time itself had folded in.

Heiji knew it wasn’t impossible. Every case was different. The disease had a mind of its own. But knowing that didn’t make it easier to accept.

Not when it was her.

Not when it was someone so full of life, who used to smile so easily, who laughed so merrily when she and Kazuha were enjoying a time together.

It felt wrong. Too cruel. Too fast.

He clenched his jaw, forced his hands to stay loose at his sides.

There was no reasoning with this. No logic puzzle to solve. No clues to follow.

Just the quiet ticking of time, and how much—or how little—they had left with her.

He glanced at the clock. It ticked softly above the door.

He needed to breathe. They both did.

“I’m a little thirsty,” Heiji said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “I’ll go get something.”

Then he looked down at Kudo. “Ku— Conan-kun, wanna come with me? You can show me where the cafeteria is.”

Kudo looked up finally, his eyes shadowed. He studied Heiji for a long moment, and Heiji stared back, the invitation unspoken but clear.

Come with me. Just for a moment. Breathe.

Eventually, Kudo closed his book and stood. His movements were slow, like his body didn’t quite want to leave—but he didn’t resist.

They moved toward the door quietly. Kazuha and Sonoko’s voices had fallen into soft murmurs behind them.

As Kudo reached for the knob, his hand hesitated on the cold metal. His gaze flicked back over his shoulder—toward Ran.

He didn’t move for a moment.

Heiji stood beside him, watching him watch her.

There was something so raw in the way Kudo looked at Ran. Not the guarded calculation of a detective, not the careful concern of a friend—but something desperate. Something breaking.

Heiji didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

After a few seconds, Kudo blinked and finally opened the door, stepping out into the hallway. Heiji followed, letting the door click shut behind them with a soft, final sound.

He spared one last look at the room before they turned down the corridor.

Everything in there—the low light, the cold air, the soft voices—had been a fragile illusion of normal. A quiet attempt to hold on. But Heiji knew, as they walked away, that the truth they were all trying not to say out loud was still sitting heavily in every corner of that room.

And it was only a matter of time.

They walked in silence in the quiet hallways, Kudo leading the way with short, steady steps that almost looked mechanical. Heiji didn’t say anything—didn’t feel the need to. Not yet. The tension wrapped around them like a fog, heavy and quiet. Words would only bounce uselessly against it.

The corridors were lit in a way that somehow made everything feel colder. That sterile white that didn’t comfort, only reminded. Of sickness. Of fragility. Of endings.

Heiji's eyes flicked to Kudo's back.

His shoulders were still hunched, heavy. Not from exhaustion—at least not physical. It was the posture of someone burdened with far too much, someone who had spent too long trying to keep it together. That kind of weight did something to a person. Heiji had seen it in grieving families, in the victims of cases they’d once worked side by side.

He wondered if Kudo knew how obvious it was now, how he was no longer hiding it well. Or maybe he wasn’t trying to anymore.

The cafeteria, luckily, was nearly empty. Just a couple of people huddled in the far corners, the sound of distant voices barely audible. They slipped into one of the more secluded tables at the edge of the room.

Kudo sat down without a word, his motions slow, gaze distant. Like he wasn’t really here.

Heiji bought two canned coffees from the vending machine and placed one in front of Kudo before opening his own. The pop of the tab echoed a little too loudly in the quiet space.

Kudo touched the can absently. But he didn’t drink. His fingers just curled lightly around the aluminum, eyes not moving, still staring at the same blank spot in the air.

Face to face now, Heiji could see him properly.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way his lips were slightly chapped. His pale skin, the faint twitch of muscle in his jaw. His expression—grim, lost, scared—was one Heiji hadn't seen on him before.

It wasn’t the sharp, focused detective he used to rival. It wasn’t even the brave, determined friend who’d do anything to protect someone.

It was just… a boy. A boy coming undone.

Heiji didn’t speak at first. Just watched. He thought if Kudo didn’t want to talk, then fine. He’d just sit here with him. Be present. That was something.

But Kudo noticed the weight of his gaze anyway. Despite looking like he was a thousand miles away, his voice cut through the air, flat and tired:

“If you’re worried whether I’m eating properly or not,” he muttered, “you don’t have to. I’m being looked after.”

Heiji blinked, then gave a short breath of relief, almost a scoff. “That’s good to know,” he said, taking another sip of his coffee. “But that’s more than what worries me.”

Kudo looked at him at that. Really looked at him—like he hadn’t expected honesty, like he hadn’t expected anything at all.

Heiji held his gaze.

Then Kudo sighed.

It was deep. Bone-deep. Like it had been building for days, weeks, and it had nowhere else to go.

“Na, Hattori…”

His voice was quiet, and there was a long pause. It felt like he was sifting through the chaos in his head, trying to find the thread he could speak aloud.

“Did you know? The trigger for Ran’s exacerbation is unknown. The cause of her illness… is unknown too.”

Heiji stayed still.

He knew that.

He’d researched about IPF. It was idiopathic, meaning unknown. More than half of the cases were triggered by the unknown too. 

It wasn’t fair. It never was. But Heiji had read it all. The clinical papers. The patient stories. Some things just had no explanation.

He hummed softly, letting Kudo continue.

“What an irony, right?” Kudo said next. His voice had a bitter edge, sharp with self-directed scorn. “Here I am, claiming to be a detective. Claiming to have a wide knowledge of every little thing. And yet… the one thing that’s going to take her from me is… unknown.”

He whispered that last word like it was poison on his tongue.

“Unknown.”

And then his voice broke.

It was quiet, barely audible, but Heiji heard it. Felt it.

Kudo’s whole frame seemed smaller suddenly. Like saying that out loud had crumpled something inside him. His shoulders curled inward, his chin lowered, and he gripped the can tighter even as he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table.

Heiji’s chest tightened.

This was the guy who’d taught him—without ever really meaning to—what being a detective really meant. It wasn’t about who could solve the case faster, or who had the sharper deduction. It was about the truth. About justice. About people.

Kudo had never bragged. He didn’t need to.

He just knew things.

So to see him now—helpless in the face of something he couldn’t name, couldn’t solve—hit Heiji like a punch to the ribs.

“Being a great detective doesn’t make you omniscient, Kudo,” Heiji said quietly, his voice low and even. “There are still things unknown in this world.”

Kudo didn’t respond right away. Heiji thought maybe he’d brush it off. Shrug. Argue.

But instead, after a long pause, Kudo said, hoarse and quiet, “I know that…”

Then his voice cracked again.

“It’s just… why is this happening?”

His hand lifted and gripped the frame of his glasses, covering his eyes.

“Why Ran?”

His voice was raw. Shaken.

Heiji felt the crack in his heart deepen.

He wanted to answer. But he couldn’t. There was no answer.

“We can’t really ask the ‘why,’” Heiji said after a moment, gently. “No one knows the answer to that.”

Kudo didn’t reply.

His head lowered further, fingers tightening around his glasses. His grip was so tight, it made Heiji uneasy. He was squeezing the frame, white-knuckled and shaking, the metal groaning softly under the pressure.

Then came the sound.

Crack.

“Kudo—” Heiji started, leaning forward, worry spiking in his chest.

The kid didn’t even flinch. He didn’t seem to notice.

Another crack. Louder this time.

Heiji moved quickly, reaching out. “Hey, hey, let me take that—Kudo, you’re gonna hurt yourself—”

But Kudo didn’t loosen his grip. His knuckles were white, and the lenses had already fractured, one jagged edge now cutting into his palm. His body trembled faintly. Not from fear.

From grief.

From everything pouring out at once.

“Kudo—”

This time, Heiji didn’t ask. He pried the hands apart—gently but firmly—and took the broken glasses from him.

Kudo startled slightly at the contact, like he’d just woken up from a nightmare. Heiji winced as he saw the thin scratch across Kudo’s fingers, a small welling of blood already forming.

“You really are an idiot…” Heiji muttered, grabbing a napkin from the side of the tray to press against the cut. “Breaking your own glasses like that.”

But Kudo didn’t respond.

He didn’t argue.

He just sat there, staring down at his open hands, breath shaking, chest rising and falling too fast.

And then—

He cried.

There was no sound. No sobbing. Just tears that slipped out of his eyes, down his cheeks, silent and uncontrolled. His body trembled faintly, his lips parted like he couldn’t breathe quite right, like the sorrow inside him had hollowed everything else out.

Heiji sat there.

Held his silence.

And watched, heart aching, as one of the strongest guys he knew finally, quietly, broke down in front of him.

And for once, he didn’t say anything smart or comforting.

He just let him cry.

Because maybe right now, that’s all he really needed.

Just someone to sit with him. Just someone to know.

Just someone to see that he was hurting.

And someone who wouldn’t look away.

-
-

Evening had settled over the hospital like a thick curtain—one that muffled the world, dimmed the corners of the hallways, and stretched the silences between footsteps.

Ai walked those halls quietly, her footsteps light, steady, her pace deliberate.

She wasn’t here to see Ran tonight.

Of course she sympathized—deeply. It pained her to witness what had become of the girl who had once been so full of life, someone who had shone like a star even in Ai’s cold, analytical eyes. But that wasn’t the reason she came back to the hospital this evening.

She came to see him.

Ai had just finished what she’d been working on—days of sleepless nights, formulas scrawled in notebooks, chemicals mixed under trembling fingers and uncertain hope. Her head still ached faintly from the concentration, but she was here now. And she wasn’t going to waste time.

When she turned the corner, she saw them.

Kudo was walking slowly, and Hattori was just behind him. Ai didn’t speak, didn’t move to call out.

She stayed still.

Watched.

The weight hanging between the two boys was visible, almost tangible. Even from the distance where she stood, she could feel it—the grief, the tension, the way neither of them knew what to do with the pain they carried.

Ai followed at a distance.

She wasn’t planning to intrude. She never did, really. But she kept her eyes on them, her footsteps light and slow as they made their way into the cafeteria. She paused at the entrance, blending into the shadows near the wall, seating herself silently in the corner furthest from them.

And watched.

She couldn’t hear their words, but she didn’t need to. Their body language told her enough. Hattori was talking, his mouth moving in quiet, patient words. Kudo had barely touched the coffee can in front of him. His shoulders were hunched, and his hands…

Ai tensed.

She saw it—the moment Hattori reached out and tried to gently pry something from Kudo’s hands. There was a moment of struggle, not aggressive, but tense. Then she saw Kudo go still.

And cry.

It was hard to see from where she sat, but it was unmistakable.

He bowed his head. His hands shook faintly. And even if she couldn’t see the tears clearly, she knew they were there.

Ai turned her gaze away.

Something inside her clenched.

She had seen Kudo in many states before. Sharp. Angry. Focused. Exhausted. Even despairing. But she had never seen him this vulnerable. Never seen him lose control like this.

He had always kept it together—for Ran, for the others, for the sake of every case and every person that needed him to be strong.

But no one could hold everything forever.

She understood.

And that was why she waited.

She waited, even as the minutes dragged on. Even as the weight in her own chest grew heavier with every passing second. Even as she knew her presence had been noticed by the two high school detectives. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, not until she felt the shift in the air.

Eventually, Kudo’s shoulders stopped shaking.

His hands lowered.

Heiji remained at his side, silent, steady, still there.

And that was when Ai stood up.

Her footsteps echoed softly as she crossed the distance between them. She stopped in front of the table, gaze calm, voice quiet—but even and firm.

“Here you are,” she said simply.

Kudo looked up.

His eyes were red, but he didn’t try to hide them. He just blinked at her, the remnants of pain still etched into every line of his face.

“Haibara…” he said. No strength in his voice, just acknowledgment.

She looked at him carefully. Her gaze lingered on his pale face, his clenched jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers.

She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket, and slowly, deliberately, pulled out the small case she had brought with her.

She set it gently on the table, just across from him.

It clicked faintly against the surface.

Inside was a single pill.

Kudo stared at it. Then at her.

“…What?” he asked, though she could see in his eyes that he already had a guess. His voice was low. Guarded. Almost too tired to hope.

Ai hesitated.

Not because she didn’t know what to say—but because she didn’t know how to say it gently. Some truths could only be spoken plainly, no matter how much they hurt.

“It’s more potent than the previous versions,” she said quietly. “The effect will last more than twenty-four hours.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“But,” she continued, “the resistance you’ll build up from this one is stronger too. Which means…” She paused, swallowing faintly, “I can only give you one.”

Kudo didn’t speak.

He looked at the case again, his fingers reaching for it. He picked it up, held it in his palm, turned it over once, twice. Then closed his hand around it.

Ai saw the way his jaw tensed.

He knew. Of course he knew.

“You should use it wisely,” she added.

That was all she said. But it was enough.

Kudo’s eyes met hers, wide and dark and filled with something raw and painful. The weight of her words hit him fully. She could see it in his expression. In the way his mouth parted, but no words came out. The message was clear—this is all I can give you. Choose when to use it. Choose carefully.

Because you may not get another chance.

And Ai hated that. Hated having to say it, hated being the one to remind him of the limited time. But someone had to.

Kudo said nothing for a long moment. His hand curled tighter around the case.

Then, his voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I need to tell her.”

Ai looked at him.

And she understood.

She had seen it coming—had felt it building for days, weeks. The way he kept looking at Ran, the way his silence grew heavier. He couldn’t keep it from her anymore. Not because he thought it would change things.

But because she deserved to know.

Because he couldn’t bear the thought of keeping something from her now, not when time felt so fragile.

“…Okay,” Ai said softly.

Kudo blinked at her.

Maybe he expected her to argue. Maybe he thought she’d tell him he was being foolish. That it was too risky. That it would only make things worse.

But she didn’t.

She saw the look in his eyes. The one that said he’d already decided. And truthfully… Ai understood.

She cared about Ran, more than she ever said aloud. The cheerful, unassuming girl who had once shielded her with nothing but instinct and kindness, who had never once demanded anything in return. Ai could never repay that. Not fully.

So this was her way.

The antidote. The time it could buy. A chance, however small, to give something back.

She nodded once, gently.

Kudo’s lips parted slightly. A breathless thank you lingered there, unspoken but understood. He didn’t have to say it.

Ai already knew.

She stepped back, letting the silence settle again. Letting him sit with his thoughts. With his decision.

The future was uncertain—bleaker now than ever before. But in this small moment, she hoped… just for a little while… that they could breathe.

That they could hold onto each other.

Even if just for one last time.

-

Chapter Text

-

The hospital room was quieter than before.

It was a stillness so heavy, so unnatural, that it felt like even the air held its breath. The soft mechanical hum of machines monitoring Ran's vitals offered the only rhythm to the moment, but even they felt like background noise—distant, muted. The low light from the ceiling cast long shadows over the sterile white walls, stretching thin across the floor like ghostly arms that refused to leave.

Conan sat by Ran’s bedside.

It was only the two of them now.

Sonoko had insisted Kazuha and Hattori come with her. She told them to stay the night at her place instead of booking a hotel. Hattori looked like he would argue, but Kazuha gently tugged his sleeve, and he gave in.

