Chapter Text
(Conan POV)
The Countdown Heist
Kaito Kid’s notice appeared exactly twelve hours before the new year.
That alone narrowed the possibilities down to three.
First: the “treasure” didn’t exist.
Second: the route would be theatrical, unnecessarily complicated, and timed to the second.
Third: Kid wasn’t planning to escape.
Conan folded the notice neatly and slipped it into his pocket. The wording was too clean, the confidence too deliberate. No jewel name. No riddle. Just a location and a time—midnight, Tokyo Clock Tower.
A countdown, he concluded. Not a theft.
The city buzzed as the final minutes of the year approached. Police presence thickened near the tower, eyes turned skyward in anticipation. Conan moved ahead of them, slipping through stairwells and alleyways, already calculating angles, wind direction, visibility.
The rooftop opposite the clock tower was exactly where he expected it to be.
Empty.
Too empty.
Conan stepped onto the ledge just as the first firework bloomed, light washing the skyline in brief color. He scanned reflections, shadows, blind spots.
Nothing.
“Late,” he murmured.
A white shape dropped from above.
Conan rolled aside as a cape snapped through the air, smoke blooming in a precise arc. The timing was perfect—masked by the second firework’s explosion.
“Kidding!” a familiar voice rang out. “Happy almost-New-Year, Tantei-kun!”
Conan kicked the smoke canister back and lunged forward, using the gaps between fireworks to move. White boots touched down lightly on the opposite ledge.
“You’re predictable,” Conan said, adjusting his glasses. “Wind from the southwest. Visibility drops every three seconds.”
“Still keeping track of my habits?” Kid laughed, dodging as Conan’s kick skimmed past his sleeve.
They moved in a familiar rhythm—jump, evade, counter. Conan calculated. Kid improvised. Smoke, light, motion.
And yet—
“You’re stalling,” Conan said sharply.
Kid froze mid-step.
For a second, even the fireworks felt distant.
Then—
“Well,” he said, reaching up, “no point dragging it out.”
The monocle came off.
The hat followed.
The white cape slipped from his shoulders and settled at their feet.
Kaito Kuroba stood there instead.
No disguise. No flourish.
Conan exhaled slowly. “You didn’t even try,” he said.
Kaito smiled, hands in his coat pockets. “Didn’t feel necessary.”
The final minute of the year began counting down on the clock tower.
10
“So,” Kaito said, strolling to the railing, “how long have you known?”
9
“Long enough to stop being surprised,” Conan replied.
8
“That’s cold.”
7
“Your landing pattern changed two years ago,” Conan continued. “After your father’s research resurfaced.”
6
Kaito glanced at him, genuinely startled. “You noticed that?”
5
“I notice everything.”
4
Voices from the streets below joined the countdown.
3
Kaito leaned back against the railing. “Then why keep chasing me?”
2
Conan looked up at the sky, fireworks reflected faintly in his glasses.
“Because you keep showing up.”
1
The year changed.
Fireworks roared. Cheers echoed. For a few seconds, the world was nothing but light and noise.
“…Happy New Year,” Kaito said quietly.
Conan hesitated.
“…Happy New Year.”
Eventually, Kaito retrieved his hat, settling it back into place without restoring the disguise.
“Well,” he said, smiling over his shoulder, “guess I should go.”
“You always do.”
Kaito paused. “Still—you came.”
Then he vanished into smoke and light, leaving the rooftop silent once more.
Some heists weren’t about what was taken.
Some were about what was revealed.
Some were about who was revealed.
First Morning, No Masks
New Year’s morning arrived without spectacle.
No fireworks. No announcements. Just a pale sky stretched thin over the city and the faint crunch of snow beneath early footsteps.
Conan preferred it this way.
Crowds made patterns harder to read. Silence made everything clearer.
The shrine grounds were quiet, occupied only by a few early visitors moving at an unhurried pace. The scent of incense lingered in the cold air, sharp but calming. Conan slipped his hands into his coat pockets as he walked, eyes already scanning his surroundings out of habit.
That was when he saw him.
No white suit.
No hat.
No exaggerated confidence meant for an audience.
