Chapter Text
I.
Twelve years after Shinichi's disappearance, Ran attempted another suicide.
Like always, she's thought of it every day, planning it so meticulously that it was all she did in her office every night when she's free. But, like always, she's failed at it again.
She bought a cup of coffee right after she's released from the hospital. The sun was setting but she did not care. This coffee would be enough to be her support tonight. She'd walk and walk and walk until her feet hurt, until the street light was turned off, until she could feel her calf muscles spasmed violently. She wasn't crying anymore—she hadn't cried for a very long time. Instead, her chest was numb, she couldn't even feel her heartbeat.
Well, how could she, when she's lost a lot in her attempt to revive him? They showed her Shinichi's ruined green jacket three months after their Tropical Land date, and then his cold body two weeks after that, and every hope and prayer left her body that day. Her parents died soon after, in a car crash on their way home.
Ran stopped trying to live right then.
There’s so little to work on for her to continue the normal life, and every hug and concern just made her feel worse. So she moved out of their Detective Agency–Poirot Cafe building for cheaper rent, and a one bedroom house/office was her best bet to face the world alone.
She kept only a few of her friends, including Sonoko and Aya, and chose to not go to national university to avoid meeting the people she knew. The only occupational choice she considered was to continue the detective legacy, as everything felt like a void except doing the thing her father and her friend used to do. So she chose the criminology major, drowned herself in books; law, psychology, medical, criminal justice, forensics, sociology, geography, you name it, and studied the way Shinichi examined the cases in great detail, not missing eleven hours a day of study with a part time job on the side.
On her 23rd birthday, she decided to put up a website, naming it ‘Nocturnal Criterion’ because she only worked at night, came to crime scenes to take pictures and investigate, analyzed them meticulously, and uploaded her deductions to the website like no problem. She reached a cult following the next two years as its popularity grew like mushroom spores, because turns out her "opinions" that's posted 3-6 months before the official statements were always spot on, giving people reason to ask for her help before law because she’s way faster without confidential secrecy.
Ran attached her alias for the interested audience needing her help. Karin Ishihara, she managed and owned everything solely by that name because she didn’t want this blood business to be Mouri’s legacy, especially since she’s planning to kill herself again. The best choice was to end the misery with her death.
The death that didn't happen to her today; her supposedly 28th birthday.
II.
Ran almost let herself wonder again when she noticed someone big standing at the front door of her apartment building. A young man, fat but kempt, looking unsure at his search quest for someone's face. He’s clutching a folder to his chest like a shield, beaming an image of pure, unadulterated enthusiasm she once saw at her own eyes.
He gasped when he saw her closer, just like the hundreds of other people when they first saw her. She still didn't know what they expected, but apparently she's the one this guy's looking for, too.
“Ishihara-san?” he asked excitedly. “It’s an honor to finally meet you! I'm Kojima Genta, I am responding to our email exchange of my application to be your assistant?”
Ran’s eyes, sharp and assessing even in her exhaustion, flicked over him. She remembered the emails. Long, earnest, such a persuasive request considering he’s a Criminal Justice student from Tokyo University who should have had a lot of better options for their first work experience.
“It was months ago,” she said, unlocking her front door. “And I already said No. Twice.”
“Y-yes, but—let me hold that for you—but I’m so interested in working with you and I think your agency would need a little more employees because it's been more popular since you solved the 1984 cold case two months ago and the infamous Asakusa Ripper last week.”
“I manage fine,” Ran responded quickly, rummaging through her file folders to burn the fifth version of her will and testament.
“But, Ishihara-san, your agency is going to get big, and when there's too many bookings you'll need another person to share the burden. You’ll find me nice to employ because I’m pretty diligent and organized, I’m educated in this field that I’d never slow you down, and I can even do the legwork for you,” he sighed. “Your ‘Nocturnal Criterion’ blog is legendary! You solved Rumika’s disappearance when the police had given up and it inspires me to be people’s hope, just like you! I want to learn from the best.”
Ran was staggered, knowing what people actually think about her. And Genta’s voice was brimmed with sincerity that felt alien to this abandoned, cynical space that it pricked something in Ran, a memory of a universe where she might have been that eager and hopeful. She hardened her stare, put up another brick on the wall that keeps people like him—bright and alive—at a safe distance.
“This is an agency, Genta-san, not a classroom. I don’t have the time, nor the patience, to babysit an intern. I always work alone, I don't need another human being to share my problems with.”
That was cold. But probably necessary. Ran glanced at the disappointed Genta who's still standing in the corner of the office, adding, “I'd just refuse the case if I get too much of them,” to cheer him up a little. Because it's not that Ran didn't want his help. She didn’t want anyone new to get involved with her dangerous lifestyle, and that includes him.
“But—”
“No. The answer is no. Stop emailing me. Don’t come back.”
Genta’s face fell, his excitement crumbling into genuine disappointment. He looked like a kicked puppy when his shoulders are slumping. “I understand. Sorry to bother you, ma'am."
He gave a stiff, respectful bow to her before turning to leave.
But as Ran squeezed her eyes shut contemplating her harsh decision, between Genta walking out and the phone ringing and her computer chiming and the unattended appointments piling up, she massaged her temple before making a split-second decision that might change her life forever:
"Wait! Get in here.”
“Your first job is answering that phone and sorting this one file cabinet.” Ran pointed at the gray drawers. She’s just washed her hair and now wearing her faded university hoodie, her dark, damp hair pulled into a messy bun. She took a slow sip of another cold coffee, her shoulders were weary, carrying the weight of every late night she’s ever spent.
“You’ll be working thirty hours a week, you chose half of the time and I’ll call you to come here for the other half. I’ll pay you 1500 yen per hour if you do your jobs right. And if you ever call me Ishihara again, you’re fired,” his eyes widened before she continued, “It’s Ran Mouri for you.”
“Yes, ma’am! Right away! You won’t regret this, I promise.”
“She has a made-up name?” Genta gasped excitedly, whispered to himself in adoration as he picked up the persistent phone call.
“Nocturnal Criterion, we are here to change your lives. How can I help you?"
Ran rolled her eyes at that ridiculous greeting, wondering if she could get used to this new situation.
Nocturnal office is a testament to a life lived in shadows. Her life. One wall of this office was filled with the chaotic mosaic of grainy photographs, newspaper clips, and red-string connections, and the rest only had bare white, peeling paint. The air in here smelled like stale coffee, dust, and a faint, sweet scent of Ran’s neglected jasmine plant, wilting on the windowsill. But now, Genta’s presence filled the small office with an overwhelming presence that was a little warm at the same time.
She opened the window and patted her worn brown leather chair, putting it on the other side of the room as she planned to buy another desk anyways, just in case.
She slumped to another leather chair that looked just a little better (and brown) because she hated the bright mustard color and opened the complex web of financial transactions on her computer screen that she just examined last evening. She took a glance at a giant boy who was writing notes on the calls he received, standing in the heart of her lonely, nocturnal world. The emails are still pouring in, and for the first time in a long time, she’s not facing them alone.
Ran let out a long, slow breath. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly as she asked herself if she’s making the right choice.
What have I gotten myself into?