Conan didn’t blame them. Everyone was tired. And somehow, the room felt smaller when too many were trying to stay strong in it.

His mother had called earlier too. Yukiko’s voice was soft—gentler than usual—as she told him she’d taken Eri back home. “She’s sleeping now,” she said, “and I don’t think she’ll come back tonight.” Conan had only said thank you. He didn’t need to say what he was thinking. His mother already knew.

Now, finally, the room was quiet.

Now, finally, it was just him and Ran.

She lay there, still and pale, the steady rise and fall of her chest both a comfort and a cruel reminder. Her breathing was shallow. The oxygen cannula at her nose fluttered slightly every few seconds.

Her face was peaceful in the worst way—too peaceful. Like sleep was pulling her deeper and deeper into someplace he couldn’t reach.

She had been asleep for hours. There was a chance she would wake up later in the evening. That slim chance had kept Conan rooted here, not daring to move too far. He didn't want to be anywhere else. He couldn't be anywhere else.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together between them. The chair creaked beneath him, but he didn’t notice. His eyes never left her.

He looked at her like someone memorizing. Memorizing the slope of her nose, the way her lashes curled down, the faint line between her brows that remained even in sleep.

He wanted to remember it all—because somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew that everything he saw right now might become something he would need to remember instead of relive.

His fingers brushed against the edge of his jacket pocket.

The case was still there. The antidote.

It was small, lightweight—barely enough to press against the fabric. But to Conan, it might as well have been made of iron. It pressed on him like a stone on his chest. Heavy with meaning. Heavy with intent.

Haibara had told him to use it wisely.

He understood what she meant. This wasn’t like the other doses. It wasn’t something he could take on a whim or just to walk freely in his old skin for a while.

This one could last longer. This one came with a price. Not a price written in pain or consequence—though those were inevitable too—but a different kind of cost.

Timing.

He had one chance. One opportunity to use it in the moment that mattered most.

And he knew exactly what that moment was.

But his heart refused to let him face it.

He reached up, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. His vision blurred a bit—not from tears this time, but from the strange emptiness in front of them.

The absence of his glasses.

They were gone. Broken. Shattered.

Haibara had taken them to the professor to fix, but a part of Conan almost didn’t want them back. Because when they snapped in his grip earlier—when the lenses cracked and the arms bent—he realized something awful:

It wasn't just the glasses.

It was everything.

His logic, his control, his distance, his methods of coping—all of it had fractured. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until it was too late. Until the pieces were sharp and the cut was real.

Even the sting in his fingers wasn’t enough to ground him.

He sighed shakily and leaned back in the chair. His body felt small. Heavy. Tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix.

Hattori had been there. So had Haibara. Neither of them forced him to speak, neither of them offered hollow words of comfort. They just sat with him. Their presence was enough. Their silence, even more so.

And he had needed that.

But now, sitting here alone, Conan felt the void again.

He couldn’t see past this.

He couldn’t imagine tomorrow.

There were too many nights where he still dared to hope. When Ran smiled at him despite her breathlessness, when she whispered a joke or tried to reassure everyone else, when she still believed in the things he could no longer say aloud.

But tonight, even those memories couldn’t anchor him. Because tonight he realized the truth he’d been avoiding since the diagnosis began to speed past them like a ticking clock.

He was going to lose her.

Whether he liked it or not.

Conan bowed his head and pressed both hands against his mouth.

Not to stifle a sob. Not to pray. But to hold himself still—because if he didn’t, he might come apart again. The ache in his chest wasn’t sharp this time. It was dull. Deep. Like something had hollowed out his lungs, replacing breath with sorrow. 

And in that still moment, surrounded by antiseptic walls and the quiet hum of machines, he sat alone with the truth:

That the future they wanted was slipping away.

That no matter how tightly he held on, the moment he feared was approaching.

That he wasn’t ready.

That he would never be ready.

When he finally raised his head, trying to steady the tremble in his shoulders—

He froze.

Ran was looking at him.

Her eyes were open.

Quiet. Soft. Alert.

She didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

She just watched him, as if she had been waiting for him to look up—watching him fall apart in silence, and letting him have that moment before she interrupted it.

Their eyes met.

Conan startled, blinking rapidly, caught between disbelief and wonder.

He didn’t expect her to be awake yet. He wasn’t prepared for this.

But Ran…she only stared at him, wide-eyed. Her brows furrowed slightly, as if trying to place what she was seeing.

He could imagine what she saw.

A boy—too small, too young—with no glasses to hide behind, eyes red from earlier tears, expression far too open, raw and unguarded in a way he had spent years keeping locked away.

Conan swallowed, the knot in his throat tightening.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled faintly, but he forced them forward, one cautious step after another, until he stood by the edge of her bed. Almost within touching distance.

Her gaze followed him, never breaking.

“R-Ran…” he managed, his voice barely a whisper.

He hesitated. Fist clenched at his side. The weight of the antidote in his pocket. The weight of what he was about to say.

“Ran, I…”

And then—

He saw it.

Ran’s expression changed.

First, confusion—her brow furrowing slightly, her eyes narrowing as if trying to resolve something.

Then surprise—as if a sudden realization had clicked into place.

Then…understanding.

A soft gasp escaped her lips as her gaze moved slowly over his face. She was seeing something. And he watched, breath caught in his chest, as the realization spread through her eyes.

Her lips trembled, just a little.

And then she smiled.

A soft, lonely smile.

And then she whispered, voice hoarse and tender:

“Welcome back, Shinichi.”

Gentle, full of warmth—yet aching with the weight of all the things left unsaid. Ran was looking at him with the kind of smile one would give to someone they’d been waiting for a long, long time. 

It hit him like a blow to the chest.

The sound of his name on her lips—his real name—felt like an anchor in a storm, like she had reached through all the pain, all the pretending, and pulled him back into something real. He stared at her, stunned, his heart twisting at the sound.

That was right. She knew.

She always knew.

That phone call—the last phone call he did as Shinichi—when he’d asked her what was wrong, when he'd almost pleaded her to tell him. When she'd heard the plea in his voice anyway. 

And she'd answered him: "Everything will be fine." 

And it meant so many things at once. 

It wasn't only to tell him her cough was nothing to worry about. It was to reassure him that in the future, everything would be fine. That even if her illness would worsen, everything would be fine. That even if there was no hope, everything would be fine. 

It clicked to him then. 'Shinichi' wasn't supposed to know, and yet, Ran was reassuring him, comforting him, being strong for him. 

It was as much a confirmation as it was a telling: I know, I know that it's you, so don't worry anymore. 

Since that moment, there had been an unspoken understanding between them. Silent, but powerful.

That was why she insisted on that “date.”

Why the scarf she gifted him was for a grown-up—meant not for Conan, but for Shinichi.

Why, when she told Sato that she had the most important people by her side, she had looked at him. She had been telling him that. 

She had known.

And she had never said it aloud. Because she was waiting for him to come to her. To choose to tell her himself.

He had taken too long.

But she had never rushed him. Never demanded the truth. Never cornered him.

She had simply waited.

With all the quiet patience of someone who loved him more than he knew how to hold.

And now…

He could no longer hide behind a name.

Conan— 

No, Shinichi now. He no longer needed to hide behind an alias. Edogawa Conan was mainly made to keep her from the secret. But now that it was out there, he could finally be himself again. He could finally refer to himself with his real name again. 

—Shinichi took another step forward. Slowly. Carefully. His chest tight, his breath uneven. He smiled at her—bittersweet, tentative, aching.

How he wished it wasn’t like this.

How he wished their reunion wasn’t soaked in grief and illness and unspoken dread.

He had imagined telling her like this so many times. He had always thought it would be in the middle of a mystery, or during a rare moment alone, maybe even under the stars—somewhere where the world could pause. Where he could be brave.

But he had been a coward.

Ran had done all the waiting. All the trusting. And he had taken so long to finally be here.

Now—finally now—he was ready.

Ran had adjusted herself slightly, propped up more against the pillows. Her hand rested by her side, limp, pale, but open. Still waiting.

Still patient.

He reached for it.

His fingers brushed hers first, cautious. He felt the coolness of her skin, the fragility of it, and he paused.

Did he deserve to hold her?

Did he deserve to even be here, when he had let so much slip away?

But then—

She curled her fingers around his.

Just barely. A slight squeeze.

Like she was telling him yes. Like she could hear every word he couldn’t say. Like she could feel the ache in his silence, and still wanted him close.

It gave him courage.

He wrapped both of his smaller hands around hers, holding it gently, carefully, like something precious. His heart pounded against his ribs. He didn’t try to stop the emotion in his eyes this time.

And finally—

Softly, breathlessly, honestly—

He said:

“I’m back, Ran.”

The words hung in the air like a fragile promise, as if afraid the slightest movement might shatter them.

And still, he held her hand.

Small fingers cradled hers carefully, gently—but with purpose, with reverence. His palms were warm, slightly clammy from nerves, but steady. His grip was soft, never tight, but there was something desperate in the way he refused to let go.

Like if he loosened it even the slightest, she might slip through his grasp again. Like holding her hand was the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

He couldn’t look at her.

Not directly.

His eyes—red from emotion, dark with weariness—lowered to their joined hands instead. The contrast between them was stark: his smaller, pale fingers wrapped around hers, once strong and warm but now cold with fatigue. Her hand trembled faintly, but she didn’t pull away.

He stared at their hands for a long moment before finally asking, voice small and thick:

“How long... ” He swallowed. “Since when have you known?”

There was a pause.

Ran hummed softly, a thoughtful sound, as though searching through distant memories. Then, her fingers moved.

A gentle tug.

Shinichi looked up—hesitant, ashamed—but obeyed. His eyes met hers. He expected hurt. Accusation. Bitterness.

But there was none of that.

Her gaze was soft. Tired, yes, rimmed with shadows and heavy with pain, but still so incredibly kind. Always kind.

“It’s not… right after the diagnosis,” Ran began quietly. Her voice was a breath, like wind brushing over the edge of a distant bell. Thin. Fragile. But steady. “But since then… let’s just say you’ve been careless.”

Shinichi blinked.

Then let out the barest laugh—more breath than sound. Her tone had changed, taking on a light, teasing edge that caught him off guard. It was so unmistakably Ran that his chest ached at the familiarity. A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Careless.

Yes, he had been. The layers of the Conan mask had worn thin—peeled off by grief, stress, and the helplessness that clung to him like a second skin. Each layer discarded with every broken glance, every too-sharp word, every time his voice cracked when he spoke to her.

He should’ve known she saw through it all.

Then—

“The results,” he said suddenly. The thought sparked through the haze in his head like a flare in the dark. “The medical report. Did you…”

Ran looked at him—truly looked. And then her lips curled upward again, bittersweet and knowing.

“When you asked me that day and I didn’t tell you much,” she said softly, her eyes glimmering in the low hospital light, “there was a look in your eyes I recognized.”

Shinichi inhaled sharply.

That was right.

Because there was no reason for those results to be lying on Kogoro’s bed like that. Kogoro would never leave something that important out in the open. It wasn’t an accident. It was left there for him to find. For Shinichi to know.

Ran had known what she was doing. She had given him a choice.

A silent way in.

A gentle, merciful way to be told the truth.

Shinichi closed his eyes for a second, heart twisting. He was never going to forget that moment—that day when the truth hit him like a wave, leaving him breathless and drowning in the tide of what he could lose.

Ran’s voice came again—gentle, lightly amused.

“Did you know…” she began, “…whenever I get sick, you’re always so firm?”

He blinked at her.

“Firm?” he echoed, confused.

Ran nodded, her smile faint, tinged with affection.

“Firm and persistent,” she repeated. “Always, even before, as Shinichi… and as Conan too.”

He stared at her, her words sinking in, and a faint blush bloomed on his face. That was probably why—he realized—why Ran had asked him, even as Conan, for permission in Karuizawa. Why she had waited for his word to go out walking despite his childish body. Why she had followed his lead when everyone else would’ve dismissed his authority.

She always knew it was him.

Every version. Every layer. She knew.

Then—her voice softened again.

The teasing faded. The melancholy returned, like a soft drizzle falling over quiet soil.

“But what really convinced me…” she said, her voice slowing, drawing quieter, “…was whenever you called me…”

She took a shallow breath. Shinichi leaned in instinctively, concerned that speaking might hurt her—but Ran continued, her voice like glass.

“When you called me as Shinichi, your voice would be trembling.”

Shinichi froze.

His eyes widened, stunned. His breath caught.

Trembling?

He thought he’d hidden it. Thought the disguising technology, the pitch modulation, the scripted coolness—it had been enough.

But of course.

Of course, it wasn’t.

Because Ran… she didn’t see him through filters and disguises. She heard him. She felt him. She knew his voice like she knew her own heartbeat.

“Because I only ever hear your voice,” she added, a faint smile on her lips, “it’s all I could focus on. So I knew… when something had changed.”

There was a silence after that.

Heavy. Gentle. Meaningful.

Ran looked at him again, and there was something apologetic in her gaze now.

She didn’t say the words.

She didn’t have to.

Her expression was saying it for her:

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I made you worry. 

Shinichi shook his head.

A quick, small motion.

No.

The one who should apologize wasn’t her.

It was him.

“No…” Shinichi croaked, voice low and trembling. His grip on her hand tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to make the moment real. “No, Ran, I—”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry.”

The confession was jagged. Torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

“I lied to you. I deceived you. I hid from you—the truth, everything.”

His voice cracked with every word. Shame seared across his face like an open wound. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes again, so he focused on their joined hands—on the rise and fall of her chest.

That she was here, breathing, speaking, holding on, forgiving. It made the guilt worse. It made everything worse.

Then—

“Idiot,” Ran whispered.

Shinichi flinched slightly at the word, but her voice wasn’t sharp. It was soft. Fond. Familiar.

“Don’t you think I’ve known you enough to know you have your reasons?” she murmured gently. “We grew up together, Shinichi. I know you.”

But Shinichi shook his head. Violently.

That kindness—he didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t ready to receive it. Not when he’d failed her in every way that counted. He clenched his teeth, still trembling, voice a whisper of protest—

“But—”

Ran exhaled, long and slow. There was something weary in the sound, something old and understanding and full of quiet resignation.

She looked at him like she’d expected this. Expected his guilt. Expected him to spiral like this, wrapped in self-inflicted punishment. It didn’t make it easier for her—but she knew him. Knew he would unravel exactly this way.

So her voice was steady when she said,

“I forgive you, Shinichi.”

His breath caught.

“Ran…”

But she didn’t stop.

“I forgive you for everything. For lying to me. For hiding the truth. For leaving me again and again. For making me wait for so long.”

Every word hit him like a blow to the chest. He wanted to cover his ears. Wanted to go back in time and undo it all, fix it all, never leave her alone. He shook his head again, more frantic this time, jaw clenched to keep from crying.