Just Kaito Kuroba, standing near the offertory box, hands clasped together loosely as he looked up at the shrine.
Conan stopped.
Kaito hadn’t noticed him yet. Or—more accurately—had chosen not to.
His posture was relaxed, shoulders loose, as if he didn’t expect to be chased, caught, or cornered. It was unsettling in a way Conan couldn’t immediately categorize.
'So this is how he looks when he isn’t running,' Conan thought.
Kaito turned, eyes brightening slightly when they met Conan’s.
“Oh,” he said. “Morning.”
“…Morning.”
No aliases. No pretenses.
They fell into step beside each other without discussing it. The line was short. No one paid them much attention—two kids at a shrine on New Year’s Day was hardly suspicious.
Kaito glanced sideways. “You come early.”
“Less noise,” Conan replied. “Clearer results.”
Kaito smiled. “Figures.”
They made their offerings. The rope swayed gently as Kaito rang the bell, the sound clean and brief. Conan watched him out of the corner of his eye, noting the absence of exaggeration. Even his wish was quiet.
Afterward, they moved toward the omikuji stand.
“Moment of truth,” Kaito said, drawing one and unfolding it with unnecessary drama.
His expression flattened almost instantly.
“…Bad luck.”
Conan drew his own.
Excellent fortune.
He folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
Kaito leaned closer, squinting. “Let me guess. Great luck.”
Conan adjusted his glasses. “It’s average.”
“That pause before answering was suspicious.”
Conan didn’t deny it.
They tied Kaito’s fortune to the rack. The paper fluttered lightly in the breeze.
“Think it actually works?” Kaito asked.
“Statistically?” Conan said. “No.”
“And emotionally?”
“…Maybe.”
That seemed to satisfy him.
Then they stopped at a nearby stand selling warm drinks. Kaito ordered first, then handed one to Conan without asking.
“You remembered,” Conan noted.
“You drink this when it’s cold,” Kaito said easily. “Last year too.”
Conan paused.
He hadn’t realized that was something observable.
They stood side by side, steam rising faintly from their cups. Snow fell in slow, unhurried flakes, melting the moment they touched the ground.
“So,” Kaito said casually, “what’d you wish for?”
Conan watched the shrine, eyes thoughtful.
“…Something that doesn’t change easily.”
Kaito hummed. “That’s vague.”
“It’s accurate.”
Kaito laughed softly. “Fair enough.”
He took a sip, then said, “Then I’ll wish for something simple.”
Conan glanced up.
“That you keep catching me.”
Conan’s grip tightened slightly around the cup—enough to crease the paper.
“You keep letting yourself be found,” he replied.
Kaito’s smile this time was quieter. Less teasing. More… settled.
They finished their drinks. The cold crept in slowly, like it was reluctant to interrupt.
“Well,” Kaito said, stepping back, hands in his pockets, “guess this is where we split.”
Conan nodded. “Seems that way.”
They turned in opposite directions.
After three steps, Conan stopped.
So did Kaito.
Neither of them turned around immediately. There was no reason to. No unresolved deduction. No unspoken accusation.
Just a moment.
When they finally glanced back, their eyes met across the snow-dusted path.
No waves. No words.
That was enough.
Conan adjusted his glasses and continued walking.
Behind him, Kaito smiled and did the same.
The year had begun—quietly, honestly, without disguises.
And somehow, that felt rare.
The Quiet Promise
The calling card appeared on Conan’s desk at precisely 21:06.
That alone ruled out coincidence.
Conan stared at it for several seconds before touching it. The paper was thick, clean-edged, placed carefully atop his notebook—angled just enough to be intentional. No fingerprints. No residue. No trace of forced entry.
Which meant the security system hadn’t failed.
It had been bypassed.
“…You’re getting careless,” Conan muttered.
The card was simple. No sketches. No riddles. No exaggerated flourish.
Happy New Year, Detective.
That was all.
No challenge time. No jewel name. No escape route to predict.
Which made it far more dangerous.
The window slid open behind him.
“You know, most people would say ‘thank you’ first.”
Conan didn’t turn. He closed his notebook calmly, as if unexpected visitors materializing out of thin air were a nightly occurrence.
