Chapter Text
The winter air in Tokyo had always felt sharp, but tonight it tasted like ozone and impending dread.
Kudo Shinichi was not a man of "could haves" or "should haves." He lived his life in the realm of logic, where every action had a reaction and every cause led to an effect. But logic is a slow creature compared to the frantic beating of a hero’s heart.
When the suspect—a man driven to the brink of madness by a failed embezzlement scheme—pulled the jagged hunting knife from his coat, the world slowed to a crawl. The girl, a young college student who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, was frozen, her eyes wide, staring at the silver flash of the blade.
Shinichi didn't calculate the trajectory. He didn't weigh the risks of his own survival against hers. He moved because it was the only thing he knew how to do. "Run!" he tried to yell, but the word was lost as he lunged forward.
He felt the cold before he felt the pain.
The suspect had been aiming high—initially for the girl’s face, then, as Shinichi tackled her out of the way, for the detective’s eyes. In a desperate, split-second reflex, Shinichi jerked his head back. He felt the whistle of the blade as it missed the bridge of his nose, but the momentum of the attacker was too great. The serrated edge didn't find his eyes, but it found the soft, vulnerable column of his throat.
There was a sickening schlick—the sound of steel parting flesh.
Shinichi hit the ground hard. The impact with the frozen pavement knocked the air out of his lungs, but when he tried to gasp for breath, something was wrong. There was a bubbling sensation, a wet, hot warmth that began to soak into his scarf and coat. He reached up, his fingers trembling, and pressed his palm against his neck. The blood was hot—so much hotter than the winter air. It pulsed rhythmically against his hand, escaping between his fingers like water through a broken dam.
Above him, the night sky was beautiful. The snowflakes of the season drifted down, white and pure. As they landed on the ground around him, they turned a deep, visceral crimson. A macabre painting on a canvas of ice.
In the distance, the wail of police sirens tore through the silence of the alleyway. The blue and red lights reflected off the brick walls, dancing in the widening pool of red. Shinichi tried to call out to Inspector Megure, to tell them the suspect had fled toward the docks, but all that came out was a soft, terrifying gurgle.
The last thing he saw before the world turned black was the girl he had saved, kneeling over him, her mouth open in a scream he could no longer hear.
_
Waking up was a slow, agonizing crawl out of a deep, dark well. The first thing Shinichi noticed was the smell of bleach, antiseptic, and the sterile scent of industrial oxygen. The second thing was the weight. It felt as though a heavy iron collar had been forged around his neck, pinning his head to the pillow. He opened his eyes. The fluorescent lights of the ICU were blinding, stabbing at his retinas. He squinted, his vision blurry and swimming with spots.
"Kudo-kun?! Kudo-kun, can you hear me?" The voice was familiar. Thick, gravelly, and laced with a paternal worry that made Shinichi’s chest ache. He turned his head—an agonizing mistake that sent a bolt of white-hot lightning through his spine—and saw Inspector Megure. The man looked as though he hadn't slept in a week. His signature hat was clutched in his hands, and his coat was wrinkled. Beside him stood Takagi, looking pale and ghostly.
Shinichi’s mind, ever the detective, immediately went to the case.‘The girl. Is she safe? Did we get him?’ He opened his mouth to ask. He formed the words in his brain, sent the signal to his lungs to push the air, and waited for the vibration in his throat.
Nothing.
He tried again, straining until his face felt hot. ‘How is the witness?’ he wanted to say. Instead, a hideous, strangled “...uuh... ahh...” escaped his lips. It wasn't his voice. It was the sound of air escaping a punctured tire. A panic surged through him. He reached up to his throat, his fingers meeting thick layers of gauze and medical tape. Underneath the bandages, he felt a horrific itch—the sensation of stitches pulling at raw, ruined skin. He tried to swallow, but the action caused a spasm of pain so intense he nearly blacked out again.
"Easy, Kudo-kun! Don't try to speak," Megure said, his voice cracking. He stepped closer, placing a heavy, steadying hand on Shinichi’s shoulder. "The doctors... they said the damage was severe. The blade... it went deep..."
Shinichi shook his head frantically, the movement sending waves of nausea through him. He grabbed Megure’s sleeve, his eyes pleading. He didn't care about the pain. He needed to know. He pointed toward the door, then mimed the height of the girl he had saved.
Takagi stepped forward, wiping his eyes. "She’s fine, Kudo-kun. Because of you, she didn't have a scratch on her. She’s been outside the room every day, praying for you."