But then she added, soft as rain:

“So I hope… you forgive me too.”

The words hit differently.

They knocked the breath right out of his lungs.

He blinked, confused.

“…What?” he whispered, voice raw.

Ran smiled at him, gently. Apologetically.

“You know, don’t you?” she asked. Her tone was careful, hushed, like they were on the edge of something sacred and fragile. Her eyes searched his face. “I’m not…”

She stopped.

Her throat worked as she swallowed.

And then, more softly than anything she’d said before—

“…this isn’t going to last.”

Shinichi shook his head before the words could even finish leaving her lips. His whole body tensed, like a reflex. Like denial was the only weapon he had left.

“No.”

He said it like a prayer.

No.

No, not that.

He didn’t want to hear it. Couldn’t let her say it. Because if she said it aloud—if she acknowledged it—it would become real.

“Shinichi.”

Her voice again. Quiet. Steady. Calling him back.

“Shinichi, listen to me.”

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

The tears were back—he could feel them burning, feel them clinging to his lashes. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lip until it nearly bled.

“Shinichi, please.”

“No!”

It was a shout.

Cracked. Desperate. Like a dam breaking.

Then his voice dropped again, fractured by emotion, trembling at the edges.

“Do you know what you’re asking from me, Ran?”

He looked up at her.

There was anger in his face. Not at her. Never at her. But at fate. At everything. Disbelief and pain swirled in his expression, in his furrowed brow, his heaving breath. He looked like he was begging for her to take it back.

But then—

He saw her face.

And everything crumbled.

Because she was looking at him like she was crying without tears. Her eyes glistened, but none fell. Her lips quivered—but smiled. A soft, trembling smile.

“I know.”

And the words destroyed him.

Absolutely, utterly destroyed him.

He lowered his head again, a tremor running through his body.

“Ran… I can’t…” His voice cracked. “I can’t do it. I can’t.”

He felt like a child again. Weak and small and powerless.

He squeezed her hand like it could stop time.

Like it could stop death.

But Ran—Ran was calm. Not unafraid, but calm.

“You have to,” she whispered. “I need you to. Or else… I won’t be at peace. When I’m gone—”

“No.”

He cut her off sharply, desperately, trying to halt the future like he’d solved a hundred cases before. But there was no deduction to save her. No logic. No science. No solution. This wasn’t a mystery to be solved. It was a tragedy to endure.

But Ran didn’t stop.

“When I’m gone,” she said, her voice firmer now, “I want you to continue on living. Live your life properly. Until the end.”

And it broke him.

That was it.

The dam finally gave way.

The tears streamed freely, hopelessly, helplessly, and his shoulders shook with sobs he couldn’t hold back. He clutched her hand like it was the last thing tethering him to the earth.

“I can’t…” he choked.

“I can’t do that without you, Ran. I can’t… I can’t live without you. Please.”

Please don’t leave me.

He didn’t say it out loud—but it rang in his every breath, every cry, every desperate clutch of her hand.

Ran looked at him—her own tears finally escaping, slipping silently down her cheeks.

“Oh, Shinichi…”

Her voice cracked too now. She was crying. Probably from seeing him break. Probably from the weight of everything. Maybe from the guilt that she couldn’t take his pain away.

Still—still—her voice softened again.

“Yes, you can.”

She reached out with her free hand, brushing gently at his hair.

“You are Kudo Shinichi.” A tear landed on her knuckles. “The Heisei’s Holmes. The great high school detective of the East.”

Her hand rested against his cheek.

“You are… the person I love in this world.”

And Shinichi’s breath caught, his heart squeezing painfully. 

Those words, those beautiful, meaningful words that were supposed to be sweet, that were supposed to make him flustered. 

Words that were supposed to be uttered in delight, in gaiety, in joy. They meant so much to him, but now, they were filled with grief—unending grief—and loneliness.  

Here, now, they felt like both a blessing and a goodbye.

A goodbye that was killing him.

“I love you too, Ran,” he whispered, hoarse and aching. “You’re the only one I love. The only one I’ll ever love.”

And while Ran—the girl who he treasured the most, the girl who had been suffering from a terrible fate, the girl whose life had been flickering away—comforted him as he crumbled again, crying like a baby, begging her not to leave him, all Shinichi could think about was—

No matter how many titles he attached to his name, no matter how many prestige, recognition, or fame he achieved, without her, he was nothing. 

Without Ran, Shinichi was nobody. 

Just a shell. 

Empty.

Hollow.

Broken.

-

Shinichi stirred.

His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes still damp and heavy from the crying that had consumed him the night before. The room was quiet, but not silent. Voices, soft and distant, murmured in the background—low and gentle, careful not to disturb. They sounded familiar. Comforting. But Shinichi didn’t turn toward them. Not yet.

He stayed where he was—curled on his side, his body small enough to fit in the narrow space of the hospital bed beside Ran.

Her bed.

He was lying next to her.

She had been reclined, propped slightly up with pillows, her profile half-lit by the filtered morning light. Her hand rested near her side, relaxed and unmoving, just a breath away from him.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Didn’t want to alert the room that he was awake. He only listened, breathed, felt.

The world was quiet in this corner of the bed. His face was half-hidden in the folds of her comforter, buried against the warmth she had left in the sheets. The cotton smelled faintly of lavender, of clean linen, of Ran.

His eyes stung. He didn’t bother wiping them.

His heart was heavy. So unbearably heavy.

He lay there like a shadow. Back turned to the rest of the room. As if turning away could keep the world from changing.

Then—softly, slowly—he moved his hand. The movement was almost imperceptible, careful not to rustle the sheets. He reached out with his pinky finger. Just that. Just the pinky. And he touched hers. Barely. A whisper of contact, skin to skin.

He only wanted… to be connected. Even in the smallest way. Even if this was all he could ask for.

For a moment, he thought it would go unnoticed.

But then, without a word, without a sound, Ran curled her pinky finger gently around his.

Shinichi swallowed hard.

It was such a small gesture. Fragile. Intimate.

Her fingers—he could feel it now—were different. The early signs of clubbing had begun to show. Her fingertips were rounder, bulbous in the subtle way that happened when the body had been deprived of oxygen for too long.

He remembered asking her, once, if they hurt.

She said they didn’t.

She said… she didn’t feel much of anything anymore.

No pain. Just… exhaustion. Bone-deep. Unrelenting.

And his heart ached. All over again.

Because even now, even as her body betrayed her, even as her lungs failed and her strength faded, she still curled her pinky around his. Still reached for him.

Still loved him.

His throat tightened. He closed his eyes again. The comforter was damp with his breath, his tears, his quiet prayers.

“Please…” he whispered. He didn’t even know who he was speaking to. Or what he was asking for. Just that he needed to ask. Needed to beg. Even now. Even still.

But before his silent plea could form into words, more voices entered the room.

He heard them clearly now.

Footsteps.

Soft murmurs.

Ran’s grandparents. Both sides. The voices came with weight—of worry, of farewell. Shinichi didn’t lift his head. He only listened. He stayed curled where he was, his pinky still wrapped around Ran’s.

Then he heard Yukiko say quietly to Eri,

“I’ll take him. Give you time.”

“Thank you,” Eri said.

And before Shinichi could resist—before he could even open his mouth—he felt hands slipping under him. Arms that knew how to carry him. He was lifted gently, slowly, as if he were still just a sleeping child.

And his pinky—

His pinky, still clinging to Ran’s—

It tugged.

It resisted.

But he knew.

He knew.

It was time.

He didn’t want to let go. Just like he didn’t want to accept this reality. But…

But maybe he had to.

Maybe he needed to. 

Their pinky fingers were being ripped apart. 

Ran was being ripped away from him. 

And there was nothing he could do anymore. 

So, with a heart that splintered once again, he let his pinky fall away from hers.

A quiet surrender.

A silent resignation.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on him. It was the first step. The smallest parting. But a parting all the same.

Yukiko carried him down the hallway, cradled on her back, her steps soft on the linoleum floor. He didn’t lift his head. He didn’t speak. He let the motion lull him, rocking him gently like he was six years old again.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“…Hey, Mom.”

His voice was a rasp. Small. Worn thin.

Yukiko startled slightly. She looked back over her shoulder.

“Shin-chan? You’re awake.”

He didn’t answer that.

“Did Auntie Eri call you?” he asked instead, his words slow, deliberate.

Yukiko blinked. Then paused to think.

“Oh—yeah. She called me. She said she wouldn’t make you leave Ran-chan’s side, but she wanted to make sure you were being taken care of too. I think…” she hesitated, “…she’s worried about you.”

Shinichi nodded faintly against her shoulder.

“As I thought,” he murmured. “She knew too.”

“Hmm?” Yukiko asked. “Knew what?”

Shinichi closed his eyes.

“That I’m Kudo Shinichi.”

Yukiko gasped.

And suddenly it made sense to her—the timing, the request, the wording of Eri’s call. She hadn’t come for Conan-kun.

She’d come for her son.

“Oh, Shin-chan… I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” Shinichi said quietly. “Ran said I got careless. I’m sure even Kogoro-occhan has figured it out by now. Otherwise… he wouldn’t treat me like such an adult.”

The silence that followed was long. Almost too long.

Then Yukiko’s voice came again, so soft, so gentle it almost startled him.

“Shinichi…”

She never called him that when he was like this.

“Have you… prepared yourself?”

His lips parted.

His voice trembled when he answered:

“…No.”

Yukiko let out a slow breath. Her arms cradled him a little tighter.

“I know it must feel like it’s the end of the world,” she said, her voice thick with sympathy.

It is for me, Shinichi thought.

But he didn’t say it aloud.

He let her speak.

“But you have to let go at some point.”

More silence.

Shinichi didn’t respond right away. He let the words sink in, slow and painful, like rain soaking into old wounds.

And then—

Ran’s voice echoed in his mind.

“I need you to. Or else... I won’t be at peace.”

Then Yukiko spoke again, gently but firmly—like a mother trying to guide her son through something unbearable.

“Let’s not worry Ran-chan anymore, okay?”

And finally—

Finally—

Shinichi cried again.

But this time, it wasn’t wild. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t desperate.

It was soft. Silent.

A surrender.

Tears that slipped down his cheeks like falling leaves. Not clinging. Not grasping.

Letting go.

For Ran.

Only for Ran.

Always for Ran.

And as they walked down the hallway together—mother and son—the weight of the world was still unbearable.

But he carried it anyway.

Because she had asked him to.

Because she needed him to.

Because he loved her enough to honor that wish.

Even if it broke him.

Even if it tore him apart.

Shinichi would let go.

And for the first time since it all began—

He did.

-

The room was quiet.

Not in the way hospital rooms were often quiet—clinical and still, filled with the hum of machines and faint footsteps in the hall. This silence was different. It was weighted. Tense. It clung to the air, thick with words not yet spoken, truths already known but still too painful to voice.

Dr. Araide stood by the foot of the bed, his expression solemn. His usual easy smile was gone, replaced by the pale gravity of a man who had run out of hopeful things to say.

Ran lay reclined against the pillows, upright but visibly weak. Her skin was paler than before, her lips tinged with the faintest blue. Her breaths came slowly, shallow but steady, like someone who had learned to live on less and less air. Despite it all, her eyes were open—tired, but lucid. Listening.

Eri sat at one side of the bed, her hand folded tightly in her lap. Kogoro stood behind her, silent for once, arms crossed and jaw clenched to keep himself composed. Yukiko lingered near the corner, not speaking either, her gaze flitting from Ran to her son.

Shinichi sat on the same chair he'd spent the last day in, small in form, but no longer shrinking from the truth. He was watching Ran. Only Ran.

She was the only thing he could see.

Araide inhaled, then finally broke the silence.

“Her condition has worsened,” he said quietly, his voice soft with apology. “More rapidly than any of us expected. The acute exacerbation accelerated the progression of her IPF beyond what the body can compensate for.”

He paused, eyes flicking toward Eri, then Kogoro. He was speaking to all of them, but his words were really for Ran—and for Shinichi.

“We’ve adjusted medications repeatedly, trying to manage the inflammation, stabilize the lung function, even just reduce the scarring. But...”

He hesitated.

Ran closed her eyes, just briefly. Then opened them again.

Shinichi didn’t flinch. He watched her, silently willing his heart to stay strong.

“…But the medications are no longer effective,” Araide finished gently. “She’s not responding to anything now. Her oxygen levels are dropping despite the support, and her lungs have reached a point where they can no longer heal. I’m... very sorry.”

No one said anything. The only sound was the soft hissing of the oxygen cannula at Ran’s nose, the steady rhythm of breath machines down the hall, the world outside still turning even as theirs began to collapse.

“There is something else,” Araide said, even softer now. “We considered the possibility of a lung transplant. But Ran-san’s condition has become far too fragile for such a surgery. Her body would not survive the operation, let alone the recovery.”

His voice broke slightly at the end.

And then, finally, the words that had been circling the room, waiting for someone brave enough to speak them aloud:

“…There’s nothing more we can do in terms of a cure.”

The silence that followed felt colder than death.

Shinichi still didn’t look away from Ran. She hadn’t flinched. Her lips were parted just slightly, eyes focused somewhere just past the window.

She already knew.

She’d known this.

He could see it now, written all over her features—not despair, not even sadness, but something deeper.

Acceptance.

It was in the calm way she blinked, the way her hands rested lightly on her lap, the way her shoulders stayed still.

Ran had made peace with this truth before any of them had.

Araide continued quietly, clearing his throat. “So, at this point, I want to recommend we focus on palliative care. Prioritize comfort. Pain management. Emotional support. Being surrounded by the people she loves.”

He looked toward Eri and Kogoro, whose eyes were glossy but dry, stunned into a silence neither could seem to break.

“I know this is… difficult,” Araide said. “I wish there was more I could offer. But right now, the most loving thing we can do is help her be comfortable. To give her peace.”

Shinichi didn’t look away from Ran, even now. Because if she could face this—this unbearable truth—then so could he.

Ran was still looking out the window. Her breathing was a little slower than before, but steady. And then, as if she had been waiting for just this moment, she turned her eyes to him.

A soft smile formed at the edges of her lips.

“I have always been waiting for you,” she said.

Her voice was faint. A whisper. But in the quietness of that room, Shinichi heard her as clearly as if she had shouted.

He leaned forward.

His smile trembled but held. “You have,” he replied.

Their eyes met. Long and deep and unblinking.

“Now that you're here…” she breathed, her lips barely moving, “I can finally stop waiting.”

Shinichi's eyes filled with tears again. But they didn’t fall. Not this time. He wouldn't let them. He wouldn’t let Ran see anything but strength in him. His heart ached, cracked, and bled—but he remained, unmoving. Looking only at her.

This was her decision. Her truth.

And he would be with her. Every step.

Ran turned her head slightly, just enough to see Dr. Araide again.

“Sensei…” she murmured. Her voice was fainter now. But steady.

