Chapter Text
“My sincerest apologies, Meitantei.” KID’s voice, his entire presence, hasn’t changed at all over the years. Still proud, borderline affected, but certainly self-assured. He jumps lightly down from the railing — though he keeps a safe distance between them. Shinichi curses the fullmoon behind KID, casting his face in shadow like in the good old days. Days that seem so long ago. “You want what from me?”
Shinichi keeps his hands buried in his pockets, fists clenched. He almost scoffs. “Your help.”
He can’t help but study the thief closely, over and over again, as if he might vanish again at any second, the way he himself did eight years ago. The urge to cuff him and never let him go again is strong, but he suppresses it. He needs KID. He can’t risk scaring him off.
KID whistles, clearly impressed. “That must’ve hurt to say out loud, huh?”
Shinichi grits his teeth, stays silent.
KID looks mildly disappointed. Or maybe he’s just acting. “And here I thought you’ve missed me.”
That too, Shinichi thinks. But he can’t say it outloud. It’s bad enough that he’s asking him for help — to admit he missed him on top of that? Impossible.
“Sorry to disappoint your ego,” is all Shinichi says, keeping his voice neutral.
KID kicks at an imaginary pebble. His shoulders look broader now, the fabric of his white trousers pulling tight over muscular legs. Even without his heists, he’s clearly stayed in shape.
Shinichi doesn’t dare observe him too closely, afraid he’ll lose the thread of the conversation. He didn’t go through all the trouble of publishing a riddle in eight separate newspapers just to let his teenage-crush-hormones ruin everything.
“Shouldn’t you be in the States?” KID tilts his head, sounding almost accusatory.
“I should,” Shinichi answers, not even asking how KID knows that. Maybe he hasn’t been able to let go of the past either. “My return has to do with this request. It’s … about a case.”
He hears the muttered What else and ignores it.
“A human trafficking ring is trying to gain a foothold in Japan.” Shinichi steps closer, word by word, until they’re near enough for him to notice scars on KID’s chin and neck that weren’t there years before. “They’re targeting tourists — mostly women, mostly European, blonde, blue-eyed—”
“—gorgeous? Irresistible? No wonder I came to mind.” KID’s grin is infuriating. The closeness is infuriating. Shinichi burns from the inside out, his ears warming despite himself.
Shinichi frowns, his eyes flicking down to KID’s lips, no longer smiling, then up toward the glint of the monocle, the only clue to find the thief’s eyes in the dark shadows caused by the night.
“This is serious.”
“Believe me, Shinichi,” KID says and dares to lean in. They’re so close now, Shinichi can finally see the deep blue of KID’s eyes, nearly black in the dark.
He swallows hard.
KID has never said his name like that before … with something Shinichi can’t name. Can’t name it without being honest with himself.
“I’ve never been more serious.”
It would be smart to step back, create distance, clear his head. But he’s spent over eight years thinking of this thief, and trying to stop thinking of him, so his body won’t listen to him now that he’s finally this close again.
Shinichi licks his lips, blinks — and almost misses the moment KID glances down at them. Just for a second.
Then it’s the thief who pulls away. With a dramatic swirl of his coat, he walks back to the railing.
“Tomorrow,” KID promises, stepping onto the edge. “At the villa.”
He doesn’t look back. Just falls forward. And disappears.
Shinichi watches the white glider vanish into the night, heart heavy in his chest.
☘
Most of the furniture is covered with white cloth to keep it from gathering dust.
Shinichi knows a cleaning lady comes by occasionally to wipe down the floors and handle the basics, so he’s free to wander the halls in socks without worry. Sometime in the last few years, he’d lost the habit of wearing slippers around the house. He can’t even remember the last time he set foot in the sacred halls of the Kudou villa. When he is in Japan, he usually stays with Hattori or Haibara.
His parents come here even less.
Instinctively, he passes by the closed door of his old bedroom and ends up in the library. The sheer scale of the bookshelves almost overwhelms him. Even now, at his proper size, the collection is impressive and he realizes he’s forgotten how to appreciate it.