Shinichi let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. A small victory. But as he lay back, the silence of the room began to feel permanent. He looked at his hands—the hands that had solved hundreds of mysteries, the hands that played the violin. They were shaking. For the first time in his life, Kudo Shinichi was a witness to a mystery he couldn't explain away, the mystery of his own vanishing voice. He closed his eyes, the sensation of the bandages against his neck a constant, itchy reminder of the night the music stopped. He was alive, yes. But as the silence stretched on, he wondered what kind of life was left for a detective who could no longer speak the truth.
_
Hours later—or perhaps days, time had become a soup of painkillers and naps—the door creaked open.
Professor Agasa entered, looking older than Shinichi had ever seen him. Behind him were his parents. His mother, Yukiko, had eyes that were red and swollen, though she forced a bright, trembling smile the moment she saw him awake. Yusaku stood tall, his expression stoic, but the way he gripped his own arm told Shinichi everything he needed to know.
They had come home. Not for a visit, but because their son was broken.
Agasa approached the bed, holding a small, sleek electronic device. It looked like a high-end tablet, but with customized speakers mounted on the sides. "Shinichi," the Professor whispered, pulling up a chair. "I... I knew you wouldn't want to stay quiet for long. I've been working on this. It links to your phone and uses a predictive text algorithm I designed. It’s... it’s not your voice, but..." The Professor broke off, unable to finish.
Shinichi reached out, his movements stiff, and took the device. His fingers, usually so nimble, felt like lead. He tapped the screen. The keyboard was familiar. He typed: ‘Thank you, Professor.’ He hit the speak button.
"Thank you, Professor." The voice that emerged was a smooth, neutral male synthesis. It was clear. It was loud. It was perfectly articulated. And it sounded nothing like Kudo Shinichi. It was a stranger’s voice coming from a machine, filling the space where his own soul used to reside. Yukiko let out a small, choked sob and turned away, burying her face in Yusaku’s chest.
Shinichi stared at the screen, then at his parents. He wanted to tell them he was fine, even though he felt like a ghost haunting his own body. But instead, he just watched the snow fall outside the window. Silent. Cold. Unending.
Somewhere across the city, a phantom thief was probably preparing a heist, waiting for a witty challenge from his favorite critic.
_
The hospital discharge papers felt like a sentence rather than a release. One week. That was all the doctors could do to keep Kudo Shinichi confined before his restless mind began to claw at the walls of his private suite. They had urged him to stay, citing the need for "vocal rest" and "psychological adjustment," but Shinichi had spent enough time as Edogawa Conan missing school days. He wasn't about to let his life as Shinichi slip away too.
During that week, the hospital had become a silent training ground. Professor Agasa’s device sat on his bedside table like a constant, mocking companion. Shinichi had spent hours practicing his typing speed, his fingers dancing across the glass screen to produce the synthesized sentences. He had also started skimming books on Japanese Sign Language. It was logical, it was efficient.
But every time the mechanical voice echoed in the quiet room, a sharp, buzzing ache pulsed behind his eyes. It was the dissonance. His brain would formulate a thought in his own voice—confident, slightly cocky, melodic—and the machine would spit out a flat, electronic imitation. It made his head swim with a nauseating sense of wrongness. ‘I’ll only use it for cases,’ he decided, shoving the tablet into his bag. ‘I won’t become a robot just to satisfy a conversation.’
_
The walk to Teitan High was a study in suffocating tension. Ran walked beside him, her usual cheerful chatter replaced by a fragile, glass-like silence. She hadn't asked him a single question since they left the house. She didn't ask if his throat hurt, or if he was nervous, or if he wanted to go back. She just clutched the straps of her school bag until her knuckles turned white. Though every few minutes, her eyes would flicker toward his neck.
Shinichi had chosen a high-collared undershirt, but the white edge of the medical gauze still peeked out, a contrast against his skin. At his own insistence, the police had suppressed the details of his condition. He had no desire for the headlines to read: ‘The Savior of the Police Force Silenced.’ He didn't want pity. He didn't want to be a tragedy.
As they entered the school gates, the usual roar of student life seemed to dim as they passed. Even Suzuki Sonoko, usually a whirlwind of energy and loud teasing, stopped dead when she saw them. She opened her mouth to shout a greeting, but her gaze snagged on the bandage. She looked at Ran, then back at Shinichi. For once, the heiress found no words. She simply fell into step on his other side.
