Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Rain had a habit of making Yokohama feel quieter than it truly was, not silent—never silent—but muted. The city’s sounds of engines, conversations, and distant ships dissolved beneath the steady patter against rooftops, as if the weather itself had drawn a curtain over the world. It was on mornings like these that the Armed Detective Agency seemed almost peaceful.

Almost.

“…Absolutely not.”

“You haven’t even looked at it.”

“I don’t have to.” Ranpo didn’t bother lifting his head as he laid in his desk chair, with one arm was draped over his face, shielding himself from both the fluorescent lights and the existence of responsibility. A half-empty bag of potato chips sat on his desk, while candy wrappers littered the remaining space.

Across from him, Kunikida pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are the greatest detective in Japan.”

“Mhm.”

“You have three unfinished reports.”

“Mhm.”

“You were supposed to finish them yesterday.”

“…Yesterday is over.”

“That does not—”

“It literally does.”

A vein pulsed against Kunikida’s temple and around the office, no one looked particularly surprised. Atsushi had learned long ago that arguments between Kunikida and Ranpo followed a predictable rhythm, almost comforting. Junichiro quietly organized paperwork, pretending not to listen while Naomi leaned over his shoulder, entertained by the exchange. Even Yosano merely sighed into her teacup. “Let him be,” she said without looking up. “He’ll work once something interests him.”

“I always work,” Ranpo replied. “When there’s something worth solving, of course.”

Kunikida looked moments away from spontaneous combustion. “The paperwork—”

“Is not worth solving.”

“It isn’t a mystery!”

“Exactly.”

Before another rebuttal could be launched, footsteps echoed up the Agency staircase. They were uneven, slow, almost deliberate. Not the confident stride of a police officer or the rushed pace of a civilian with a simple request. The room gradually quieted and Ranpo lowered his arm from his face. When the office door opened, it revealed a sharply dressed man with an umbrella folded neatly beneath one arm and wearing a tailored charcoal overcoat that looked expensive enough that Atsushi instinctively wondered how many months of rent it represented. However, despite his appearance, something was… off. The man’s eyes were ringed with dark circles, his gloves trembled, and rainwater clung to silver strands of hair that had once been styled. He bowed. “My apologies for arriving without an appointment.”

Kunikida recovered first. “Welcome to the Armed Detective Agency. How may we assist you today?”

The man hesitated. His gaze swept across the room until it landed—not on Kunikida—but on Ranpo, almost everyone did eventually. “I…” He swallowed. “I’ve been told your detective can solve anything.”

Ranpo sat upright, not dramatically, just finally showing that he was paying attention. Something in the man’s voice had changed the atmosphere. “Of course I can, I am the world’s greatest detective after alls” Ranpo answered simply, like it was a fact.

The client reached into his coat and carefully placed a thick envelope onto the table. No one opened it, they didn’t need to to know what was inside. It was cash, a considerable amount. “My family owns an estate,” the man began quietly. “Several generations old.” He paused. “It is located in the countryside north of Yokohama.”

“The manor?” Ranpo asked.

The client blinked. “…Yes.”

“You inherited it recently.”

“…Yes.”

“You’ve never liked visiting.” The man’s breathing caught. “You’ve only gone back because someone disappeared.” Silence, Atsushi watched the client’s composure visibly fracture. 

“How…”

Ranpo shrugged. “You’ve got dirt from old gravel roads on your shoes, but the soles are barely worn. You don’t visit often.” He pointed lazily. “The umbrella’s from a hotel near the station, you’ve got fresh scratches on your hands, I’m guessing bramble bushes, and you’ve been sleeping terribly.”

The man stared. “I… haven’t slept in four days.”

“I know.” No triumph or smugness, Ranpo said it as casually as someone commenting on the weather.

The client slowly lowered himself into a chair. “My younger cousin disappeared two weeks ago.” No one interrupted. “They insisted on staying behind after our family gathering. They’ve always been… interested in the estate and they refused to leave.” His fingers tightened around one another. “I assumed they simply wanted solitude.” Another pause. “Then the letters began.”

Yosano tilted her head. “Letters?”

“They were addressed to me.” He reached into his briefcase and several envelopes emerged. Yellowed and old with the paper looking brittle. Each one bore his family crest in faded crimson wax. “They were written in my cousin’s handwriting.”