He stepped closer. “Yes, Ran-san?”

“Can I… go home?”

The room stilled again.

Even Eri and Kogoro turned to look at her.

Araide’s eyes softened. “Yes,” he said, immediately, sincerely. “Yes, palliative care can be arranged at home. You’ll have support—nurses, oxygen, everything you need.”

Then, more gently still, he added, “If that’s what you wish… then of course. You can.”

Ran smiled faintly.

She turned toward her parents.

Eri’s lips quivered, but she said nothing. Kogoro looked like someone had punched the breath from him. Neither spoke.

Ran didn’t need them to.

She looked at them with all the love of a child ready to return home.

And with a voice so quiet it might’ve gone unnoticed if they weren’t holding their breath for it, she said:

“Mom… Dad… I want to go home.”

-

Chapter Text

-

Ran had been dreaming of mountains lately. 

Always mountains.

Endless, towering, snowcapped peaks that disappeared into clouds. In the dreams, she was always climbing — one foot in front of the other, palms scraped from the stone, skin kissed by wind too cold to feel. She climbed, higher and higher, her chest tightening with every step. The air thinned. Her legs burned. She gasped.

But the top never gave her peace.

When she finally reached it — when her body crumpled at the summit — there was no reward. No view. No victory. Only silence. Only sky. And her lungs, empty, desperate, tight as a clenched fist.

She woke up.

But the breathlessness didn’t go away.

Because the truth was — she hadn’t come down from that mountain in a long time.

Some days, it felt like drowning. Not in water — but in emptiness. She opened her mouth and tried to breathe, but there was no substance in the air. No nourishment. Just the hollow, thin texture of nothingness, like sucking in steam or wind. Her lungs felt like rooms with no doors. The air came in, but it never stayed.

Other days, it felt like she was breathing through cloth. Something sheer and soft draped across her face. Not heavy enough to alarm her, but just enough to smother every breath before it reached her. Like someone had placed a curtain over her mouth and nose, and no matter how hard she inhaled, it was never enough. Never full.

There were moments when it felt like a hand was gently — almost lovingly — pressing over her face. Not trying to hurt her. Just firm enough to keep her from taking a full breath. Like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Like she was underwater with her nose above the surface, but still — still — somehow she was suffocating.

At rare times, she thought she had finally managed to take in a deep breath. Her lungs expanded. She felt the tension lessen. But then… it stopped. It never finished. It cut off halfway, leaving a strange, aching incompleteness behind. Like a sneeze that never came. A yawn interrupted. A sentence broken. She tried again. And again. But it was never enough.

And there was a sound to it.

Her breathing — it wasn’t silent anymore. It hissed, wheezed, rattled. Sometimes it clicked faintly, like wet paper being crumpled. Other times it crackled, soft and brittle, like footsteps on snow. Her lungs sang their quiet rebellion, their slow collapse, and she was forced to listen. There was no silence in her body anymore.

Once, breathing had been effortless. Subconscious. A background rhythm she never noticed. Like blinking. Or swallowing. Or the beat of her heart.

Now, it was a chore.

An endless task.

Every breath was a choice. Every inhale, an act of will. She had to summon the muscles in her chest, force her shoulders to rise, draw air into lungs that no longer wanted to move. It was tiring. Exhausting. Even sitting upright required effort now. Even talking.

She imagined her lungs sometimes. Thought of them as withered leaves — curled and brittle — rustling with every weak breath. She thought of them as glass balloons, already cracked. Fragile things that no longer held air. Scarred, stiff, stubborn. Failing.

And then there was the rest of it.

The dizziness. The faintness. The cold that crept into her fingers and toes, no matter how many blankets she pulled around herself. The ringing in her ears. The way her vision dimmed at the edges. The moments where time slowed and space blurred and the world tilted, and she wondered if she’d collapse.

But the worst part?

The panic.

Because sometimes — when it was bad — she panicked. Her body betrayed her and her mind coiled around it like a snake. Her chest tightened. Her throat closed. Her eyes widened. There was no enemy to fight. No way out. Just her, trapped inside a body that had forgotten how to breathe.

And she had to remind herself — over and over — to be calm. To be still. To keep going.

Because there was always someone holding her hand.

Small hands. Warm and steady — sometimes trembling — but always there. They offered her something no medicine could: a quiet kind of strength, a grounding presence.

When her breathing grew shallow and her thoughts spiraled, it was those hands that soothed her. Their warmth eased the panic. Their grip told her to stay. To breathe. To hold on.

There were moments, though, when the hands would grow cold — clammy with fear. They would squeeze hers just a little tighter, just a little more desperately, as if willing her back from the edge.

Those were the times she knew she had frightened him. Those were the moments when she realized her stillness had gone on too long, her disorientation too deep. The tiny pressure of his fingers on hers was a silent plea: Wake up. Come back. I’m still here.

Even when her mind drifted — when reality blurred into the fevered fog of sleep — those hands followed her.

In her dreams, when she climbed that mountain again, breathless and alone, she would sometimes find herself surrounded by thick mist. A fog so dense she couldn’t see the path beneath her feet, couldn’t tell up from down, earth from sky. She wandered, dizzy, frightened, lost.

But always, she felt them.

Not fully — not solid. Just a sensation. A silhouette. A flicker of presence in the haze.

She could never quite reach them, could never wrap her fingers around them — but they were there. Just at the edge of her awareness. Just close enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone.

They couldn’t stop the breathlessness. Couldn’t change the way her lungs shrank with every gasp. Couldn’t bring oxygen into the suffocating world she lived in now.

But they gave her something else.

Company.

Someone to get lost with.

Someone to wander the mountain beside her, even if he, too, didn’t know the way down.

And because of that — because of him — she fought harder.

She had fought so hard.

So hard.

Even when her arms grew weak. Even when her vision blurred. Even when her lips turned pale and her voice shook with fatigue, she kept fighting. Because there was always someone to protect. Someone to smile for. Someone she loved.

She kept climbing that mountain. Kept gasping for air she could never hold. Kept smiling through the struggle. Kept holding on.

She was tired. 

So very tired. 

And yet, she kept the fight. 

She'd told herself over and over again that she would fight. She wouldn't give up. She would keep on going. 

Until the day it was no longer about choice. About will, strength, stubbornness or even hope. 

Until the day it was no longer hers to decide whether to continue fighting or not. Whether to give up or not. Whether to keep going or not. 

Until the day her body, this body that she trusted for so long, would whisper: "enough." 

...And that day — quiet, unassuming day — 

It came. 

-

The first people she said her goodbyes to were the people from school.

They came in waves—some in small groups, others by themselves, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Her classmates, with their awkward smiles and teary eyes. Her teachers, standing by her side with measured voices, as if afraid that speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile air around them.

The members of her karate club entered next, the ones she had trained with for years, their stances slouched now not from lack of strength, but grief. Even a few of her senpai and kouhai—those she had looked up to and those who had once looked up to her—came to see her one more time.

They brought color and noise into the house. Laughter that tried so hard to be normal. Teasing voices, exaggerated stories from school, memories of competitions, and awkward confessions of admiration and thanks.

For a while, it felt like any other gathering at home. Like nothing had changed.

But of course, everything had.

There would always be that one moment. The hush. The glance. The shifting eyes and trembling hands.

“…We were just waiting for you to come back.”

“She was supposed to be in the school play.”

“She promised she’d help me train for the next tournament…”

And then silence again.

Ran met them all with a smile. Not radiant, but soft. Steady. Gentle. A smile that told them without words: It’s alright. You don’t have to carry this pain.

I’m okay.

And deep within her, past the physical ache and the breathlessness and the disorientation of her body failing her… Ran saw it again.

That staircase.

This was how it felt. 

Like she had been climbing a long set of stairs in quiet moments between sleep and waking. The steps were old stone—narrow and uneven. Cold. They wound upward, surrounded only by dark and endless void. An Abyss. 

There were no railings, no walls, only the vast hush of night pressing in from all sides, so silent it rang in her ears. The air was thin here, just like in her dreams of mountains—too thin to fill her lungs, too cold to bring warmth.

And yet, up ahead, at the very end of the staircase, there was a door.

A soft glow leaked through its edges—golden light, gentle and warm. Not blinding, not beckoning with force, but inviting. Kind. The warmth it promised wasn’t like sunlight—it was deeper, softer. It was rest. Peace. An end, yes, but not one of fear. A release. A return.

It was calling to her.

But she couldn’t open it yet.

Not until she completed her duty. Not until she said her goodbyes.

The door was not something to fear—it was the place where the struggle ended, where her lungs would no longer ache, where her body would no longer tremble from the simple act of breathing. Beyond that door, she could finally let go. Be free.

But to reach it… she had to keep climbing. And with every farewell, every embrace, every whisper of “thank you” and “I’ll miss you,” another step brought her closer.

Every visit from someone she loved was another breathless, necessary ascent.

And every step she took forward made the stair behind her crumble—disintegrating into shadow, as if the universe itself was reminding her: there is no turning back.

But she didn’t want to turn back. Not anymore.

The light ahead was calling.

With her classmates, she’d taken the first few.

With her teachers, a few more.

With her karate club, she got closer to the door. 

Still, there was quite a long way to go. 

The next to come were her grandparents, and the rest of her relatives.

They arrived slowly, quietly. They did not burst in with chatter or attempt to cheer her up with false bravado. No—they came bearing silence. Bearing stillness. And with them, a certain weight that was different from that of her school friends. Something older. Heavier. More knowing.

Ran had grown up seeing these people as timeless. Her grandparents, especially—pillars of strength rooted deep into the soil of her childhood. To see them now, older and slower, with silver streaks in their hair and creases etched into their skin like quiet stories… was one thing.

But to see herself reflected in their eyes as the frail one, the fragile one—the one who was running out of time—was something else entirely.

There was something almost surreal about being the youngest person in the room, and yet feeling like the oldest soul.

She had fewer years in her bones, fewer memories, fewer lines in her skin. But it was her who lay in bed, her who struggled to breathe, her who bore the finality in her smile.

And still, they did not cry—not in front of her.

They sat beside her and held her hand.

They smoothed her blanket and tucked it around her legs.

They adjusted the pillows behind her back.

And when she looked at them—at the gentle gaze of her paternal grandmother, at the weary tenderness in her maternal grandfather’s eyes—her chest ached. Not from her illness, but from something deeper.

They weren’t trying to deny what was coming. They weren’t offering false hope or telling her to keep fighting when her body had already surrendered the war. No, their goodbye was different.

It wasn’t just parting.

It was permission.

Their farewell was the kind that could only come from people who had lived long enough to know that there were some things in this world that couldn't be bent with willpower alone. That there were places medicine cannot reach. That there came a time when the soul would begin to float upward even as the body was still tied down.

They knew.

And with quiet dignity, they gave her their blessing.

When her grandfather kissed her forehead, it was like he was saying You’ve done enough.

When her grandmother squeezed her hand, it was like she was whispering You don’t have to keep holding on for us.

There were no lectures. No resistance. No frantic pleading to stay.

Just warmth. Love. And release.

And as they stood by the door, ready to leave, they looked at her one last time. Not with pity, but with profound reverence. And perhaps… just a little pride.

Ran gave them a soft smile. A smile not of strength, but of surrender. Of grace.

And then, they were gone.

In the staircase, where air remained thin, darkness vast, she climbed a couple more steps. 

Dr. Araide and Dr. Sakamoto began visiting on a regular basis. Quietly, respectfully. No longer in the sterile white coats of hospital halls, but in soft sweaters and coats, subdued clothes that still carried the weight of their titles.

Originally, it was planned that a nurse would provide Ran’s palliative care at home—someone gentle, experienced, with the right touch for managing pain and breathlessness.

But the two doctors had volunteered instead. Not as physicians this time, but as something more personal. Something more human.

Ran didn’t ask why. She only watched.

There was something in their expressions—especially Dr. Araide’s—that felt like guilt. Not guilt of wrongdoing, no, but of helplessness. The guilt of knowing too much, of seeing something ahead and being unable to stop it.

Dr. Sakamoto, quieter in disposition, had the same heaviness in her gaze. Yet both of them offered her kindness every time. Adjusting her oxygen gently, checking her breathing with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly.

They didn’t say goodbye. Not in words.

But in the way they looked at her during their last few visits—in the way they lingered just a moment longer than necessary—Ran knew. Their parting was given not through language, but through permission. The kind of permission that only doctors could give a patient when there’s nothing more they can do.

She saw it in their eyes: You can rest now.

And so, Ran took two more steps.

Between those visits, two quiet things appeared in her room—quiet, but not unnoticed.

The first was a silk handkerchief. Pure white. Delicate embroidery shaped into a pair of angel wings, elegant and soft. They looked familiar—not in the way of recognition, but in essence. As though they belonged to a memory Ran couldn’t quite place. She traced the threads with her fingertips, the fabric cold against her skin, yet somehow comforting.

The second was a card. Plain. No logo. No name. Just a single line of flowing cursive that read:

To the one pretty lady possessing one brave heart. 

Tucked beside it was a rose. Dried. One stem only. Frozen in time, its petals fragile and preserved under a tiny glass case. Like a moment suspended between what once was and what could never be again.

Ran didn’t know who had left them. 

Still, she found herself taking two more steps in the stairs. 

Later that week, officers from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police arrived, one after the other, in quiet procession.

Inspector Shiratori was the first to come. He stayed for only a short while, but he bowed deeply to her before he left, and there was a sadness in his eyes she hadn’t expected.

Then came Officer Yumi, with her usual vibrant voice lowered to a gentle hush, walking beside Detective Chiba, who held a paper bag filled with warm pastries—his awkward, earnest way of showing care.

And then came Detectives Sato and Takagi.

They all sat for a while, taking up quiet space, filling her living room with a warmth that wasn’t loud, but comforting. Like a wool coat wrapped around chilled skin. They didn’t say much—just looked at her like she was precious, like she mattered. And that was enough.

Sato was the only one who spoke for long. Her smile was bright as always, but gentler, more careful.

“You really did fight,” she said, voice slightly hoarse. “You really did your best.”

Ran met her gaze. And nodded.

Because she remembered that day—the conversation that took place in the café. 

And after they left, after the warmth of their presence lingered like the scent of flowers that had been in the room, Ran closed her eyes again.

And took five more steps.

Inspector Megure came next, his familiar silhouette filling the doorway like a scene from the past. But this time, his steps were slower, more cautious. His wife, Midori, stood beside him—composed and elegant, her presence like a soft lantern in the dusk.

They didn’t stay long.

Perhaps they knew that sometimes, words only weighed down the moment. Perhaps they understood that their presence alone was enough.

But when Midori gently took Ran’s hand, and when Megure placed a firm palm on her shoulder—his eyes more tender than she’d ever seen them—Ran felt something ease within her. The affection of long-time protectors. The quiet pride of people who had watched her grow up from the sidelines of cases and chaos and still remembered the little girl who served tea and stayed brave.