The classroom was the hardest. Shinichi took his seat, feeling the weight of thirty pairs of eyes boring into his back. The rumors had circulated, but seeing him—the legendary teen detective—sitting there with a stiff neck and a closed mouth was different.
The bell rang. Their teacher, Ms. Nakamichi, breezed in with a stack of papers. She was in the middle of a lecture on advanced calculus, her voice a rhythmic drone that usually offered Shinichi a sense of normalcy. "Now, for the derivation of this limit," she said, tapping the chalkboard. "Kudo-kun, since you've been away, why don't you show us you haven't gone rusty? What is the next step in the sequence?"
The habit was ingrained in his DNA. Shinichi stood up instinctively. His chair scraped against the floor—a loud, harsh sound in the quiet room. He opened his mouth. He drew in a breath. He leaned forward to deliver the answer with his trademark smirk. ‘The derivative of the function at point P is… But nothing came out. Not even a whisper. Only the faint, wet sound of air passing through a damaged larynx.
The silence that followed was agonizing. Ms. Nakamichi froze, her chalk hovering over the board. Ran gasped, a small, choked sound that felt like a slap to Shinichi’s face. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, the heat of embarrassment and fury rising in his chest.
He stared at the teacher. Her expression shifted from expectation to confusion, and then to a soul-crushing wave of pity. "Oh... Kudo-kun, I... I didn't know... I'm so sorry, I heard you were hurt, but—"
Shinichi didn't wait for her to finish. He didn't reach for the tablet in his bag. He didn't look at Ran. He walked to the front of the classroom, his footsteps echoing like gunshots. He took the chalk from Ms. Nakamichi’s hand. His grip was so tight the chalk snapped, but he ignored it. With furious, precise movements, he began to write. The equations bloomed across the board in perfect, elegant script. He finished the entire derivation, crossing out variables and simplifying the limit until the answer sat there, undeniable and cold. Only then did he drop the chalk into the tray. He wiped his dusty hands on his trousers, and walked back to his desk.
He sat down and stared straight ahead, his jaw locked. ‘I’m still me,’ he screamed internally. ‘I’m still the same. The brain still works. The hands still work.’ But as he looked around, the grief in the room was palpable. He had solved the problem, but for the first time in his life, being right felt like losing.
_
Lunchtime was a different kind of torture.
While the other students headed to the cafeteria or opened bento boxes filled with tamagoyaki and fried chicken, Shinichi pulled out a thermos and a small container Yukiko had prepared.
The injury had made swallowing solid food a risky, painful endeavor. The scar tissue was still tight, and the muscles in his throat spasmed if he tried to chew anything too substantial. His mother had spent the morning in the kitchen, her eyes red, blending vegetables into a fine silk and simmering nutritional broths.
He opened the thermos. A lukewarm vegetable puree. He opened the container. A soft, chilled custard. He took a spoonful of the soup. It was perfectly seasoned, rich with nutrients and the labor of his mother’s love. But to Shinichi, it tasted like ash. It was too smooth, too easy. It reminded him that he was being handled, that he was fragile. Every swallow was a chore. He had to tilt his head just right to avoid the stinging sensation in his esophagus. The coolness of the custard was supposed to soothe the internal inflammation, but the sweetness felt cloying and artificial.
He looked at the sports field outside the window. He could see the soccer club practicing. He could almost hear the phantom echoes of his own voice calling for a pass, shouting directions, laughing after a goal.
Now, he couldn't even eat a sandwich without a medical strategy.
"Shinichi?" He looked up. Ran was sitting across from him, her own lunch untouched. She held out a small carton of strawberry milk—his favorite. "The doctor said... cold things are good," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Shinichi looked at the milk, then at her. He wanted to tell her thank you. He wanted to tell her to stop looking at him like he was made of glass. He wanted to tell her that he was still the boy who promised to protect her. But he just took the milk. He simply nodded—a short, sharp movement—and looked back down at his soup.
The strawberry milk was cold, but as it slid down his throat, it felt like it was burning. He was alive, he was brilliant, and he was still the Kudo heir. But as the sun beat down on the quiet classroom, he realized that living and surviving were two very different things.
And in the silence of his own mind, the detective began to wonder if he would ever find the way to bridge the gap between them again.