“…After they disappeared?”

“Yes.”

Atsushi frowned. “They could have mailed them beforehand.”

“They’re dated.” Silence. “The first letter is dated three days after they vanished, the second is six days, and the most recent…” His voice almost failed him. “…was yesterday.” He slid the final envelope across the desk, still sealed. “I couldn’t.”

Ranpo reached for it, breaking the seal with practiced ease. His eyes skimmed the page for maybe five seconds before he folded it shut again. “…Interesting.”

Kunikida crossed his arms. “What does it say?”

Ranpo didn’t answer immediately, instead, he looked back at the client. “You’ve already hired the police.”

“Several times.”

“They found nothing.”

“Correct.”

“You’ve hired private investigators.”

“Three.”

“They quit.”

The client nodded once. “They all refused to explain why.” Another silence settled over the room, the man paused as he looked at the rain-streaked windows. “They all said the same thing, ‘The house doesn’t like visitors.’” Nobody laughed, not because they believed him, but because of the way he said it, as if repeating words that had never left him.

Kunikida spoke carefully. “You believe the manor is haunted?”

“No.” The answer came instantly. “I don’t.” His expression tightened. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe something is wrong.” His eyes lowered. “I just don’t know what.”

Ranpo leaned back against his. “Hm.” To anyone else, it sounded absent-minded, but to the rest of the agency, it meant the detective was already thinking. “…I’ll take it, but!” Ranpo held up one finger. “I’m bringing someone.”

Kunikida nodded. “That’s fine. Atsushi—”

“No.”

“Yosano?”

“No.”

“Myself?”

“Ew.”

“…Then who?”

Ranpo opened one eye, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m taking Poe.” The room fell noticeably quieter.

Atsushi blinked. “…Poe?” He asked, confusion written across his face. “You mean… The Guild guy with the Raccoon?”

Ranpo blinked. “Obviously.”

“But… why him?”

“Because I said so.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is to me.”

Kunikida let out a weary sigh that sounded years older than he actually was. “Ranpo, if you intend to drag a former Guild member into an Agency investigation, I’d appreciate something resembling an explanation.”

Ranpo looked genuinely puzzled. “…I already explained, I picked Poe. That explains who I picked.”

Kunikida closed his notebook with enough force to make Atsushi instinctively flinch and Yosano hid a smile behind her teacup. “I think,” she said pleasantly, “what Kunikida means is why you picked him.”

Ranpo stared at her for a long moment. “…Because he’s Poe.” Silence fell over the group and even Naomi looked disappointed by the answer. He frowned. “What?”

“You really aren’t going to elaborate?” Atsushi asked.

“Do I need to?”

Before the conversation could continue spiraling, the client quietly cleared his throat. “I… apologize.” Every head turned toward him. “I didn’t intend to cause disagreement among your organization.”

“You didn’t,” Kunikida replied automatically. “This is normal.”

“It is?”

Yosano nodded, jumping in. “It depends on the day.”

Ranpo had already stopped listening, his attention remained fixed on the stack of letters lying across the coffee table. There were seven in total, each still having the seal intact. He reached forward and spread the envelopes across the polished wood. Old paper, iron gall ink, and wax seals bearing an unfamiliar crest—a rampant stag beneath an eclipse. Interesting. “Your family has had this crest for…” He murmured absentmindedly.

“…About two hundred years.” 

“No.”

The client blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“It changed.” Ranpo pointed toward the seal. “The antlers.”

“What about them?”

“They’re wrong.”

The client leaned forward, his expression slowly shifted. “…You’re right.” No one else understood. “Our original crest had twelve points.” He whispered.

Ranpo nodded. “This one has thirteen.”

“…How…”

“It redesigned recently, your family split and someone changed the crest after an inheritance dispute.”

The client’s lips parted. “That happened around a few months ago.”

“I know.”

“You couldn’t possibly—”

“The wax is newer than the paper.” Ranpo shrugged. “Somebody resealed them.” The room fell silent again, not because Ranpo had solved another tiny mystery, that part had become expected. No. It was the expression on the client’s face, not amazement, but fear.

“…Nobody should know that.”

Ranpo finally looked up. “Hm?”