Shinichi sighs and breathes in the scent of paper and stories. He grabs the first book he sees (Edogawa Ranpo — fate’s little joke, apparently), pulls the cloth off the couch, and sits down.
And waits.
☘
He doesn’t notice when the thief appears in the doorway.
Maybe he was too tired. Maybe too lost in the pages. But when he finally looks up to check the time, he startles violently.
A figure dressed in black stands at the threshold, watching him.
KID has swapped his white suit for black jeans and a leather jacket, along with a cap that could’ve belonged to Hattori. Shinichi stares as KID raises a bare hand and pulls off the cap…
… to reveal a young man who’s no longer quite his mirror, but still undeniably familiar. Scars on his chin, on his neck. A new one at his temple, that he wasn't able to see because of the top hat yesterday.
KID says nothing, simply lets Shinichi observe.
His eyes are bright blue, but in a darker shade than his own. His hair is a tousled, dark brown mess.
Shinichi struggles for words.
“How about ‘Hi’ to start with?” KID suggests, his smile far too bright for a occasion like this.
Shinichi swallows. “Hi.”
KID steps forward, drops the cap beside him on the couch, and then settles comfortably into the armchair opposite. He doesn’t care that it’s still half-covered by fabric, he claims the chair like it’s his throne, arms draped wide.
“Where were we yesterday?” His voice is smug, playful.
“Human trafficking ring.”
“Ah, and here I thought you were just lovesick.”
“KID—”
He tries to warn him, but KID lifts a finger. “Kaito.”
“Kaitou?”
“No, you idiot.” The thief props his head up with one hand. “My name. Kaito.” Then: “KID’s dead.” He says it like it doesn’t matter, like that part of him is gone, discarded.
Shinichi wishes he could talk about Conan that way. “If you insist.”
Kaito raises an eyebrow, a silent challenge.
Shinichi tries the name. “Kai—to.”
Satisfied, Kaito asks for a briefing.
Shinichi nods, the taste of the name still fresh on his tongue, then begins to explain.
About the core of a new organization that’s crossed over from America to Japan. Not as vast as the Black Organization — but still a threat. Their goal isn’t immortality.
It’s profit.
They abduct young women, tourists traveling alone. Hook them on drugs. Turn them into a living income source.
The first time Shinichi encountered this trafficking ring was in and around L.A.
A series of missing persons, all women. Sometimes two a month, sometimes one per week. Because the women were from abroad, it took a long time before anyone even realized they’d never taken their return flights.
Too long.
By the time Akai and Shinichi finally caught on, it was already too late for some of them. A few they managed to save, but that didn’t mean they’d truly freed them.
Shinichi still remembers the fury that had burned in his chest when they arrested the surviving henchmen and entered the dimly lit hall. Searching for survivors. Searching for evidence.
He never expected one of the leads to point him back to Japan. It was his typical brand of terrible luck. A single note scribbled in the margins, a half-formed idea. How perfect Japan would be: one of the safest countries in Asia, a popular destination for solo female travelers.
And so the hunt began anew. With one major difference: this time, the only thing Shinichi knew was that they were here.
No clear location. No names he could look up.
He was starting with less than zero.
Shinichi didn’t have to argue long to convince Akai to let him fly to Japan and take over the case there. The FBI agent would follow as soon as he could. Until then, Shinichi was on his own. And thus began his investigation.
He started by applying for access to international missing persons cases — which he was reluctantly denied, since the case had no official jurisdiction in Japan. He couldn’t understand when bureaucracy had become such an obstacle, his hands were tied, until Akai could pull strings back in the States.
But he couldn’t wait.
So he placed an ad. Then a second. In total, four different messages across eight different magazines. Shinichi had no idea which one the former thief might read — or if he was even still in Japan.
It was entirely possible KID had, like Shinichi, left the country and turned his back on the past.
So the relief that hit him yesterday on that rooftop, when KID appeared, when he’d read the message, and understood it… it had struck him twice as hard.
At this point in his explanation, Shinichi falters. The thread of thought unravels. He had leaned forward while talking, closer to Kaito, watching him. Now he blinks a few times, as if waking from a dream.