_
The silence of the classroom was nothing compared to the chaotic roar of downtown Tokyo. For Kudo Shinichi, the city had always been a symphony of data—the hum of engines, the rhythm of footsteps, the snippets of overheard conversations that formed the puzzle pieces of a case.
But today, the city was a wall of noise he couldn't climb.
It happened near the Shibuya Crossing. A piercing scream shattered the air, followed by the heavy, sickening thud of a body hitting the pavement. Instinct took over before Shinichi could even process the bitterness of his lunch. He sprinted toward the sound, weaving through the panicked crowd. By the time he reached the center of the sidewalk, a man in his late forties was sprawled on his back, his eyes fixed on the gray sky, a darkening stain spreading across his chest.
‘Stab wound. Single entry point. Narrow blade—likely a stiletto or a concealed spike. He’s already gone,’ Shinichi’s mind categorized the facts with cold, surgical precision. He looked up. The crowd was already beginning to surge, some people screaming, others trying to push past to catch their trains, unintentionally trampling over potential evidence.
‘Move back!’ he tried to say. But the command died in his throat. What came out was a dry, pathetic rasp that didn't even reach the ears of the woman standing two steps away. She stepped right onto a faint bloody footprint near the body. Shinichi felt a flare of white-hot fury—not at her, but at himself. He reached into his bag, his hands trembling with adrenaline, and yanked out the device.
He didn't have time to type a polite request. He slammed his fingers against the glass, his eyes scanning the immediate area. He spotted them—three individuals who hadn't reacted like the rest. One was backing away too quickly, one was fumbling with a bag, and one was standing perfectly still, staring at the body with a look that wasn't horror, but calculation. "DO NOT MOVE! NO ONE LEAVES THE PERIMETER!" The mechanical voice boomed from the tablet’s speakers. It was loud, jarring, and completely devoid of human inflection. It sounded like a riot control robot.
The crowd stopped. The sudden, artificial authority of the voice froze them in place. Shinichi didn't waste a second. He grabbed Ran’s arm—she had just caught up to him, her face pale—and pointed at the three suspects he’d identified. He typed at lightning speed: "Ran, keep those three from leaving. Don't let them touch their pockets."
"Shinichi, what—?" Ran started, but she saw the look in his eyes. It was the look of the Great Detective, sharp and uncompromising. She nodded, her martial arts training kicking in as she stepped into the path of the man trying to slip away. "Please stay where you are! The police are on their way!"
Shinichi reached for his phone. It was muscle memory. He dialed Inspector Megure’s direct line, his thumb pressing the call button before he realized his own doing. The phone vibrated. Megure picked up on the second ring. "Kudo-kun? Is that you? I was just about to call you about those forensics reports—"
Shinichi pressed the phone to his ear. He opened his mouth. ‘Inspector, Shibuya Crossing, north side. One victim, three suspects detained. I need the forensics team and a perimeter established immediately.’ The words were perfectly formed in his mind. But in the physical world, all Megure heard was the heavy, rhythmic sound of breathing and a series of wet, struggling clicks.
"Kudo-kun? Hello?" Megure’s voice grew concerned.
Shinichi closed his eyes, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the phone. He tried to force a sound, a single syllable, just to let the Inspector know it was him. ‘Me...gu...re…’ What came out was a strangled “...huu... ugh...” He sounded like a prank caller. He sounded like a dying man.
He thrust the phone at Ran, his expression frantic. He pointed to the phone and then to the body. Ran took the phone, her hands shaking. "I-Inspector Megure? It’s Mori Ran. Yes, I’m with Shinichi. There’s been a murder. Shibuya Crossing... near the big department store... Yes, he’s found the suspects, but... he can't..." She looked at Shinichi, her voice breaking. "He can't talk to you, Inspector."
"Ah…" Megure’s voice softened over the line, though Shinichi could hear the grim urgency return. "Tell him we’re five minutes away. Keep everyone there."
As they waited, the three suspects began to protest.
"This is ridiculous!" the man in the business suit shouted, gesturing at Shinichi. "Who the hell is this kid? He’s just standing there staring at us with a toy! I have a meeting!"
"I didn't do anything," whined the woman clutching her purse. "I just saw him fall!"
Shinichi was ignored. Usually, his voice—that calm, authoritative tone that commanded a room—would have quelled their complaints. He would have dissected their alibis with a single sentence. Now, he was just a teenager with a high collar and a tablet. The Heisei Holmes title felt more like an insult and less like a compliment now.