“The letters…” His voice trembled. “They were sealed before they disappeared.” Atsushi felt something unpleasant settle in his stomach. “The envelopes have never been opened.” No one spoke. Rain tapped steadily against the windows and somewhere outside, thunder rumbled once more.

Ranpo picked up one of the envelopes, turned it over and pressed a finger gently against the wax. “…Interesting.” He said it so casually that Atsushi almost wanted to shake him. Interesting? That wasn’t interesting, that was impossible. Unless…

“They’re fake?” Atsushi offered hopefully. “Since someone resealed them.”

Ranpo looked at him. “No.”

“…No?”

“The wax is fresh.” Ranpo explained. “The paper isn’t, the folds are over fifty years old. The handwriting is fresh, but the ink isn’t.”

Atsushi blinked twice. “…How can the handwriting be fresh but the ink old?”

Ranpo smiled. “Exactly.” 

For the first time since entering the Agency… the client looked relieved, only slightly, but enough because someone else had finally acknowledged what he’d been trying—and failing—to explain. “I know how absurd it sounds.”

“It does.”

“I’ve checked every possibility.”

“I believe you.”

“…You do?”

Ranpo nodded. “You’re not lying.” That answer came so quickly that Kunikida barely had time to process it. “You’ve already investigated everything yourself.” He continued almost lazily. “You’ve consulted historians, hired forensic analysts, and even asked an Ability user.”

The client’s eyes widened. “…How did you know that?”

“You smell like old books.” Ranpo sighed. “There’s pollen from archival storage on your sleeve, and…” Ranpo tilted his head. “You’ve got burn marks from an electrical discharge. Somebody tested whether an Ability was involved.”

The client’s shoulders slowly slumped. “…Yes.”

“Were they successful?”

“No.”

“Did they tell you why?”

“They said…” The client hesitated. “…they couldn’t feel another Ability.”

That made Ranpo pause, only for an instant. “So.” He leaned back. “It either isn’t an Ability…or it’s hiding.” The office grew noticeably quieter, even Kunikida’s expression became more serious. Ranpo had stopped joking, entirely, which meant he was interested. That rarely happened, but when it did, it usually meant the case was unlike anything they’d encountered before.

Several hours later the rain still hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had become heavier. Yokohama’s skyline disappeared behind thick gray clouds, the city fading into a watercolor blur beyond the Agency windows. The client had long since left after providing every document he possessed. Maps, family records, photographs, even land deeds dating back generations. One by one, they covered nearly every available surface inside the office. Kunikida organized them with military precision and Atsushi attempted to help, however Ranpo ignored both of them completely. Instead he sat cross-legged atop the conference table, snacking on candy. “…You know,” Atsushi finally ventured. “I’ve been thinking.” 

Ranpo didn’t look up. “Dangerous.”

“…Thanks.”

“You should stop.”

“I mean about the case, if it isn’t an Ability…”

“It probably is.”

“…You just said—”

“I said probably.”

Atsushi sighed. “You really like being cryptic.”

“No.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I like being right.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Enormous difference.”

Kunikida adjusted his glasses. “What have you figured out?”

Ranpo popped another piece of candy into his mouth. “The client’s cousin isn’t dead.”

Atsushi blinked. “Really?”

“No.”

“…No?”

“I don’t know, but they were alive when the newest letter was written.”

“You just said—”

“I changed my mind.”

Atsushi groaned. “I don’t know when you’re serious.”

“I always am.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

Yosano laughed softly. “It’ll make more sense once he explains.”

“He explains?”

“Eventually, usually after everyone’s already figured out the answer.”

“I don’t do that.” Ranpo pouted. “I explain eventually.”

“When?”

“…Whenever I feel like it.”

Kunikida closed another folder. “Which means never.”

“Exactly.”

“…That’s not a good thing.”

A comfortable silence settled over the office, the kind that was shared between people who had worked together long enough that conversation no longer needed to fill every moment. Then Ranpo suddenly stood. “I’m leaving.”

Kunikida looked up. “…Where?”

“To get Poe.”

“You haven’t even called him.”

“I don’t need to, he’ll be home.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. He never leaves unless Karl makes him.”