Kaito tilts his head. He’s been silent since revealing his name.
“Why,” Shinichi begins, his voice cracking. He clears his throat and continues: “Why did you come to the roof at all, if KID is dead?”
Kaito doesn’t answer right away. As if he’s calculating how much truth Shinichi can take, weighing his words.
Shinichi half expects a wide grin. Maybe even a magic trick. But not this.
“KID is dead,” Kaito says again, his voice unusually calm, though his poker face is as flawless as ever. “He’s gone. And I never planned to put that suit on again.”
The large clock in the hallway (a souvenir from his mother, brought back from a trip in the Black Forest) chimes the hour, the echo of that sound lingers between them. Shinichi lets the words settle in. Some small part of him had hoped KID might’ve returned on his own one day, just to show the world his magic again.
Apparently, he’d been wrong.
“But—” Shinichi begins, and whatever expression he’s making must look absolutely ridiculous, because Kaito starts laughing.
Loudly, almost genuinely, like Shinichi had just told a joke, not confessed about an organized crime investigation.
“Shinichi,” Kaito says, crossing one leg over the other. One arm still draped along the chair's back, while gesturing with the other hand. “How many magazines was it again? Three? No, four, right? Or … even more?” He breaks off to hide a grin behind his fist. Not his usual KID-smirk. Something softer. Less mocking. “When I saw your puzzles, I thought it was Christmas and Easter all at once.”
“You— what?”
Kaito nods. Little laugh lines appear at the corners of his eyes. Apparently the eight years must have been kind to him.
“My destined rival sends out encrypted messages — very nice riddle, by the way, though you’ve still got a lot to learn — and asks for a meeting.” He rests his chin in his hand, raising one brow. “How could I possibly say no?”
For a long time, Shinichi says nothing. His thoughts are too loud to form anything coherent. Thousands of possible replies spin through his head.
Why is KID making an exception for him?
Is their former rivalry truly the reason?
How had the thief fared, where had the scars come from?
Not a single question leaves his mouth, though it still hangs open.
Through his nose, Shinichi takes a deep breath and exhales slowly through his mouth.
Somehow, he feels sorry for only reaching out now, not having done it sooner and even then, only because he needs Kaito’s help.
But for what believable reason could he have reached out otherwise?
I missed your magic nearly slips out. Shinichi just barely manages to press his lips together in time to stop it.
Maybe it’s the ongoing silence, maybe it’s something in Shinichi’s expression that Kaito sees, because his gaze softens. The mask of the arrogant thief falls for good, leaving behind a man who smiles, just a little bitterly.
Kaito’s voice is quiet. Completely unlike how Shinichi usually knows it. “We should dwell less in the past and focus more on the future.”
Shinichi nods once and stands up. “It’s going to be a long night,” he says, eyeing the thief who sits on the upholstered sofa as if he belonged there and nowhere else. “Coffee?”
☘
Shinichi stares at the business card in his hands. The paper is stiff, plain white. The print is nothing fancy, just black ink with clean edges. It’s the content that occupies his mind.
𝘒𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢 𝘒𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘰 - 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳
4𝘵𝘩 𝘋𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 - 𝘖𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘊𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦
Kaito had handed it to him yesterday (or rather, early this morning), just after putting on his shoes and already halfway out the door. He had pulled it out of his wallet and handed it over without a word, his eyes fixed on Shinichi’s face as if he were waiting for a reaction.
Shinichi had taken the small card, read the text, and raised his eyebrows. “Inspector..?” he had said, feeling both proud and surprised.
At least one of his questions had answered itself — without him having to ask.
“Surprised?” Kaito had replied. One could tell he was holding himself back from grinning widely.
“No.” Shinichi had held on to the card as if it were his anchor, his personal good luck charm. “Well— yeah … maybe a little.”
Kaito had shrugged and looked past him into the hallway. “Someone once told me I shouldn’t waste my talents on stealing.”
Oh.
Oh, yes — those had been Shinichi’s words. Or rather, Conan’s words, right before he had flown to America.