He started typing a summary of his observations for the police. He wanted to explain the angle of the wound, the lack of a weapon on the ground which indicated the killer still had it, and the faint traces of powder on the sleeve of the third suspect. But typing was slow. Even with his speed, he couldn't keep up with the chaos of a live crime scene. "Stay quiet!" the tablet barked as he hit the button.
"Make me, you brat!" the businessman sneered, stepping toward Shinichi.
Ran stepped in between them, her stance widening. "He said stay quiet." Her voice was low and dangerous.
Shinichi looked down at the tablet. The screen was smeared with his fingerprints. He felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of exhaustion. He had the answer—he knew exactly which of the three had done it. He knew the motive. He knew where the weapon was hidden. But he couldn't say it. He was a prisoner behind a screen of glass and a throat of scarred tissue. He looked at the body on the ground, the life extinguished in an instant. He thought about how easily he could have been the one lying there, silenced forever. He bit his lip, the taste of copper filling his mouth. He began to type again, his fingers moving with a desperate, rhythmic clacking. ‘I am still the detective,’ he told himself, even as the mechanical voice of the tablet began to stutter under his frantic pace. ‘I don't need a voice to find the truth.’
But as the sirens grew louder, he couldn't help but feel that a part of him was still lying in that alleyway in the snow, waiting for a voice that was never coming back.
_
When Megure and Takagi finally arrived, the scene was a mess of tension. Shinichi stood there, the device clutched in his hand like a weapon.
"Kudo-kun," Megure said, stepping under the yellow tape. He looked at the boy, and for a moment, the professional mask slipped, revealing a deep, aching pity. "Give us the rundown."
Shinichi lifted the tablet. "SUSPECT THREE. LEFT SLEEVE. RESIDUE. WEAPON IN THE TRASH CAN TWENTY METERS BEHIND HIM." The mechanical voice echoed across the crossing. It was efficient. It was correct.
But as Takagi moved to arrest the suspect, Shinichi looked at Megure. He wanted to explain the ‘why.’ He wanted to debate the nuances of the evidence. Instead, he just watched. He was a spectator in his own life, a silent ghost providing captions for a world that was moving too fast to listen.
The suspect started screaming, denying everything. Usually, this was the part where Shinichi would deliver his grand closing statement, the logic bomb that would shatter the criminal's resolve. Today, he just turned away, his throat itching under the bandages, and walked toward the shadows, leaving the noise of the world behind.
_
The mansion in Beika was glowing with a warmth that felt almost suffocating. As Shinichi pushed open the heavy oak doors, the familiar scent of old parchment and expensive French perfume met him—the scents of his parents, the scents of a home that had been reclaimed by his tragedy. In the living room, the scene looked deceptively normal. Yusaku was draped over a velvet armchair, his fountain pen scratching rhythmically against a manuscript. Yukiko was sprawled on the sofa, flipping through a high-end fashion magazine, her legs tucked under.
But Shinichi saw through the performance immediately.
His father's manuscript hadn't changed pages in twenty minutes. On the corner of the mahogany desk sat a stack of medical dossiers, thick with the CVs of world-class laryngologists and neurosurgeons from Switzerland to Germany. Yukiko wasn't looking at fashion. The magazine was a decoy, tucked inside were brochures for advanced laser aesthetics to minimize scar tissue and a list of private chefs specializing in recovery nutrition.
Shinichi stood in the doorway, his bag feeling like a lead weight. He didn't use his device. He just stood there until his father looked up.
"Welcome home, Shinichi," Yusaku said, his voice calm, but his eyes searching his son’s face for any new sign of pain.
Yukiko jumped up, a bit too quickly. "Shin-chan! You’re late. Was the commute okay? Did you... did you have any trouble?"
Shinichi simply nodded. He walked to the coffee table and set his tablet down with a soft thud. He felt a pang of guilt that tasted more bitter than the kale broth he’d had for lunch. He had always been an independent son. At fourteen, he was solving cases the police couldn't touch. When his parents moved to Los Angeles, they had left him with nothing but a loaded bank account and their absolute confidence in his brilliance. Even when he had been shrunk into a child by an international criminal syndicate, they hadn't hovered. They had played along, provided support from the shadows, and trusted that Kudo Shinichi would always find his way back.
But this was different.
A shrinking drug was a puzzle to be solved. A severed vocal cord was a physical finality. For the first time in years, they didn't think he could handle it alone.