“Breaking into someone’s room without a reason is sloppy,” he said. “Even for you.”
A soft laugh followed. Not Kaito Kid’s theatrical one—the polished, echoing sound meant for crowds—but a quieter version, worn down by the cold night air.
“Wow. Good night to you too.”
Kaito stepped inside and closed the window behind him with deliberate care. No cape. No monocle. Just a dark jacket dusted lightly with snow and gloves he didn’t bother removing.
Conan finally looked up.
“You didn’t come to steal anything,” he said.
Kaito tilted his head. “And how can you tell?”
“Because you’d already be gone.”
That earned him a smile.
They stood there for a moment, the silence unbroken. Outside, the city hummed—distant traffic, muted voices, the soft hush of falling snow.
Kaito glanced around the room. “You rearranged your desk.”
“You noticed.”
“Of course I did.”
Conan watched him carefully. No tricks in his posture. No tension in his hands. He wasn’t preparing an exit.
Which meant he’d come without one.
“…Sit,” Conan said after a pause.
Kaito blinked. “Wow. An invitation?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
They settled on the floor, backs against the bed. Kaito produced convenience-store snacks from his jacket like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You always forget to eat when you’re thinking,” he said, handing one over.
Conan accepted it without comment.
That, too, was telling.
They ate quietly. Kaito avoided the sweets and chose the simplest option instead. Conan filed that away automatically. Kaito noticed Conan still cut his food neatly, evenly, like habits could anchor him to something stable.
“So,” Kaito said eventually, staring at the ceiling, “no chase this year?”
“There was no crime.”
“Hm. Harsh.”
Conan adjusted his glasses. “You didn’t deny it.”
Kaito chuckled. “I didn’t see the point.”
Silence again. Comfortable this time.
Snow tapped softly against the window.
“Why leave the card?” Conan asked.
Kaito’s gaze shifted, thoughtful. “Because if I didn’t, you’d still know I was here.”
That was true.
“And,” Kaito added, quieter now, “because it felt wrong not to say it.”
“…Say what?”
“Happy New Year.”
Conan looked at him then. Really looked.
No mask. No performance. Just Kaito—eyes clear, expression open in a way that didn’t ask for forgiveness or approval.
“…Happy New Year,” Conan replied.
Kaito smiled. Not wide. Not teasing. Just real.
“Got any resolutions, Detective?”
Conan considered it. Not as a joke. Not as a deflection.
“Catch the truth,” he said at last.
Kaito nodded, as if the answer fit perfectly into place.
“Then I’ll keep being honest,” he said. “At least with you.”
Conan didn’t respond immediately.
He didn’t need to analyze the statement. He already understood its weight.
Some truths didn’t need proof.
And for once, neither of them ran.
Mini Epilogue — After the Fireworks
The city returned to normal faster than Conan expected.
Police reports were filed. Witnesses argued over what they thought they saw. The supposed “heist” was quietly dismissed as another unsolved incident—no losses, no damage, no culprit.
Just like Kaito Kid intended.
Conan sat at his desk later that night, flipping through his notebook. Every page was filled with calculations, observations, and half-finished deductions.
None of them mentioned New Year’s Eve.
A familiar calling card rested between the pages.
Not new. Not old. Placed there deliberately, like a bookmark.
No treasure taken.
No truth hidden.
Conan exhaled slowly and closed the notebook.
Outside, fireworks debris still clung to the edges of the city, faint smoke lingering like a memory that refused to fade. Somewhere out there, Kaito was probably already planning his next escape—timing, angles, misdirection.
But this time, Conan knew where to look.
He adjusted his glasses and glanced toward the window.
“Next time,” he murmured, “don’t make it so obvious.”
A breeze brushed the curtains, just enough to make the calling card shift.
Conan didn’t turn around.
He didn’t need to.
The new year had begun—with no disguises, no lies, and a promise that didn’t need words.
END
Author’s Notes:
Thank you for reading!
This started as a short New Year’s idea and grew into a small series of moments—fireworks, shrines, late-night conversations—that quietly connect over time.
Whether you read this as gen, pre-slash, or simply mutual understanding, I hope it felt gentle and true to the characters.
Happy New Year, and may your truths be caught kindly.