Shinichi had never thought (not even remotely) that the thief would take them to heart.
Now, a few hours later, both of them had to sleep eventually, Shinichi stands on the street corner, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. His gaze is fixed on the sky, cast in a bleak shade of grey, seemingly undecided whether or not to bless Tokyo with rain.
Before the voice reaches him, he sees a to-go cup being held almost right under his nose.
Shinichi blinks, trying to return to the here and now. He first examines the cup, then the person holding it.
Kaito is simply looking at him. Without a smile, without a single muscle twitching in his face.
Murmuring a quiet thank-you, Shinichi takes the cup, and then Kaito leads him wordlessly into the building in front of which Shinichi has been standing for nearly thirty minutes.
The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Once a familiar place with once-familiar faces.
Shinichi takes a quick sip of the far-too-hot coffee. The pain distracts him from his restless thoughts, his worries about who he might run into and whether that person would even recognize him.
Him. Or Conan.
He deliberately pulls his shoulders back, trying to appear relaxed, even though his throat tightens. For just a moment, he almost feels the glasses he’d been forced to wear for so long on his nose again. Despite the late hour, the building is quite busy. Seems like some are working overtime tonight. Or maybe it just feels that way.
The woman at the front desk greets Kaito with a wide smile, her cheeks flushing slightly when he returns the smile and walks past.
Still a bit of KID left in him, Shinichi thinks and smiles faintly.
“I know what you’re thinking,” says Kaito as the elevator doors close quietly in front of them and they’re gently lifted upward, to the fourteenth floor.
“Oh really?”
“Ye-p,” he replies, popping the ‘p’, while crossing his arms without spilling his own hot drink. He’s wearing the same black leather jacket as the day before, paired with dark blue, almost black, dress pants. “I’m just naturally charismatic.”
Shinichi rolls his eyes and replies, with little to none bite: “You’re just naturally chaotic.”
Kaito seems like he wants to retort, but just then, the elevator doors open on the tenth floor and two more officers enter, deep in conversation.
Fortunately, none that Shinichi recognizes.
He’s just about to relax when the door opens once more as they reach their own floor — and he almost runs straight into Takagi.
“Oh, my apologies!” Takagi exclaims, taking a big step back. And another, once he sees Shinichi’s face. Surprise and confusion chase one another across his features. First astonishment, then recognition. Doubt.
And finally, shock.
“C-Conan?”
Shinichi feels Kaito’s gaze on him, while his chest tightens with every passing second and he forces himself to smile.
“I’m sorry,” Shinichi says calmly, the elevator behind him closing and heading to its next stop. “It’s me. Kudou.”
Takagi’s mouth forms a silent Ah! followed by an Oh, before he smiles. “Oh wow! It must’ve been years... you’ve held up well, Kudou!” he jokes, and Shinichi notices the inspector’s — commissioner’s? — ears turning red. “Sorry for the mix-up.”
Shinichi waves it off. “Don’t worry, it happens all the time. Conan will be glad to know you still think of him.”
“How’s he doing? Your, uh, cousin?” Takagi grins a little. “Still running into murder cases?”
Hidden in his coat pocket, Shinichi clenches his trembling hand into a fist. His fingernails dig into his palms. The smile remains, just as people expect of him. “He’s doing fine. His murder-magnetism has calmed down.”
Kaito clears his throat. Only now does Takagi seem to notice his presence. His face turns even redder.
“Oh, Kuroba! Ah! The elevator!” Takagi bows quickly. Shinichi is already ready to move on, preferably fast, but Takagi adds: “Please send Conan my regards, yeah?”
“Of course,” Shinichi replies and walks ahead, even though he has no idea where Kaito actually plans to take him. Kaito corrects his direction by briefly tapping his shoulder and nodding his head toward the other hallway. They remain silent for the rest of the way.
When they reach their destination, Kaito unlocks the door to his office, the small nameplate on the wall confirms it, and closes it again right after Shinichi steps inside.