Shinichi sat on the edge of the sofa. He began to type, the clicking of the keys loud in the quiet room. “You don't have to do this,” the machine spoke for him. “I'm fine. The doctors said the physical healing is on track.”
"We know you're fine, Shinichi," Yusaku said, closing his folder. "But 'fine' is a low bar for a Kudo. I spoke with Dr. Aris in London today. He’s pioneered a nerve-grafting technique that—"
“Dad, stop.” The synthesized voice cut through the air, cold and flat. Shinichi looked at them both. He saw the dark circles under his mother’s eyes, hidden by makeup. He saw the way her hands trembled as she reached out to touch the high collar of his shirt.
"We just want our son back, Shin-chan," Yukiko whispered, her voice breaking. "I hate that alleyway. I hate that I wasn't here. If we had stayed in Japan, maybe..."
Shinichi grabbed her hand. He couldn't tell her it wasn't her fault. He couldn't tell her that he would do it again in a heartbeat to save that girl. He couldn't tell her that her hovering made him feel like a broken toy. He just squeezed her hand and typed one more sentence. “I’m still here.”
That night, dinner was served by a professional chef Yukiko had already hired. The house was filled with wealth and love. But as Shinichi looked at his parents across the dining table, he realized the true cost of that night in the snow. His parents were no longer his peers in the world of mystery, they had become his guardians. Their worry was a gilded cage, and every specialist they called was another bar being added to it.
He went to his room early, the silence of the mansion echoing in his ears. He looked at his violin case in the corner. He could still make music. He could still think. He pulled up his laptop and looked at the news. A notice from the Suzuki Financial Group caught his eye. A new exhibit. A new challenge.
Kaito KID.
The thought of Kaito KID was a double-edged sword that cut deeper than the suspect’s blade. Shinichi lay there, the moonlight filtering through the curtains of his bedroom, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. He stared at the ceiling, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the gauze on his neck.
Confidence was something Kudo Shinichi had never lacked. He had stood before world-class criminals, faced down the barrels of guns, and walked into the heart of conspiracies with a smirk and a witty retort. But those victories were built on a foundation of communication—the ability to corner a culprit with a barrage of logic, to strip away their lies with the sheer force of his voice.
To face KID now... it felt like stepping onto a stage without a script.
The title of destined rival was something he carried with immense pride and mockery. But pride is a fragile thing. Shinichi’s chest tightened as he imagined the scene: KID landing on a moonlit pedestal, tossing out a daring riddle, only for Shinichi to stand there in pathetic silence, frantically tapping at a screen like a child with a toy. Would KID laugh? Or worse—would he look at Shinichi with that same suffocating pity he saw in Ran’s eyes? Would the Phantom Thief hold back? Would he make the heist easier out of some twisted sense of mercy for his broken opponent?
The mere thought made Shinichi’s blood boil. ‘If he dares to go easy on me, I’ll kick a soccer ball through his monocle,’ he thought bitterly.
Eventually, the exhaustion of the day—the emotional weight of the school hallway and the crushing quiet of his soul—pulled him down into a restless sleep. His dreams weren't filled with the red blood on white snow that usually haunted his nightmares. Instead, he found himself standing in a void of pure, crystalline blue. He heard it before he saw it, the snap of fabric in a high-altitude wind. A flash of white silk fluttered at the edge of his vision. He tried to call out, to issue the usual challenge, to tell the thief that his trail ended here. But in the dream, as in reality, his voice was a hollow void. He reached for his throat, gasping, feeling the phantom itch of the scar.
The figure in white turned. The top hat was tilted at an arrogant angle, and the cape billowed like the wings of a great, predatory bird. KID didn't say anything at first. He simply held up a hand, beckoning Shinichi forward into the fray. KID’s grin wasn't mocking. It was expectant. He was waiting for the chase to begin. He didn't care that the world was quiet, he only cared that the hunt was on.
Shinichi woke up just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his breath hitching in his damaged throat. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the image of the white cape still burned into his retinas. He still didn't have his voice. But as he unconsciously marked the days until the next Suzuki Museum heist, he realized he still had his obsession.
If the rest of the world insisted on treating him like a victim, then he would find his way to that rooftop. He would face the one person who expected him to be a genius, even if he had to do it in total silence. Because if Kudo Shinichi couldn't be a detective, he might as well be a ghost. And ghosts, after all, were the only ones who could truly haunt a phantom.