When they left, the room lingered with the scent of winter coats and warmth.

Ran closed her eyes.

And took another two steps.

Later, footsteps were heard again, softer this time, and she heard the familiar voices of Amuro and Azusa at the door.

Azusa entered first, her cheerfulness like sunlight peeking through thick clouds. She talked about Poirot, about the new menu items, about the regulars who missed seeing Ran’s face. She wasn’t as involved as deeply as the others—but her presence was still genuine. Still warm.

Her smile said: I know. Even if you don’t say anything, I know.

Ran smiled back. A tired smile. A grateful one.

Then came Amuro.

Always polite. Always poised.

But this time… something was different.

He didn’t bring his signature cool charm, didn’t carry the usual air of mystery that followed him like a tailored suit. No, today, Amuro came as a person. Gentle. Quiet. His voice softened at the edges, stripped of pretense.

It caught Ran by surprise. Not because she didn’t think he could be kind—but because it felt rare. Like a glimpse of a side no one was meant to see.

He didn’t speak much, only asked how she was feeling, offered to bring anything she wanted from Poirot. But Ran had looked at him and, with sincerity laced in every breath, thanked him.

“For all the fruit smoothies,” she said, “and the lemon tea. For looking after me. For helping me on my feet… for simply helping me.”

Amuro didn’t respond right away. He just looked at her, something flickering in his eyes—something unspoken.

As though he was thinking of all the things he should have done.

But in the end, he simply bowed slightly. And she returned it.

The day ended with a quiet goodbye. No promises. No final words.

Just a mutual understanding.

And after the door closed, and the sound of their footsteps faded into the evening light, Ran turned her gaze forward.

And took two more steps.

The next to visit were the children. The Detective Boys. All four of them—Ayumi, Genta, Mitsuhiko, and Ai—came in together, their little footsteps echoing with a sort of nervous joy that barely disguised the weight sitting in their small chests.

Professor Agasa followed behind them, his usual cheerful expression dimmed into something more fragile, more careful, like he was trying to hold something together.

They brought laughter. Laughter so light and youthful it filled the room with a kind of freshness Ran hadn’t realized she’d missed.

Ayumi gave her another handmade card, full of sparkles and smiling stick figures. Genta insisted on bringing a whole bag of snacks—“for when you get better!” he declared, and Ran smiled even as her chest tightened. Mitsuhiko read her a poem he had written, his voice cracking just slightly near the end.

They talked endlessly. Told her stories about school, about a case they tried solving the other day, about a mystery involving a missing lunchbox. They told her about summer plans, future trips, what they wanted to be when they grew up. They included her in everything—“you’ll come too, right, Ran-neechan?”—and she nodded along.

She nodded, even though no one asked her to promise.

Because they knew. Somewhere in the corners of their gentle hearts, they already knew.

So they lingered.

They stayed long, far longer than they usually would. Genta even dozed off on the couch. Ayumi rested her head on Ran’s arm. Mitsuhiko tried to stay upright but eventually leaned against Agasa’s side.

They didn’t want to leave.

As if some quiet voice within them whispered that this was the last time. That this, this moment in this room filled with faint warmth and stronger goodbyes, would be the end of something.

Professor Agasa had been quieter than the rest. When he finally approached her, he didn’t say anything. He just placed a large, trembling hand on her shoulder, and when their eyes met, he blinked away a tear.

Ran, with a heart so full it could hardly carry more, thanked him. Thanked him for her childhood, for the laughter in her younger years, for the comfort his home and inventions had brought her, even in the most dangerous of times.

She thanked him for his recent inventions that made this journey a little easier for her. 

He tried to smile. He really did. But his voice caught in his throat as he gave her a last, gentle nod before helping gather the children.

Only Ai lingered behind.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, watching Ran with eyes that had seen too much too young. They shared an unspoken understanding—a mutual respect and care that never needed naming.

They looked at each other for a long time.

Finally, Ai broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” she said, barely a whisper.

Ran didn’t know what she was apologizing for. But whatever it was, Ran’s heart already forgave her.

She shook her head gently.

“Thank you,” Ran whispered. “For being here.”

Ai’s breath hitched. Her voice cracked, and for a moment, her composure had shattered. She looked down, almost crying, almost breaking. 

“Thank you,” Ai said, “for saving me. For watching over me. For caring when you didn’t have to.”

Ran smiled at her. A smile soft and true and unshakeable. And Ai stayed.

She didn’t speak again, didn’t move much, just sat in the corner quietly. Present. A quiet witness to the closing hours.

She was still there when Ran drifted into sleep.

And as she left, sometime near dusk, Ran felt a small touch on her hand. A fleeting, lingering warmth, like a blessing whispered in silence.

And with it, Ran took five more steps.

She noticed it then—the steps were getting heavier. Not her body. Not her lungs. But her heart.

Each movement felt like lifting stone. As if the closer she got to the door, the deeper her soul clung to those she loved.

And yet, the contradiction—the complexity of this moment—was clear: though the steps were harder, more weighted with sorrow, each one also brought a sliver of light.

Because the door was near.

And with every farewell, every blessing, every hand that touched hers and gave her permission to go, the door at the end of the staircase glowed brighter. It was no longer just a symbol of departure. It was something she could feel calling to her. Not a punishment. Not a tragedy.

Freedom.

Rest.

Peace.

But these steps—these last few—were the hardest.

Because the ones closest to her heart were the ones she would leave last.

Yukiko came next, this time with Yuusaku in tow.

As soon as she stepped into the room, Yukiko’s presence flooded the space like sunlight through gauzy curtains—warm, bright, a little dramatic, and all heart. She fussed, of course. Fussing about Ran’s blanket, about the way her pillow was arranged, about the faint color on her cheeks, about whether the humidifier was working properly.

She had done the same in the hospital, that same eager voice assuring Ran that she’d be the one to take care of her now, that she’d cook for her, that she’d pamper her until she got better.

And that voice still carried its charm, its spark—but now, beneath it, was something quieter. Something aching.

Because Yukiko knew. This wasn’t like before. This wasn’t just another hospital visit. This wasn’t just another check-up or convalescence.

This might be the last time.

Ran saw it in her eyes—eyes that still gleamed with energy but also glistened with tears she refused to shed. Yukiko didn’t cry. Not in front of her. She just smiled, chattered, touched her hair and told her how pretty she still looked, how strong she was, how proud she was of her.

But Ran knew. Knew this was Yukiko’s way of saying goodbye.

Yuusaku, on the other hand, was quieter.

He stood beside his wife, calm and composed, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat like he always did. But his presence filled the room in a way that needed no volume, no grand gestures. It was simply there—solid, unwavering, like a lighthouse standing against the tide.

And yet, Ran saw it. That flicker in his eyes. A question, unspoken but sharp. Not directed at her, not even at Yukiko—but outward. At the world. At the cruel, quiet hand of fate.

Why?

That was what his eyes were asking.

Why this girl?

Why now?

Why like this?

It was the look of a man who had solved countless mysteries, untangled intricate webs of lies and human cruelty, and now faced something he couldn’t reason his way out of. Something that made no sense. Something that didn’t play fair. And it hurt him. Not loudly. Not visibly. But it was there. In the way his gaze lingered just a moment longer. In the stillness of his shoulders. In the way his lips remained pressed together like a question he didn’t want to ask aloud.

He was so much like Shinichi in that way.

Only softer. More muted. 

Yuusaku didn’t protest out loud. He didn’t pace or cry or demand answers. He wasn’t stubborn like his son. He knew when a battle was already lost.

And so, in his own quiet, heartbreaking way—he surrendered.

And when Yukiko held Ran’s hand between hers, beaming like a proud parent but with tears glittering unshed in her lashes, Ran thanked her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice fragile but sincere, “for letting me play with your son.”

It made Yukiko laugh—a sound too close to a sob. “Ran-chan,” she said, brushing hair from her face, “you didn’t just play with him. You made him a better person.”

Then Ran looked at Yuusaku, offering him a faint smile. “Thank you for doting on me. For always treating me like family.”

Yuusaku smiled softly, and it was perhaps the saddest smile she’d ever seen on him. “You are family,” he said, low and certain. “You always have been.”

Yukiko leaned in then, eyes misty but bright. “You’re our daughter too, in more sense than one.”

And Ran smiled. Her heart so full, her chest aching with more than breathlessness.

“Then… thank you,” she whispered, voice trembling, “for bringing Shinichi into this world.”

Yukiko finally let the tears slip. Just one or two. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to say what she didn’t dare speak.

And with their gentle farewells warming her chest like sunlight through ice, Ran took two more heavy steps.

Closer to the door.

When Kazuha and Heiji came, they didn’t bring with them the usual loudness, the playful bickering, or the easy familiarity that normally followed them like the echo of childhood days. This time, they came quieter. Heiji with his head slightly lowered, and Kazuha with her hands clenched tightly at her sides, as if holding back the wave of something too big for her small frame to carry.

But the dam broke quickly.

Kazuha cried.

Not the stifled kind, not the trembling sort that people try to hide in polite company, but full, quiet sobs that shook her shoulders as she sat by Ran’s bed.

And Ran, watching her cry, felt a quiet kind of peace. Because this—this honesty—was more comforting than any strong front could ever be. It was raw, but it was real.

Ran knew.

She knew Kazuha had been trying her best—smiling through her fear, laughing even when her eyes betrayed her sorrow, always trying to be cheerful whenever they visited from Osaka. Ran had seen it. The thin veil of strength, the way Kazuha’s eyes glistened too quickly, how her voice occasionally wavered even when she forced a grin.

Since her diagnosis, Ran had become more sensitive to the emotional weight of the people around her. She’d learned to read between silences, to understand the meanings that lived in glances and hesitations.

And she knew that Kazuha had been breaking behind her back, alone or with Heiji. That she had been crying quietly in places Ran couldn’t see. That she was trying—so hard—not to cry in front of her.

So now, watching her let go, watching her break in front of her for the first time, Ran felt relief.

This is her acceptance, Ran thought.

This is her goodbye.

This is her way of giving me permission to go.

Heiji, ever the quieter of the two when it mattered most, didn’t say much. Just a pat on the shoulder, warm and steady, grounding in a way only he could be.

And then his hand, briefly covering hers—calloused, familiar, firm. There were no words, but Ran felt everything in that simple touch.

The grief.

The anger.

The helplessness.

The unfairness.

He, too, carried that look. That questioning, frustrated look she’d seen in Yuusaku. That quiet scream against the injustice of it all. But there was another layer in Heiji’s gaze—pain not just for her, but for Kazuha, who sat beside him with swollen eyes and trembling shoulders, and for Shinichi, his best friend, who was crumbling behind composed silence.

Ran smiled through her tears.

She reached for both of their hands and held them gently.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft and full of meaning, “for being such great friends. For bringing more color to my life. For being there, even now.”

Then she looked at Heiji, her expression growing fonder, a different kind of warmth blooming in her chest. “And thank you,” she added, “for being there for Shinichi. For always standing by him. If… if possible, please continue looking after him. He’ll need that.”

Heiji nodded, something fierce in his eyes. “Of course. That’s what I plan to do.”

And then Ran turned to Kazuha, smiling faintly, a touch of mischief breaking through the sorrow like sunlight between dark clouds.

“Ne, Kazuha-chan,” she whispered as she leaned forward to hug her one last time, “maybe… maybe you should confess to Hattori-kun soon. So at least one of us can get a happy ending.”

Kazuha choked on a sob, caught between laughter and grief, and didn’t respond—only looked at Ran, lips trembling, eyes drowning in emotion.

Ran squeezed her gently and said, more sincerely this time, “If you could live my portion too… especially in love, I think I’d really like that.”

Kazuha nodded, tearfully, earnestly, the promise clear in her expression even if she couldn’t find her voice to speak it.

And after they left, after the door clicked softly behind them, Ran cried alone in her room.

Not for herself.

But for the memories.

For the warmth.

For the people who had filled her life with so much love and laughter and meaning.

She cried not because she regretted saying goodbye—but because she already missed them. The ache of parting, the sting of distance that hadn’t even begun yet, settled into her chest like a second weight beside the breathlessness.

Still, through the sorrow, she lifted one foot. Then another.

And took two more steps.

Sonoko had always visited her.

Sometimes it was just for a short check-in—dropping off something sweet, or lounging beside her bed as she rambled about fashion and gossip and whatever her current obsession was.

Other times, she stayed for hours, watching movies with Ran, painting her nails, talking as if nothing had changed—as if this wasn’t what it was.

But this time… this time was different.

Because this time, Sonoko didn’t come alone.

She brought Makoto with her.

Ran knew the meaning behind that even before Sonoko opened her mouth.

This was it.

Sonoko was finally ready.

Ready to talk.

Ready to stop pretending.

Ready to accept what none of them wanted to say out loud.

Ready to say goodbye.

From the moment she stepped into the room, Ran could see the shift in her. Sonoko—her best friend who always wore her heart on her sleeve, who was honest to a fault, who could be loud and dramatic and completely unfiltered—was already trembling. Her smile was weak, eyes glassy, lips bitten red.

Makoto walked beside her, calm and steady, always the anchor.

He gave Ran a soft bow when their eyes met. A simple gesture, but heavy with meaning.

Respect.

As Sonoko’s best friend.

As a fellow martial artist.

As someone who admired her strength—not just the kind learned in a dojo, but the one that allowed her to face something like this with grace.

Ran smiled, grateful more than she could say. Grateful for his quiet strength, his support of Sonoko. Grateful for the respect in his eyes that made her feel like she was still whole, still seen.

And then Sonoko broke.

The tears didn’t come in delicate trails—they came in floods, in gasps, in an unraveling that was so achingly human it hurt to witness. She crumpled by Ran’s side, her fingers twisting into the bedsheet like it was the only thing keeping her from falling into pieces.

And Ran didn’t say much. She just reached out, took her hand, let her cry. Let her get it all out.

Makoto stood behind Sonoko, one hand gently on her shoulder, grounding her—there for her in the silence in a way words never could be.

“I don’t want you to go,” Sonoko choked out, voice cracking. “I don’t want this to be real.”

Ran gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I know,” she whispered. 

Sonoko clung harder, her face buried in the comforter. “I’m scared, Ran. I’m so scared. How are you not scared?”

Ran went quiet for a moment.

Because she was. Of course she was.

Death was terrifying. Dying even more.

But what scared her the most wasn’t the leaving.

It was what came after.

She was going to leave behind all of this. All of them. These loving, bright, caring people.

And she was terrified that her absence would hurt them. That her memory would become a shadow that followed them, making them cry when they least expected it. That her name would become something that brought melancholy instead of joy. That birthdays would feel incomplete, holidays would feel quieter, days would feel heavier.

That the people she loved would carry the weight of her loss forever.

And watching Sonoko break like this—this was that fear, made real.

Still, Ran kept her smile.

Because this, too, was a part of letting go.

At the end of the day, Sonoko had to release her. Had to give her the blessing, the farewell.