The pain in Shinichi’s neck creeps all the way up to his temples. He waits for a comment, a question, a remark, but Kaito only throws his empty paper cup straight into the trash can (which, mind you, is in the other corner of the room) and sits down at his side of the desk.
Shinichi stays standing.
"...What?" Kaito finally asks when Shinichi still makes no move to sit down. "Do I have to pull the chair out for you, Your Majesty?" It's a joke, albeit a lousy one. "You think I didn’t notice?"
Reluctantly, Shinichi pulls the empty chair back and sits down. “Aren’t you curious?”
“I am.” Kaito boots up the computer, pushing a few files aside with his elbow. The rest of the desk is tidy, only these files are scattered across the surface. “But I figured you’d talk when you’re ready.”
“A true gentleman.”
Kaito blows him a very sarcastic kiss.
While Kaito busies himself with the computer, Shinichi uses the time to study his surroundings more closely.
The office has no window, which isn’t unusual in a building this size. Even so, he’s still surprised that Kaito, as an inspector, has his own office at all. The furniture is made from standard beech wood, nothing special. The shelf behind the desk is packed with books and thick file binders.
Shinichi had expected to find framed certificates or diplomas on the wall, but instead there’s a large whiteboard. Most of it has been wiped clean, but Shinichi can still make out remnants of notes and names.
On the opposite wall hang a few picture frames.
Shinichi tries not to look too obviously.
The first photo that catches his eye is a group picture with the bride in the center. The dress is a brilliant white, with long sleeves made of tulle. She holds a bouquet of white roses in her hands.
Next to her stand Inspector Nakamori and Hakuba Saguru — both with bright eyes and wide grins (as wide as the Brit could possibly manage).
To Nakamori’s right stands Kaito, dressed sharply in a black suit. It feels strange to see him in a suit that isn’t white. He’s also the only one in the picture who isn’t grinning, only smiling faintly, but he does seem happy.
Shinichi’s gaze lingers on him the longest before he turns to the next photo.
Another group photo — or rather, a high school graduation picture. He recognizes the school uniforms of Ekoda High.
Suddenly feeling uneasy, Shinichi doesn’t bother looking for the younger version of Kaito and instead looks at the Kaito of now.
His eyebrows are drawn low, the harsh glow of the computer screen highlights the blue in his eyes and makes the scars stand out even more.
“These scars,” Shinichi suddenly begins, “from your hobby or your job?”
Kaito’s fingers pause on the keyboard. He lifts his right hand and traces the scar at his brow with his index finger. “Work-related,” he says plainly, then turns his head and runs his thumb along his chin. “This one as well.”
Shinichi waits.
Before Kaito continues, he stretches. Shinichi can tell the former thief is stalling for time, so he doesn’t press. With his hands folded behind his head, Kaito finally says, “The one on my neck is from my former hobby. It’s… a complicated story.”
“Mh,” Shinichi hums. “Then maybe another time.”
Now it’s Kaito who studies him intently, his hands still resting behind his head. A faint smile touches his lips. “Another time,” he repeats, then nods toward the stack of files. “I managed to dig up a few missing person cases reported by Interpol. The earliest one dates back to about six months ago.”
Shinichi grimaces in disgust. Six months already? “The actual number is probably much higher,” he mutters, reaching for the top file and flipping it open.
“I think so too,” Kaito says. “But I haven’t had time to really go through them yet — they practically just landed on my desk.”
Shinichi rolls his eyes at the metaphor, takes a glance at his watch. “I hope the coffee machine tastes better than it used to.”
Kaito grabs a file for himself, a dangerous glint in his eyes. For a moment, he almost looks like KID again. “I can’t answer that, Tantei-kun. I don’t drink coffee.”
Shinichi freezes, for two reasons. First, the fact that Kaito doesn’t drink coffee (…hadn’t he drunk some yesterday? Suddenly, Shinichi isn’t sure), and second, because of the old nickname, one he secretly missed more than he’d like to admit. He feels his ears go warm and does his best to act annoyed.
“An inspector who doesn’t drink coffee? Did I hit you in the head one too many times with my soccer ball?”