Atsushi couldn’t argue with that since it sounded strangely believable. With that Ranpo grabbed his coat from the rack near the entrance. He was already halfway out the door before Kunikida spoke again. “Ranpo.”

“Hm?”

“If Poe refuses?”

Ranpo didn’t even turn around. “He won’t.”

“What makes you so certain?”

A grin tugged at the detective’s lips. “Because it’s me asking.” The door clicked shut behind him.

For several seconds nobody said anything, until finally Atsushi looked toward Kunikida. “…Do you think he’ll actually convince him that easily?”

Kunikida stared at the closed door. “…I’m more worried about whether Poe will agree before Ranpo even finishes asking.”

Rain fell in silver sheets across Yokohama as Ranpo wandered through the streets with seemingly no destination in mind. His hands were tucked into his pockets, umbrella forgotten and the water soaked through his hat almost immediately. He didn’t seem to care. People hurried past and umbrellas bumped together as taxi tires hissed over wet pavement. Neon signs reflected across rain-slick sidewalks in fractured ribbons of blue and crimson. He walked through it all with the effortless confidence of someone who had memorized every street in the city years ago. He didn’t need directions, so without slowing his pace… and soon made it to a small private residence on the outskirts of the city. Its windows glowed warmly despite the storm and a small brass plaque beside the front door simply read:

E. A. Poe

Ranpo smiled. “…Yep.” He raised one hand and knocked exactly three times. Almost immediately something crashed inside. The sound of something toppling over inside the home was followed by a muffled yelp, the frantic scraping of chair legs across hardwood, and what sounded suspiciously like a raven voicing its displeasure. Ranpo waited but didn’t knock a second time, he didn’t have to. He knew exactly what was happening beyond the door.

Poe had definitely been writing when Ranpo arrived. His desk covered in loose manuscripts arranged according to a system only he understood, several fountain pens left uncapped despite his repeated promises to himself that he would stop ruining the nibs that way. Karl had most likely been curled somewhere among the papers, “supervising” the writing process until the unexpected knock startled him into bolting across the room. Poe, who possessed all the grace of a frightened deer when caught off guard, would have stood far too quickly, tangled himself in the legs of his chair, and sent at least one precarious stack of books tumbling to the floor. As if right on schedule, another crash echoed through the house. “…Karl, no—!” A muffled thud. “…Please don’t—” Something shattered.

Ranpo smiled to himself. “Yep.” A full minute passed before the deadbolt clicked open.

The door eased inward only a few inches, revealing a sliver of pale skin, dark curls that had long since surrendered to the humidity of the afternoon, and one hesitant gray eye peering cautiously through the gap. “…Ranpo.” It wasn’t a question, it couldn’t be. Poe would have recognized that voice anywhere, if he lived another hundred years, he thought he would still recognize it.

Ranpo offered the sort of smile one might give a friend they had every expectation of seeing. “Hi.”

Poe stared. His mind, ordinarily capable of weaving labyrinthine mysteries from the smallest details, had completely blank. Ranpo was here, at his house. Not at the Agency or by chance on a Yokohama street. Here. Standing on his doorstep in the pouring rain as though appearing unannounced at the home of the mystery writer was the most natural thing in the world. At this point it kinda was. “…Hello,” He managed at last.

“You took forever.”

“I…” Poe glanced over his shoulder toward the catastrophe that had once been his sitting room before looking back with visible embarrassment. “I was occupied.”

“I noticed.” The detective’s eyes drifted past him without any apparent effort. “Your chair’s upside down, Karl knocked over three books and one vase, but the ink bottle survived somehow.”

Poe slowly turned to look behind him. The chair was, indeed, lying on its side and several hefty hardcovers had spilled across the rug. His favorite ceramic vase rested in several irreparable pieces near the fireplace, but most impressively of all, the uncapped bottle of black ink sat perfectly upright in the center of the chaos, untouched by the disaster surrounding it. “…How did you…”

Ranpo blinked. “I heard it.”

“…You heard all of that?”

“The vase sounded expensive.”

“It was.” There was a pause. Rainwater trickled from the brim of Ranpo’s cap onto the wooden porch between them and only then did Poe fully register that the detective was completely soaked. His coat clung damply to his shoulders, droplets sliding from dark strands of hair that had escaped beneath his cap. Any reasonable person would have sought shelter under an umbrella, Ranpo, apparently, had simply decided not to. “…You’ve been walking in the rain.”