And she did—voice hoarse, eyes puffy, hands trembling.

“You’ll be forever my best friend, Ran,” she said, a bittersweet smile curving her lips. “Forever.”

That—

That undid Ran completely.

The tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she pulled Sonoko into a hug, holding her tightly, wordlessly, heart breaking and mending all at once in her chest.

And Sonoko, seeing Ran cry, sobbed again—louder, messier, full of all the love and grief that couldn’t fit inside her small frame.

The day ended with exhaustion, with soaked sleeves and swollen eyes, with the ache of what was and what could never be.

But even so—

Even with the pain, even with her heart feeling like it would tear with each breath—

Ran took another two steps in the stairs.

With her mother, there was no grand moment.

No emotional buildup, no dramatic entrance, no hesitant silence heavy with meaning.

Just a night like any other, ordinary in the way things become when pain has been made familiar. A quiet evening, the lights dimmed, the curtains drawn against the Tokyo night.

Her mother, Eri, was beside her bed, tucking the comforter gently around her. Her fingers moved with delicate precision—adjusting the oxygen cannula, checking the tubing, smoothing out the linens just like the doctors had shown her.

Her motions were methodical, efficient, yet filled with care. She always moved with elegance, even when she was simply helping Ran lie down.

It was quiet for a while. The only sounds were the soft rustling of cloth and the ever-present hush of the oxygen concentrator.

And then Ran said it.

“Mom,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t ask you to get back together with Dad anymore.”

The words hung in the air like a dropped glass—gentle, but startling. Eri froze, just for a moment. Her fingers paused over the blanket, her eyes flicking toward Ran’s face with something unreadable in them.

Ran didn’t stop.

“But…” she continued, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest, “at least… meet with him. From time to time. Just for meals. Or coffee. Just to talk.”

Her mother stood very still.

Then, slowly, Eri finished straightening the comforter. She brushed a few strands of hair away from Ran’s forehead, adjusting the oxygen tube with gentle fingers. And then she turned toward her completely, settling onto the edge of the bed.

She looked at Ran for a long moment. Her eyes—sharp, perceptive, always so strong—were soft now. Damp with something that didn’t fall, but shimmered there in quiet restraint.

She reached out, tucked a loose strand behind Ran’s ear, the way she used to when Ran was small. The touch was so familiar, so maternal it undid something inside her.

“My baby,” Eri said, her voice low and even, as if she were speaking directly to Ran’s soul. “My child.”

There was no waver in her voice, but it trembled in meaning. It overflowed with tenderness, with strength, with the fierce kind of love that mothers carry even when the world crumbles around them.

“You don’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

That was all she said.

And yet, to Ran, it felt like everything.

A simple sentence—no promises, no reassurances, no attempts to pretend things weren’t what they were. Just those words. That truth.

And it felt like a key had been pressed into her palm.

A release.

Of the weight she had carried.

Of the anxiety that clenched her chest alongside the pain.

Of the guilt she didn’t even realize she had.

Her breath caught.

Then the tears came.

Not in sobs, not in gasps, but in a silent flood—soft and slow, like rain falling on tired soil.

Ran sat up and cried, finally cried, leaning into her mother’s arms.

She had been strong for so long.

Too long.

She had fought and smiled and endured.

But now—now she allowed herself to crumble.

Because in her mother’s arms, she was just a daughter.

Just a child again.

A little girl in need of comfort. In need of love. In need of the feeling that no matter what, someone would hold her through it.

And Eri did.

She held her tightly, wrapped her in warmth and memories, stroked her hair as she had done when Ran was still small enough to curl into her lap. She hummed softly under her breath—some long-forgotten lullaby from a time before all of this.

She didn't speak again.

She didn't need to.

Ran’s tears soaked into her shoulder as her mother rocked her, slow and steady, grounding her to this moment.

Eventually, the crying gave way to stillness.

Exhaustion seeped in—heavier than anything before—and Ran drifted into sleep with the warmth of her mother beside her. Not as the lawyer Kisaki Eri. Not as the woman always holding herself with grace and pride.

But just as her mother.

And when Ran took another step in the staircase, it was heavier than any step before—thick with sorrow and weight and finality.

But it was freeing, too.

Because in her mother’s embrace, she found permission.

And love.

And peace.

Kogoro had cried when it was his turn.

Not the quiet, composed kind of crying that most men tried to hold onto. Not the subtle misting of eyes or the clenched jaw kind. No—Kogoro cried loud and open, his voice trembling with grief, his shoulders shaking, the sobs escaping from him like waves crashing through a broken dam.

It was a bit comical, almost exaggerated in a way that would’ve made Ran laugh in any other time.

And somehow—somehow—it brought her joy.

Because this… this was how her father should be.

Not the quiet man who had been holding himself together with brittle silence these past few months. Not the man whose back was hunched slightly more each week with the weight of helplessness. Not the man who stood in doorways unsure of what to say, of how to comfort her, of how to breathe while watching his daughter slowly fade.

This—this weeping, unfiltered man who forgot to wipe his nose, who grumbled through his tears about how unfair life was—this was the father she grew up with.

Kogoro had always been a bit childish. Loud, dramatic, easily flustered, and laughably stubborn. But he had been her constant. Her protector. Her guardian.

The man who made her laugh, angry, annoyed, worried. But also the man who guided her in life. 

He was the one who watched her grow from a bright-eyed little girl to a young woman. He was the one who cheered the loudest during her karate competitions, the one who pouted when she beat him at card games, the one who always, always came through for her when it mattered.

And he was also the one who watched her break. Who saw her strength begin to wither.

He watched her grew up to be so strong. 

And then he watched her become so frail, so weak, for such a short period of time. 

Of everyone, it was Kogoro who felt the pain of the transition the most.

And now he stood before her, tears pouring down his cheeks, looking at her not like a daughter who was leaving, but like a miracle he never expected to hold for so long.

He cried like he used to cry when Ran would narrowly escape danger—after cases, accidents, moments where her life had been on the line. He would weep loudly then, dramatically, sobbing into her shoulder while Ran tried to comfort him.

This time was no different.

Only the danger had no solution.

But there was relief in his tears. Immense. Obvious.

Because somewhere in his heart, Kogoro knew—finally knew—that the pain was almost over. That his daughter, his strong, brave, beautiful daughter, wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. That she would be free.

And Ran… Ran didn’t cry.

Not this time.

Her mother had taken her sorrow already, had absorbed her worries and fears with the softness only a mother could give. So now, here in front of her father, she became strong again.

She straightened her shoulders. Smiled gently. She became the Ran he remembered—the Ran he raised, the Ran he was so proud of.

“I’m glad,” she said softly, “that I got to live with you, Dad.”

Kogoro sniffled, blinking at her.

“I was never sad,” Ran continued. “I was never lonely that it was you who became the constant in my life.”

Her voice trembled, but she held it steady.

“Thank you,” she said, the words so full of depth, “for raising me to be a strong girl.”

And Kogoro… Kogoro cried again.

But this time, with a small, soft smile on his lips.

Pride bloomed in his eyes like the sun rising over stormy seas. Relief bloomed in his chest. His daughter—his little girl—was happy. She was content. She was whole, even now.

He reached out, took her hand, and squeezed it with trembling fingers.

“Ran…” he said, choking on her name. “You were always strong. Always.”

She smiled again, brushing the back of his hand with her thumb.

And with that, with that love and pride and memory wrapped so tightly around her heart, Ran took another step in the staircase.

Heavier than all the others.

But strong.

Always strong.

And now, there was only one more step left in the stairs.

One final step to reach the door.

The light beyond it glowed warmer than ever, soft and inviting, calling her to rest. It was so close now—so achingly close—and yet, for the first time, Ran found herself hesitating.

Because this time… it was Shinichi.

Her childhood friend. 

The love of her life. 

The one she wanted to have a forever with. 

He was the one she wanted to free the most. 

But... 

He was also the one she didn’t want to leave the most.

-
-

Ran wasn’t always lucid anymore.

She spent most of her time asleep now—if it could still be called sleep. It was deeper than rest, quieter than dreams. And when she was awake, there were moments when her eyes were open but her mind wasn’t present. Not really. Not in the way it used to be.

It wasn’t memory loss. It was a kind of drifting—like she was floating somewhere between the waking world and the other side, and nothing he did could anchor her long enough to make her stay.

Shinichi had watched this change slowly take over her.

First it was just longer naps. Then slower responses. Then the vacant stares and breathy, quiet words that sometimes didn’t match the conversation anymore. The doctor called it "oxygen deprivation." Haibara explained it clinically—hypoxia in the brain, from the progressive collapse of her lungs. She told him that toward the end, it would be like this. Like fading. A candle flickering, light trembling in the dark.

He had asked Haibara, not long ago, how long the antidote might last. Her voice was heavy with understanding when she answered—three or four days, at best. And only if his body could take it.

He’d saved it.

Saved it for the moment he feared the most. The moment when Ran would begin her last descent. When the light would flicker not just faintly, but truly dim.

That moment had come.

He felt it before anyone told him—like a change in the air, like a drop in pressure that his instincts could feel before his mind caught up. It was happening. The moment he had fought against, denied, grieved for in advance—it had arrived.

So Shinichi took the antidote.

The transformation was agony. Bones cracking, sinew tearing, blood rushing faster than it should. His limbs expanded and his lungs caught fire. He gritted his teeth against the scream building in his throat. He dug his nails into the floor. Every part of his body was in pain.

And still, it was nothing—nothing—compared to the ache in his heart.

He staggered into her room on shaking legs, taller now, his body bigger, older, heavier with pain and purpose. He’d barely caught his breath from the transformation, but none of that mattered.

Ran was sitting up on her bed, propped carefully by pillows and blankets. Her eyes were open.

But she wasn’t there.

She was breathing, just barely. Her chest moved. Her lashes fluttered. But her gaze—her soul—was somewhere else.

Shinichi’s heart cracked.

It was a sight he had started to see more and more—Ran drifting like a feather caught in the wind. It had happened a few times before, and he’d always found a way to reach her. To bring her back. But this time… this time, something in her stillness terrified him.

He sat beside her.

Close. So close he could feel the faintest warmth of her skin against his. He reached for her hand with his larger one, trembling.

And he enveloped it.

She was so small now. So thin. He could wrap his hand entirely around hers, like she was made of paper. He gave her hand a squeeze.

No response.

He tried again. Desperation creeping into the gentle pressure of his fingers.

Still nothing.

He brought his free hand to her cheek and cupped it gently, rubbing his thumb against her pale skin, soft and frail and warm like fading light.

“Ran,” he whispered. His voice was raw with emotion. “Ran… Please…”

He was pleading. Not just to her, but to anyone who would listen. Please, not yet. Not now.

His voice cracked.

“Ran, come back.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Just the rasping whisper of her shallow breaths and the quiet tick of the wall clock. And then—

A flicker.

She blinked slowly. Her gaze shifted. Her eyes focused.

They found him.

And just like that—she smiled.

It was faint, gentle, tired… but undeniably Ran. His Ran. His heart lifted, staggering under the weight of relief.

“You’re back,” he breathed, as if he’d been underwater and just reached the surface.

Her lips parted. “And you’re here,” she said, leaning weakly into his hand on her cheek, as if even that little contact steadied her.

Seeing her so affectionate like this, something in him broke. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming, unbearable love swelling in his chest.

He couldn’t speak.

Instead, he drew her in.

He slid his arms around her frail frame and cradled her against him, holding her like the most fragile thing in the world.

He held her tightly—but carefully. She was so much smaller than he remembered. Or maybe he was just bigger now. Either way, the contrast startled him.

She fit against his chest like she was meant to be there. Like she always had been.

His arms curled around her, one hand on her back, the other at the back of her head, fingers threading into her soft hair. She was so light, so impossibly light, like a bundle of breath and bone. And he was terrified to hold her too tightly. Terrified he’d crush her.

But even more terrified of letting go.

He held her. Close. Secure. For this moment, he told himself, they were together. And if he just held on tight enough, maybe time would stop.

For a moment, he wondered if he could take it back—his surrender, his silent promise to let go. 

Shinichi couldn't do it after all. He couldn't watch as Ran slipped away from him. 

Couldn't let Ran be taken from him. 

If he held onto her like this, to shield her from any danger, to keep her from any threats...

If he kept her close to him like this, protected in his arms...

Wouldn't it be possible for them to stay together forever? 

But then—

“Shinichi,” she whispered, her voice featherlight.

He didn’t respond.

“Shinichi,” she said again, softer this time.

He leaned back slightly, just enough to see her face.

“Let me look at you,” she asked.

And though every part of him screamed to bury his face in her shoulder and never let go, to keep on holding her in his arms forever—

He obeyed.

Because he had promised.

He would never deny her anything again.

Even if it meant letting go.

Shinichi leaned back, just enough to let her see him, to meet her gaze fully. But his arms never left her shoulders. He stayed close, grounding her, grounding himself.

Her presence—so fragile, so light—was still the anchor that kept him from unraveling. The rise and fall of her shallow breath, the faint warmth of her skin, the nearness of her heart still beating—these were the things holding him together.

Ran’s hand moved slowly.

Weakened fingers lifted with quiet effort, trembling faintly as they reached his cheek. The touch was like a whisper, barely there, but when it came to rest against his skin, Shinichi closed his eyes and leaned into it.

Her hand caressed his face gently, trailing the lines of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose. It wasn’t just a touch—it was remembrance. A map being redrawn by memory. A goodbye written in fingerprints.

He didn’t move. He let her explore the face she knew so well. The face she had grown up with, laughed with, waited for. The one that had been missing too long. He waited until her hand paused, trembling still but resting against his cheek.

And then she spoke.

“I missed you, my mystery otaku.”

It was breathy, quiet, but clear.

And Shinichi laughed, soft and helpless. It was small—broken around the edges—but it came from his heart.

That nickname. That teasing, fond, utterly Ran nickname. He used to roll his eyes whenever she called him that, used to act offended. But now… now it felt like the sweetest thing in the world.

He leaned in again, unable to bear the distance even for another moment.

His arms gathered her gently, enveloping her like a blanket, like a promise. And he pulled her close, pressed her carefully against him. His voice was low and trembling, but certain.

“I’m always with you,” he whispered. “Always.”

And for a moment, the thought flickered darkly: except after this.

But it passed.

It had no place between them.

Because Ran was resting her head against his shoulder now, curling into his embrace like she was finally, finally home. The way her body leaned into his—slight, weak, barely there—was enough. It told him everything she couldn’t say.

“You are,” she whispered.

Just those two words.

But they held the weight of years.

Of love.

Of parting.

And still—she let herself rest in him. As if she knew she didn’t need to be strong anymore. As if she trusted him to carry the weight for both of them now.

So Shinichi held her tighter, arms secure and steady, holding not just her body but her soul, her warmth, the years they shared, the love that ran so deep between them.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

There were no more words necessary.