That seems to awaken some long-buried trauma, because Kaito visibly shudders. “Oh, you wish! I just happen to have functioning taste buds.”
“Sure,” Shinichi replies, burying his nose back in the file.
He expects another sarcastic comeback, but it doesn’t come. When Shinichi glances over the top edge of his file, he sees that Kaito is reading as well.
File by file, they work their way through the stack in silence. Shinichi is completely in his element, storing connections and differences in his memory, losing track of time. Both of them are so deeply engrossed in their research that they don’t even notice old Nakamori quietly poking his head into Kaito’s office, pausing and taking this particular picture in, only to silently closing the door again.
Minutes turn into hours, until not a single unread file remains on the desk. Shinichi’s eyes are burning, his neck stiff, and his mouth dry. Kaito seems to be in a similar state. They finish at roughly the same time, and as Shinichi stretches his neck, he already hears Kaito groaning as he stretches and his shoulder cracks audibly.
Without saying where he’s going, Kaito gets up and leaves the office. Shinichi watches him go, then stands as well and walks over to the whiteboard. While everything is still fresh in his mind, he wants to sort out the information before it slips away.
What do all the victims have in common? Shinichi grabs a marker and starts writing.
Female victims. The abduction series in LA also only targeted women, since they were generally easier to “do business” with.
Aged 23 to 28. Young enough to be easily “marketed”, but old enough that their disappearance wouldn’t be immediately noticed.
Originally from Europe. Another point consistent with the previous M.O. The specific countries of origin vary.
But what is the exact link? How do the perpetrators choose their victims? In LA, they had used a bait – is there one here too? Or did they change their strategy after the LA ring was exposed?
“We’ll have to reconstruct it,” says Kaito, now standing in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs in his hands.
Shinichi doesn’t respond directly, instead focusing on the cup Kaito raises to his mouth. “Tea?” he asks flatly.
Kaito flashes him a grin worthy of KID. “Hot chocolate!”
“…You’re a hopeless case.”
Despite his words, Shinichi can’t help but smirk and takes the cup Kaito hands him.
The coffee is just as awful as it used to be and somehow, that only makes it better.
He watches as Kaito studies the notes on the whiteboard. In a rhythm only he can hear, he taps his cup with his index finger. “There has to be another connection. One we haven’t found yet — something that isn’t obvious.”
Shinichi glances over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn low. His jaw tightens. “There has to be an informant — that’s our link.” Then he turns to face Kaito. “Do you have a list of their last known locations?”
“Not yet.” Kaito hurries over to his desk, without sitting down. “But in a second.”
Wanting to see the screen as well, Shinichi leans forward. He watches as Kaito logs into Interpol like it’s just a normal website, not a secure system one needs explicit access to.
And access Kaito absolutely should not have.
Shinichi opens his mouth, but Kaito beats him to it. “Oh, there are certain advantages to being friends with the right people.”
Goddamn it. So this is what it feels like.
“At least you didn’t steal it.”
Kaito shoots him a meaningful look. Anything but innocent.
“You’re kidding me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about~”
Shinichi stays where he is, leaning as far forward as possible, his face close to Kaito’s. He sees the different shades of blue in Kaito’s eyes, the tiny laugh lines that deepen the more he grins.
Heat rushes to his face, and he wonders what the hell is wrong with him, that now, of all times, while they’re tracking human traffickers, he’s thinking about Kaito and the different shades of his stupid eyes.
Haibara would dissect you psychologically, flashes through his mind.
But Kaito doesn’t make any move to lean back either.
So Shinichi stays exactly where he is, trying hard to refocus on the screen in front of him.
The many names of the young women help instantly.
☘
The growth spurt was worth it, because by now, Conan's legs are longer, which means he can chase after KID even faster.
However, it also means that Ran had to spend several hours shopping with him last week, since all his pants had suddenly become too short. His ‘closet’ (a small section he shared with Kogoro inside his wardrobe) was getting bigger.
And with it, so did his frustration and hopelessness.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that he still had to share a room with the Snoring Kogoro — it had now been nearly two years and had somehow turned into his everyday life.