“Obviously.”

“You don’t own an umbrella?”

“I do.”

“…Where is it?”

“I forgot.”

Poe could not decide whether that answer was deeply concerning or entirely unsurprising. Before he could settle on either, a blur of gray fur launched itself from somewhere within the house. “Karl!” Too late. The raccoon darted through the narrow opening between the door and its frame, scampered straight up Ranpo’s coat with practiced ease, and perched triumphantly atop one shoulder as though reclaiming a long-lost friend.

Ranpo reached up without looking, his fingers absently scratched behind Karl’s ears. “Hi.” Karl chirped happily, rubbing his face against his cheek with all the enthusiasm of an animal that had completely forgotten the concept of personal space.

Poe felt his ears warm. “I apologize,” he said quickly, reaching to retrieve his companion. “He’s become rather… attached.”

“It’s fine.”

“Karl.” The raccoon ignored him. “Karl.” Nothing. “Karl.” Ranpo produced a wrapped piece of candy from his pocket and Karl immediately abandoned all previous loyalties. “…Traitor,” Poe muttered under his breath.

Ranpo looked mildly offended. “He made a choice.”

“You bribed him.”

“I rewarded excellent judgment.”

Poe sighed, though the corners of his mouth betrayed the faintest upward twitch. Some things, he supposed, never changed. During the time they had gotten to truly know each other, their meetings had been confined to unusual cases and the occasional Agency visit. No matter the circumstances, Ranpo possessed an almost supernatural ability to step into a room and rearrange its atmosphere entirely. Somehow, without raising his voice or making any grand entrance, Ranpo transformed solemnity into something lighter simply by existing within it. It was infuriating, but it was also familiar. Perhaps that was why seeing him on his doorstep felt so strangely surreal. “…Would you…” Poe cleared his throat. “Would you like to come inside? You’re getting soaked.”

“I already am.”

“…That’s true.”

“So yes.” Poe opened the door fully, stepping aside to allow him through. Warmth greeted Ranpo almost immediately. The home smelled faintly of old paper, polished wood, and freshly brewed coffee gone cold from neglect. Every available surface seemed occupied by books in various stages of organization—or disorganization, depending on the perspective. Shelves climbed nearly to the ceiling, sagging beneath the weight of mystery novels, poetry collections, historical records, and leather-bound journals whose spines had softened from years of handling. Loose pages covered the dining table and several had migrated inexplicably to the windowsill, others lay scattered across the floor where Karl had apparently deemed them suitable nesting material. Ranpo looked around once. “You’re writing.”

Poe closed the door behind them. “…I was.”

“You’ve been stuck for two days.”

Poe froze. “…What?”

“You rewrote the same chapter four times. You keep changing the ending because none of them feel right.” 

Poe stared at him in silence. Ranpo, oblivious to the fact that he had once again reached conclusions that bordered on the impossible, wandered toward the nearest bookshelf. “…How?” Poe asked quietly. “You haven’t been here.”

“No.”

“You haven’t seen the manuscript.”

“Nope.”

“You couldn’t possibly…”

Ranpo tilted his head. “You’ve got ink on the side of your hand instead of your fingertips.” Poe instinctively looked down and sure enough, a faint smear of black ink streaked the heel of his palm. “…When you’re writing normally,” Ranpo continued absentmindedly, tracing a finger across the spine of a novel without actually reading its title, “you don’t stop to think very much. You just write, but when you’re editing…” He made a vague gesture. “You hold the page like this.” He demonstrated absentmindedly. “The wet ink transfers.” Poe slowly looked back at his own hand. “…You’ve also got four drafts in the fireplace.” Poe’s gaze snapped toward the hearth where several crumpled pages remained half-burned among the ashes. “You only burn drafts you dislike. Plus there’s fresh coffee, but it’s cold, which means you forgot to drink it. You only forget coffee when you’re focused.” Ranpo shrugged. “So I guessed.” He said it so matter-of-factly that one might have believed anyone could arrive at such conclusions.