They stayed like that.

Just the two of them.

Held in the quiet hush of a room nearing the edge of dusk.

Soaking in each other’s presence.

Savoring the time that could be their last.

After a while, her voice came quietly, like a breeze slipping through a half-open window, when Ran turned to him and said, in a breath as light as air, “Can you bring me downstairs, to the agency?”

Shinichi blinked, unsure if he had heard her right. “The agency?” he echoed, already wary, already on guard. “Why?”

Ran smiled faintly, that smile she reserved for the truths she didn’t want to speak aloud. “I just want to see it,” she said. 

For the last time. These words were unspoken, but he heard them anyway. 

A cold weight settled in Shinichi’s chest. The final stretch. The goodbye he had been dreading, had been bracing himself for with every breath, every hour. But still, there was no hesitation in him.

This was Ran.

And for Ran, there would be no wish unheard, no request unfulfilled.

He gave her a soft nod, steadying his voice. “Okay.”

He moved quickly, efficiently, even though his limbs felt heavy. He called her mother, who had been in the living room at the time, and explained what Ran wanted. Without a word, Eri helped. There was no need for questions. She simply nodded, her hand briefly brushing her daughter's frail shoulder in silent support.

Professor Agasa’s invention, a portable and lightweight oxygen tank rigged for mobility, was slung across Shinichi’s shoulder like a satchel. He adjusted the flow carefully, ensuring Ran’s tubes were secure and functioning.

Then, with practiced care, he stooped, and gathered her into his arms.

No—not just into his arms.

Onto his back.

Her arms looped gently around his neck, and her cheek came to rest between his shoulder and neck. Shinichi could feel how little she weighed now, how every part of her was reduced to softness and bones, fragile and light. His heart clenched, but his grip remained steady.

This was something his smaller body—Conan’s body—would never have been able to do. But now, like this, in his real form, he carried her easily. As if this had always been his purpose.

Carefully, slowly, he descended the stairs of the house, Eri following close behind for support and safety. At the bottom, the familiar door of the agency came into view.

Inside, Kogoro was seated, flipping through a newspaper, a half-drunk cup of coffee beside him. The scent of instant brew lingered faintly in the air. He looked up at the sound of footsteps and immediately stood when he saw them.

“Ran?” he said, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“She just wanted to see the agency,” Shinichi said quietly, his voice even.

Kogoro’s brows furrowed for a second, then softened. Without needing further explanation, he stepped forward and helped guide them toward the cushioned sofa.

Shinichi slowly lowered Ran down, placing her gently onto the seat. Eri came to sit beside her, adjusting the oxygen line and brushing a few strands of hair from her daughter's forehead.

Ran gave them all a weak smile. It was tender, touched with amusement.

Then Kogoro crossed his arms and said, “What, Ran? You wanna see your father work?”

The sarcasm was light, familiar.

And against all odds, a soft snort came from Eri. Shinichi couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

Ran grinned, and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like any other day. Like any other afternoon in this sunlit, cluttered little agency.

Kogoro turned to Shinichi, eyes narrowing. “What, you got something to say, you brat?”

Shinichi immediately raised both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

Ran giggled—quiet, breathy. Her eyes sparkled for a moment, full of fondness and warmth.

Then she said, as she leaned into the cushion, voice soft, “It’s always so warm in here.”

She wasn’t just talking about the temperature.

And they all knew it.

Shinichi watched her, his chest tightening with every breath she took. Her gaze moved slowly around the room. She was memorizing it. Committing it to memory in a way that only someone who wouldn’t return ever again would.

The desk cluttered with files and pens. The tiny kitchenette she used to brew coffee in. The faded rug. The wall clock ticking quietly above the door. Every detail was a piece of her life, a mosaic of memories. A space that had watched her grow, laugh, scold, wait.

When her eyes landed on her father’s desk, her smile remained, but her gaze began to blur.

Eri and Kogoro had begun bickering softly in the background about the mess on the desk.

“What is this junk? A stack of old receipts?”

“I was going to organize those!”

“Since when?”

Their exchange was sharp but strangely gentle. A rhythm of normalcy played out for her benefit.

And Ran laughed again, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

But as she let out her breath, something shifted.

The crinkle faded.

The spark dulled.

Her eyes lost their focus.

Her body stilled.

“Ran?” Shinichi whispered, leaning in. He took her hand in both of his. It was limp. Her chest still rose and fell, but her gaze was far, far away.

“Ran,” he called again, softer, with a tremble. He squeezed her hand. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

Across from them, Kogoro and Eri went still, watching with widening eyes.

But Shinichi only looked at her. His heart thudding wildly, he pressed his forehead lightly against her hand, breathing her in, hoping his touch would be enough.

But it wasn’t.

She had drifted again—too far to hear them now.

There was no panic.

Just a sharp, raw ache.

After a long moment, Shinichi nodded to Eri, who stood and moved to help. Kogoro came to assist him as he gathered Ran gently into his arms once more.

She was still breathing. She just needed rest.

That was all.

Just sleep.

They brought her back upstairs, silent and slow, the air heavy with what wasn’t being said. Shinichi carried her carefully, gently easing her into her bed, adjusting the blankets around her frail frame. Eri checked the oxygen line. Kogoro stood by the door for a moment longer than needed, his silhouette still against the dim hallway light, before quietly stepping away.

And then it was just them.

Just Shinichi and Ran.

The room had fallen into hush, the kind that wrapped around grief too early, too quietly. Outside the window, the sky was streaked with the deep hues of dusk — purple bleeding into grey, soft amber casting long shadows on the floor.

Ran slept.

Not deeply. Not restfully. Her breaths were shallow, uneven, and fragile, like the last flutter of a paper crane in the wind. But she slept.

And Shinichi stayed.

He pulled a chair close and took her hand in his again, enveloping it in both of his. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, gently, rhythmically, like he was willing his presence into her skin. He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the edge of the bed, his forehead briefly touching her hand.

And then he just… kept still.

Like a vigil.

He didn't speak. He didn’t cry. He just stayed.

As the night deepened, shadows moving softly across the walls, Shinichi watched her.

Silently, internally, he prayed.

For another day.

Just a few more hours.

Just a bit more time.

He prayed desperately — not out loud, not in words, but with everything inside him that still hoped, still longed, still couldn’t let go.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. He just stayed.

As if the weight of his presence could anchor her to the world a little longer.

-

Ran woke up.

It was mid-afternoon. The sun hung low, its light slipping softly through the curtains like the last golden threads of a fading day. The room was quiet, still, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the faint sound of her breathing machine.

Shinichi had been sitting by her side for hours, unmoving, watching. His hands cradled hers, his eyes never once leaving her face — and so, he saw it the very second her lashes fluttered open.

Her eyes, slow to focus, blinked away the haze of sleep. Then they settled on him, and she smiled.

That smile.

That sweet, gentle smile that had been his anchor since childhood — the one she had always reserved just for him.

The smile of his childhood sweetheart. 

It reached her eyes even now, faint as it was, and in it was every feeling she had ever tried to say without words.

Shinichi leaned forward, voice trembling, lips parting in a whisper.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” she breathed back, soft and light like a breeze brushing through leaves.

But then, her smile began to falter — not from pain, but something deeper. Sadness flickered behind her eyes. Her hand, so weak and weightless in his, gave the smallest squeeze.

“Can you call my mom and dad?” she asked, her voice nearly a murmur. “Just… give us a little time.”

And just like that, his breath caught in his throat. He knew.

He knew.

But he didn’t question. He didn’t ask. He only nodded, once, tightly, and stood.

Shinichi left the room quietly, shutting the door behind him. The hallway felt longer than ever, the living room too far. He found Eri and Kogoro sitting together, waiting — as if they, too, had known this moment was coming.

“She's calling for you,” Shinichi said.

They didn’t ask why. They just went.

He remained in the living room. Alone. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands clenched together, forehead resting on his knuckles as he listened to the faint murmur of voices through the wall. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

It didn’t take long.

When Kogoro and Eri stepped out, there were no tears on their faces — just a profound stillness. A sorrow that ran deep, tempered by something quieter, something almost like peace.

Kogoro placed a firm hand on Shinichi’s shoulder. “Go,” he said. “Be with her.”

Shinichi nodded.

He returned to her room with leaden steps, his heart pounding in a rhythm that felt painfully finite. Ran was waiting — still propped against her pillows, her breathing shallow, but her eyes open and bright.

She smiled again as he entered, and he knelt beside her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear with shaking fingers.

“Ne, Shinichi…” she whispered, so softly he had to lean in to hear her. “Do you know what my dream is?”

He watched her face for a moment. Just gazing at her, staring at her.

Then he tried to smile. “To be a police officer?” he guessed, attempting lightness.

Ran gave a breathy laugh. “No.”

“A karate teacher?”

“Nope.”

“A chef?” he teased gently.

She blinked, amused. “A chef? That’s random.”

“Okay then,” he said, smile widening a little. “You want to be a celebrity, right?”

Another soft laugh, one that rang gently in his chest. “How come you don’t know? You’re supposed to be a detective, aren’t you?”

He sighed dramatically, pretending to pout. “Well, sorry about that, but you’re kind of a troublesome case.”

She smiled again — eyes twinkling. Then her voice grew quieter. “Maybe I could’ve been any of those things… but my dream…” Her words slowed, airy and worn. “My dream was just to stay in your life.”

The weight of it crashed into him.

“I just really wanted to be with you as we grew up. That was my biggest dream.”

He looked at her — at the warmth in her expression, the quiet acceptance — and for a moment, his throat closed up.

“Ran…” he whispered, eyes stinging.

“What about you?” she asked, barely louder than a breath. “Won’t you tell me your dream?”

He swallowed, hard, and forced himself to answer.

“My dream…” he started. “My dream is to bring justice. To solve crimes. To help people. But eventually…"

And he added with an honesty that he would've found hard to have in a different time, in a different setting: "My dream is to pursue you.”

Ran’s lips curved faintly, lovingly.

“After we graduate,” he continued, voice cracking, “I’ll propose. We’ll get married when we’re ready — when we’ve both achieved what we want. We’ll have three kids — but if you want more, I’m open to negotiations.”

Ran laughed, just barely — soft and warm and shining with love.

“They’ll be like you. Strong. Beautiful. But maybe one of them will be a detective like me.”

Another quiet laugh. Weaker now.

“And then… we’ll retire near the ocean, or maybe we’ll travel the world like my parents do. We’ll grow old together. Watch our grandchildren play. And we’ll be at peace. Because we’ll be together.”

He was crying now. Quietly. Tears slipping down his cheeks as he held her gaze.

“That’s my dream,” he said.

Ran stared at him, her smile so tender it nearly broke him.

“That sounds wonderful,” she whispered.

“It is,” he said, voice tight. “It is wonderful.”

Because you’re in it, he thought, but didn’t say.

She exhaled slowly, her body sinking into the bed.

“Talking made me tired…” she murmured. “Let me sleep a bit." She looked at him in the eyes, then, searching, asking for permission. "Okay?”

Shinichi bit his lip, but nodded, holding her hand more tightly than ever. “Okay,” he whispered, voice trembling. 

“Rest well, Ran. I’ll be here.”

She nodded, just slightly, and said, "Thank you, Shinichi."

Then she closed her eyes.

And he watched her.

He watched as her face relaxed into something gentle, something peaceful.

Watched as her chest rose.

And fell.

Rose again.

Fell.

Her hand was still in his. Still warm. Still there.

He watched every breath.

Counted them in his mind.

Her hand slowly loosened in his grip, but he held on, grasping desperately on something no longer there. 

Rose.

Fell.

Again.

Again.

And then…

The quietness in the room deepened into something endless.

And Shinichi stayed exactly where he was, not letting go of her hand.

He bowed his head, stifling his sobs. But his tears fell continuously, right at the top of their hands, as his heart hurt so much, ached so deep. 

Deeper than it ever did. 

Ran's chest rose again. 

Fell. 

And...

It stilled. 

And ultimately... 

Shinichi watched as Ran took her final breath. 

-

Chapter Text

-

Time passed.

The world didn’t stop.

The sun rose again, then again, then again. And little by little, people began to breathe without breaking. 

The weight in their chests didn’t vanish, but it softened. The ache dulled. They laughed again. They found meaning again. They held her memory carefully, like something sacred — a quiet blessing, stitched gently into the folds of their lives.

No one forgot about Ran. 

How could they? She had lived too brightly to ever be erased.

But they moved forward. They carried her in new mornings, in shared stories, in the silent strength they learned from her.

And in that quiet, aching way, they healed.

Everyone — except Shinichi.

He had let go. He had surrendered, because it was all he could do. Because she asked it of him, without ever needing to say it aloud. Because holding on too tightly might have pulled her back when she was already halfway through the door. So he didn’t fight.

He didn’t beg anymore.

He let her go. 

But... 

He didn’t move on.

Because some things don’t fade with time. Some grief settles deep in the marrow, in the silence between heartbeats, in the spaces where words used to be.

And without her, the world kept turning.

But he had stayed still.

He couldn't move on. 

He wouldn't. 

He didn't want to. 

In the first few weeks, Shinichi had been nothing but a shadow of himself.

Bitterness clung to him like a second skin — thick, suffocating. Grief hollowed him out. Of course it did.

This was Ran.

How could he not fall apart?

He had known the end was coming, had felt the cold certainty of it long before it arrived. He had even let her go, quietly, gently, the way she needed. 

But acceptance... acceptance was a different beast altogether. Letting go was surrender. It didn’t mean he agreed. It didn’t mean he understood. And certainly not that he was ready.

He felt the physical evidence that she was no longer here.

And he was swallowed whole by it.

He would turn to speak and find no one beside him. He would reach out in sleep and find only emptiness. There were no more soft steps in the hallway. No gentle laugh. No voice calling his name in that particular way only she could manage — half fondness, half exasperation, always full of love.

The absence hit like a wave. Every. Single. Time.

It devastated him.

He stopped caring. What point was there? What good was justice, what good was truth, when she was no longer here to witness it? The passion he once lived by — solving mysteries, uncovering lies, righting wrongs — it all turned gray. Worthless. Meaningless.

Let the world burn, he thought, Ran is not in it anyway. 

She wasn’t in this world anymore.

So what did any of it matter?

And then... then he remembered. Not without help — soft voices, firm hands, memories that clung too tightly to be ignored — he remembered what she told him.

“I want you to continue on living. Live your life properly. Until the end.”

She said that. So gently. So resolutely.

And it broke something in him all over again — not the pain of losing her, but the shame of betraying what she left behind.

Because if he let the world fall apart, if he abandoned it, then the places she once walked would be gone too. Her favorite bookstore, the streets they used to wander, the path with lines of cherry blossom trees — they’d fade. Crumble. Disappear.

And Ran… Ran deserved to be remembered in a world that was still whole.

So, slowly, painfully, he began to rise.

Acceptance did not come like a sunrise. It was not light or warm or healing.