But these thoughts had no place in this destined night.
Conan feels the adrenaline rushing through his body and, despite the physical effort, he realizes he's grinning.
The past few days had been rainy in Tokyo, so the streets were not just damp but damn slippery and filled with puddles. Dirty water splashes up his legs every time he steps into one of the many puddles, soaking the denim and making it cling to his skin. Ran is definitely going to give him a proper scolding when he returns to the museum later, but it’s worth it.
Ahead of him, he sees the white shadow of his target: Kaitou KID, turning a corner. The oversized black cape may hide the thief’s suit, but not his shining white patent leather shoes and pant legs.
Conan almost slips and barely manages to keep his balance as he rounds the corner after him. He hears KID laughing — as if the damn thief had eyes in the back of his head and had seen everything.
Just wait!, Conan thinks, gathering his strength to launch into a sprint. He misses his skateboard, which is currently in the professor’s lab for some much-needed repairs.
He misses his actual body. The body of an eighteen-year-old, which would have no trouble keeping up with KID.
Conan’s eyes are watering. He blames it on the relentless night wind.
“KID, wait!” he shouts, knowing at the same moment that it’s wasted energy. Why would KID wait, when he was so clearly busy running away from him?
Of all days, the master thief has to lead him through the streets today, instead of meeting him on a rooftop like Conan had hoped.
Another corner, followed by yet another side street, wrapped in silent darkness.
There is no sign of the white patent shoes.
“Fuck!” Conan curses out loud and skids to a stop. His chest rises and falls frantically, his pulse pounding in his ears.
With a slightly trembling hand, Conan runs his fingers through his damp hair. A few strands cling to his forehead. Couldn’t KID have picked any other day for his marathon?
“I don’t think that word is within your age range,” a voice suddenly says behind him.
Conan flinches as he spins around at the same time. KID is still wearing his tried-and-true grin, but he has changed outfits. Sneakers instead of patent shoes, blue denim and a bomber jacket instead of the cape that used to hide his white suit. A black cap, pulled low, casts the upper half of his face in shadow.
To not show his relief, Conan furrows his brows. “I thought you were already gone?”
KID nods and steps closer, hands tucked into his pockets. There’s no sign of urgency or haste in his stride, as if he’s taking a leisurely walk through the park in perfect weather. And not fleeing the police in the night just moments ago.
“Give me a reason why I should ignore my otherwise flawless common sense and stay.”
Conan swallows. The words he had just a second ago are completely wiped from his mind.
KID tilts his head slightly to the side, and Conan is certain his gaze is fixed on him with full concentration.
“I—” Conan begins, clenching his hands into fists only to relax them again. “I wanted to say goodbye.”
Nothing follows. Conan wonders if he spoke too quietly, or if KID was even listening, until he sees KID take a deep breath himself, shoulders lifting almost up to his ears.
“What do you mean by that, Kudou?”
Hearing his real name, one that feels stranger with every passing day, is like a knife stab. It burns, presses, and grows more unbearable the longer Conan stays silent.
He could correct him. He really should. Tell him not to use that name anymore, to call him Conan instead, like everyone else. Or even Tantei-kun.
“I have to… leave,” Conan finally says, clearing his throat. “For a— for a case.”
“For a case,” KID repeats, as if it might help him understand the meaning of the words better. The thief seems about to step closer, then thinks better of it and stays where he is. “And… for how long?”
The question catches Conan off guard.
Instead of answering, he just smiles.
KID seems to understand anyway. He doesn’t smile back.
“I wanted to say goodbye.”
KID swallows. “No ‘see you again’?”
Conan forces himself to stay calm. And his voice to stay neutral. “See you again, KID.”
The thief laughs. Bitter, joyless. “You’re such an awful liar, Kudou.”
Kaitou KID taps the brim of his cap and gives a slight bow. “Good luck, Tantei-kun.”
The smile that creeps onto Conan’s lips is faint, barely there. “You too.”
Conan turns around, pauses for a moment longer. Over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t waste your talent on stealing.”
And this time, it’s the detective who runs away from the thief.