It was heavy. And cruel. And necessary.

But he carried it anyway.

Because she asked him to live.

And he loved her far too much to deny her that.

For Shinichi, Ran had never truly left. 

Not in the ways that mattered. She was woven into the very fabric of his days, like a thread of gold stitched through the otherwise mundane and ordinary.

Even as the seasons changed and the years folded into one another, Shinichi carried her with him. In his steps. In his breath. In his being.

Time pressed on. But Ran remained — not frozen in memory, not sealed away in grief, but alive. Present. Constant.

Her name was always on his lips.

When laughter rose among friends, when the world felt kind again, he’d find himself sharing another story — Ran once said this, or you know, Ran used to do that. His voice would grow light with fondness, his eyes somewhere far away, in a time that no longer existed but lived again with every retelling.

Even in the smallest things, she was there.

A dress in a store window — Ran would’ve thought that was cute.

A dish at the izakaya — She would’ve devoured that in one bite.

A dog in the park — She’d be crouching already, hands out, calling to it with the happiest smile.

It was endless.

The world was full of reminders, and he welcomed every one of them.

He wore the sweater she knitted for him, even when the edges began to fray. He wrapped himself in the scarf she gave him every winter like it was armor, sacred and irreplaceable. 

That red scarf—the one that came in pairs with hers, the couple thing. The last gift she gave him—he treated it like his most precious possession. 

On his Conan phone, the lock screen still showed a grainy picture of the two of them, smiling stupidly in some forgotten corner of Tokyo. 

On his Shinichi phone, the wallpaper was a photo of Ran alone — sunlight in her hair, eyes half-laughing, looking just past the camera like she knew a secret he didn’t.

He never changed it.

He never would.

Because to him, that image was holy — a shrine in pixels. He revered it like one would a goddess, not out of sorrow, but reverence. It grounded him. It was home.

And when someone spoke her name, Shinichi would perk up, heart first. Always listening. Always ready. And more often than not, he'd offer a memory in return, like it was no big deal — just a tale about someone who happened to mean everything.

If someone mentioned how amazing Ran had been — how brave, how kind, how strong — he’d get this crooked smile and mutter something half-jealous, half-affectionate, like Yeah, I know. I know her more than anyone of you does. 

People who didn’t know their story would laugh, tease him. You’re really into her, huh? they’d say, and he’d just shrug like a man at peace with his fate.

But the ones who knew — really knew — would only smile. Gentle, knowing, a little sad, a little warm. Because they understood. They remembered.

And Shinichi?

Shinichi never got wistful. Never hung his head or blinked back tears.

He didn’t treat Ran like someone he’d lost.

He treated her like someone who was just far away.

Like a beloved who’d moved countries, time zones — someone he couldn’t call often, couldn’t touch right now, but who was still his.

Still with him.

Still his Ran.

He treated her like his long-distance lover.

Perhaps this was his coping mechanism. And maybe it wasn't always healthy. 

But Shinichi could never go past this stage. 

He could never truly accept that there was no more. 

That this reality...

It was no longer possible. 

When Shinichi finally defeated the Black Organization, it took a year.

A year of meticulous planning and unrelenting pressure. A year of watching his back, of weighing every move like it might be his last. 

The work was grueling, the stakes high, and the cost—though never spoken aloud—etched itself deeply into the lines of his face. He didn’t come out of it unscathed. None of them did. 

But it was over. At long last, it was over.

The antidote came a year later. It wasn’t rushed. It couldn’t be. The risk was too great to allow error, and for a long time, Shinichi had been too exhausted to even care. 

But when the final dose was ready, when he finally took it and felt his body settle into itself again—no shrinking, no double life, no disguise—he felt the faintest relief, like exhaling a breath he’d been holding for years.

He could return now. To his name. To his home. To the life he’d been forced to pause.

He walked the streets without fear. Slept without one eye open. Spoke without caution. And people welcomed him back—those who remembered, those who had waited. The weight on his shoulders, the endless tension in his spine, it all began to lift.

But there was no satisfaction. 

No peace. No real comfort.

Because even as Shinichi got back to his old life... 

There was no Ran to come home to. 

There were days when Shinichi saw her.

Not just in dreams, not just in memory, but in the spaces between shadow and sunlight, in the quiet corners of the world where their laughter once lingered.

She appeared when he least expected her—but never where she didn’t belong.

Sometimes, she would be standing by the aquarium glass, hand raised as if to point something out, her expression awed by the glow of jellyfish that pulsed like floating lanterns. 

Sometimes, she would be at Tropical Land, her eyes turning toward him with that teasing sparkle, like she was still waiting for him to buy her the mini version of the park's mascot.

Other times, he would see her on the Tokyo Tower’s observation deck, her form outlined by the city’s lights—silent, distant, beautiful.

She would speak sometimes, and sometimes she wouldn’t. A soft “Shinichi,” carried on the wind, or just a knowing smile that made his heart ache and race all at once.

There were days he reached out. Never touching. Never quite daring. Just reaching.

He didn’t question if it was real or not.

Whether it was a trick of the light, or his grief drawing lines where shadows crossed—whether it was hallucination or something more—didn't matter to him.

Because when he saw her, even for a breath, his heart remembered how to beat like it once did.

So he visited more often. The places where they had lived so loudly, so vividly. The places where they made so many memories. Even faraway places like New York, where the memory of her laughter echoed in the tunnels of old fears. There, too, she sometimes appeared.

It was always fleeting. Always gone in a blink. But each time, his chest would lift. His lungs would remember to breathe.

Because in those moments, his heart would feel alive again. His heart would flutter again. 

In those moments, Shinichi would fall in love with her all over again. 

In some of the magazine interviews he did over the years—when his name had long since become more myth than man—reporters would always, inevitably, circle back to the same question:

“Do you have a lover?”

Shinichi never hesitated.

“Yes,” he’d say.

Always the same answer. Quiet. Certain. With no follow-up.

He never elaborated. Never offered a name. Never gave a photo. No timeline. No details. Just that one, simple truth.

“Yes.”

The press, of course, couldn’t leave it alone. Speculations bloomed like wildflowers across gossip columns and late-night TV segments. Forums and blogs tried to piece together rumors. A few names were thrown around, but the ones who looked deeper always landed on the same one.

Mouri Ran.

The girl from his high school days, from his childhood days. The one he was always seen with in his early photos. The girl whose name kept showing up in stories. The girl who, one day, just stopped appearing entirely.

They would whisper.

That she was his first love.

That he never got over her.

That he was still obsessed with her.

That he’d been writing her name into the margins of his notebooks all through his teenage years.

And Shinichi… Shinichi just let them talk.

He never denied it. He never corrected them.

Because they were right.

And more than that—he was proud.

There was always a flicker of something in his eyes when he heard her name spoken aloud and connected it with his.

A flicker that the cameras caught sometimes, but never understood. A glimmer of pride, like he was hearing the name of someone holy, someone whose memory he carried like a vow etched into his soul.

He never told the world her story. It belonged to him.

To them.

But in the quiet between questions, in the hush after the interview lights went off, Shinichi would glance at the photo in his phone. The one that never changed. The girl in that photo always smiling, always looking like she was still waiting for him to finish one more case.

And under his breath, sometimes, barely audible—

“Yes,” he’d whisper again.

“It's her.”

He had told her she was the only one he loved. 

The only one he would ever love. 

And that wasn't just a promise. Not just a vow. 

It was the truth.

The one and only truth. 

The hardest part of missing her was when he could feel her hands on him.

Her fingertips brushing lightly across his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the space just beneath his eyes. Soft. Gentle. Reverent. 

Just like that day. That final day. The way she touched him when her hands were trembling and her voice was growing faint, as though she was memorizing him with her fingertips alone—so that even wherever she was going, she could carry him with her.

He felt it so vividly. 

Like he was reliving that day. 

And then—

He'd wake up. 

Alone. In the dark. Gasping a breath he didn't realise he was holding. 

He'd laugh bitterly—resigned and exhausted—as if this was a cruel joke made at his expense. 

Then he’d whisper, as softly as a prayer into the stillness, words only the night would ever hear:

“I miss you.”

Once, when the world finally quieted for him—when all the mysteries had been solved, when justice had been delivered, and when the applause of the world had dulled into background noise—Shinichi found himself staring into the void of stillness.

He had reached the peak.

The cases were fewer now. The headlines bore his name like legend. He had nothing left to chase, no greater enemy left to outwit. And with every victory, every accolade, there was only one ache that grew heavier with time.

Ran wasn’t there.

She hadn’t been there when he solved his final case.

She hadn’t been there when he received his highest honor.

She wasn’t there to see him become the man she always believed he could be.

And in that loneliness, that unbearable silence after everything he once fought for had come to an end—he wondered, for just one fragile moment, if he should follow her.

If maybe, just maybe, he could find the place where she was waiting.

The idea came like a whisper, uninvited, curling around his heart in his most tired hour. If he just... let go. If he simply slipped away. No more longing. No more aching. Just peace. Just her.

But then, like sunlight breaking through clouds, he heard it.

Clear as day.

Her voice—sharp, familiar, fierce.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

And Shinichi could almost see her there—arms crossed, brows furrowed, that disapproving glare she wore when she knew he was being reckless. That voice that always snapped him out of his darkest thoughts. That gaze that could stop his world.

He folded immediately.

Of course. 

He whispered an apology into the air, his lips curving into a sheepish smile as he promised not to be stupid again. 

Ran would never forgive him if he did something like that.

She would be furious.

Because she told him to live.

And she meant it.

So, Shinichi stayed.

Even when the nights got colder.

Even when the grief curled around him like a second skin.

Even when the ache in his chest refused to fade after all these years.

He stayed.

Because he loved her too much to betray her final wish.

Because she loved him enough to trust that he could carry her memory without crumbling.

And so, he lived. 

Every year, without fail, Shinichi made two pilgrimages.

The first was on the day she passed.

He would visit her—always alone, always early in the morning, before the world could intrude. The air would often be still then, as if nature itself knew to be silent. 

Sometimes, he would bring white lilies, the kind she once said reminded her of peace. Other times, a box of chocolates she used to sneak into her bag after training. And sometimes—most times—he brought nothing but a memory.

Whatever he brought, he laid it down with careful hands, as if placing something sacred. And then he would sit beside her, knees bent, back hunched forward just slightly—like he did on their long walks home after school, when he was still trying to figure out how to tell her how much she meant to him.

He would talk, sometimes. Other times, not. It didn’t matter. The silence between them had always been comfortable. And in those moments, he didn’t need words to feel her.

He would stay until the sun began to shift behind the trees, until the ache in his chest quieted just a little. Until the sorrow dimmed just enough to carry again.

It was his way of recharging.

His way of saying: I’m still here.

And then, every year, on her birthday, he would go to her home.

The home that once rang with her laughter. The building that had held their memories—the stairs she used to rush down, the kitchen she once cooked in, the porch she used to sit on while watching the city.

When its occupants had grown too old to maintain the place, Shinichi had purchased the entire building—the agency and the apartment above it. Not to use. Never to change. But to preserve. Like a museum, like a shrine.

He never moved anything. Her room remained untouched. Her shoes still at the door. Her cup still in the cabinet.

On her birthday, he would sit at the low table where they used to gather and eat dinner. Sometimes he would bring a cake and light a single candle. Sometimes he would just sit and let his memories serve the sweetness.

He would talk to her then, too. Not always aloud, but she would hear. He would tell her about his year, about the cases he solved, about the funny things someone said that reminded him of her.

And again, he would stay until his heart was full of her—until the loneliness no longer swallowed him whole.

And then, he would leave. Quietly. Gently. Carrying her with him once more.

To the world, it looked like ritual. Like mourning.

But to Shinichi, it was something else entirely.

It was visiting the girl he loved.

It was remembering the life they shared.

It was honoring the presence that still lit his path, even when the world grew dark.

Because loving Ran—loving her forever—was never something he had to remind himself to do.

It was simply who he was. 

When Shinichi finally put down the magnifying glass, when the cases stopped coming and the world no longer called on him to solve its puzzles, he stepped away from it all with the same quiet grace that had carried him through the years.

He retired to a small house by the ocean.

It wasn’t grand. Just a simple home tucked against the waves, the kind of place with wooden floors that creaked in the morning, and windows that caught the light just right at dusk. 

He lived alone. There were no children running down the hallway, no grandchildren asking for stories. But there was peace. And there was the sea — vast, eternal, just like her memory.

He had kept every promise. Every single one.

He lived a proper life. A good life. One that Ran would’ve been proud of.

He brought justice where he could, spoke her name where he went, smiled when he remembered her laughter, and never once let the world forget her. He loved her without conditions, without end, across decades of silence and separation.

He had been alone, yes — but never lonely.

Because she was always with him. In the quiet mornings. In the scent of jasmine tea. In the shimmer of sunlight against the water. In the stars above the ocean.

And now… now, he was tired.

Not in the way that he once was, not from grief or sorrow. This tiredness was softer. Kinder. A slowing of breath, a gentling of time.

He felt it, one evening, as the waves whispered outside his window and the breeze kissed his skin.

The world was dimming.

The quiet was deepening.

And Shinichi, for the first time in a long time, felt something stir in his chest that wasn’t pain — it was anticipation.

He sat in his old chair, looking out at the sea, and he smiled.

Because he knew.

He was ready.

Ready to see her again.

Ready to cross the distance that had haunted his every step.

Ready to finally go to her.

Shinichi had never said goodbye. Not really. He couldn’t — he wouldn’t. Because in his heart, it had never been the end.

It had always been: see you again.

And so, when the light in his eyes finally dimmed, when his body stilled and his breaths grew quiet, Shinichi left the world with a soft, peaceful smile.

Because at last, at long, long last…

He was going home to Ran.

As Shinichi opened his eyes again, there was light.

There was warmth. 

There was peace. 

And then he saw her.

Ran.

His Ran. 

Standing just a few steps away, her figure bathed in that golden light, as radiant as in his memories of her. 

She looked just like he remembered: strong, kind, beautiful beyond words, with that same gentle smile that once kept him anchored to the world.

Her eyes found his, and her expression softened even more.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

Her voice — oh, her voice — it sounded like home.

So sweet. So affectionate. So filled with the kind of love that no time, no distance, no death could ever extinguish.

And Shinichi — Shinichi smiled.

That quiet, boyish, tender smile he only ever gave to her.

“I’ve made you wait again…” he said, stepping closer, his voice low and reverent, like a man speaking a prayer. “But this is the last time.”

Their hands met, fingers twining together as naturally as breathing. Her touch — warm and real — made the ache he’d carried for years vanish like morning mist. He brought her hand to his chest, like something sacred, and then to his lips.

“This time... we'll be together. Always.”

And he looked into her eyes, eyes that held no sadness, no longing — only joy, only eternity.

He tightened his hold just slightly, drawing her closer.

It took time, but finally—

Finally. 

Their forever would begin. 

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