Poe knew better, he had spent years attempting to understand how Ranpo’s mind worked. Years trying to convince himself there must be something other than his ability that bridged the impossible gap between observation and certainty, and yet… Standing in the middle of his cluttered sitting room, watching the detective absentmindedly pet Karl while simultaneously dismantling his morning with terrifying precision Poe found himself thinking, not for the first time, that genius and impossibility often looked indistinguishable from one another. He had once declared Ranpo his rival, had spent years chasing that declaration by trying to write mysteries worthy of the man before him and puzzles that might, just once, make Ranpo hesitate before announcing the solution. Trying—perhaps foolishly—to stand beside someone he admired so deeply that admiration had long ago become tangled with pride. It was easier to call Ranpo a rival than to admit the truth.

“So,” Ranpo said at last, breaking the silence as he wandered over to the desk buried beneath manuscripts. He picked up a page, skimmed the first sentence, and set it back down before Poe could protest. “I’ve got a case.”

Poe blinked. “…A case?”

“Mhm.”

“And you’ve come…”

“To get you.”

The words landed with such effortless certainty that Poe wondered if he had imagined them. “…Me?”

“Yep.”

“For… what purpose?”

Ranpo looked genuinely confused by the question. “To solve it.”

“…With you?”

“Obviously.”

Poe opened his mouth, closed it then opened it again. For perhaps the first time in years, Edgar Allan Poe—author, Ability user, and architect of countless intricate mysteries—found himself entirely at a loss for words. He continued staring at Ranpo as though the words might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable if he waited long enough.

Ranpo, meanwhile, had already wandered farther into the room with the comfortable familiarity of someone who had been invited in countless times before. He stopped in front of one of the towering bookshelves, tilting his head as his gaze skimmed the neatly packed spines. His attention lingered on a newly bound mystery novel before drifting toward a stack of handwritten pages that threatened to slide off the edge of a side table. “You reorganized.”

Poe blinked. “…What?”

“The shelves.”

“They’ve always been like that.”

Ranpo reached out and nudged a volume back into place with one finger. “No.” His answer was calm, almost absentminded. “The history books used to be over there.” He pointed toward an empty stretch of shelving near the window. B“Now they’re over here. You moved the poetry too and you finally separated first editions from the reference copies.”

Poe looked around his own library as though seeing it for the first time. He had done all of those things weeks ago. “I…” He hesitated before giving up entirely. “How did you notice?”

Ranpo shrugged. “I’ve been to your house more times then I can count.” It was such a simple answer that it took Poe several moments to appreciate what it implied. Ranpo had remembered, not just the books themselves, but where they had rested on the shelves months earlier. The observation hadn’t come from some impossible leap of logic or supernatural talent. It had come from memory—an absurdly precise memory that held details most people would never remember. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, that realization settled somewhere quietly inside his chest. Ranpo had noticed, not because he had been investigating him, simply because he had been paying attention.

Karl chirped from Ranpo’s shoulder before hopping onto the desk, where he immediately began sniffing curiously at a pile of manuscript pages. Poe hurried over before his companion could decide the latest draft would make suitable nesting material. “Gentle,” he murmured, scooping the raccoon into his arms. “Those took several weeks.” Karl looked entirely unrepentant and Ranpo watched the exchange with mild amusement.

“You’ve rewritten that chapter again.”

Poe let out a defeated sigh. “The pacing felt… wrong.”

“It was.”

“You read it?”

“No, but it just felt too slow.”

Poe stared. “You haven’t even seen the chapter.”

“I don’t need to. You’ve been stuck at the same point for days because you keep trying to make the ending clever instead of honest.”

Silence settled over the room. Poe lowered his gaze to the stack of pages in his hands. The comment should have irritated him, but instead, it struck with uncomfortable accuracy. He had, in fact, been doing exactly that. The mystery itself had become so intricate that he’d begun twisting every scene to preserve one final revelation. Each revision buried the emotional heart of the story beneath another layer of cleverness. He knew it wasn’t working but hadn’t wanted to admit it. “…You’re infuriating,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“You say these things as though they’re obvious.”

“They usually are.”

“They’re obvious to you.”

Ranpo considered that for a moment before nodding. “I guess.” There wasn’t an ounce of arrogance in the response, only honesty. It reminded Poe, strangely enough, of why he’d declared Ranpo his rival all those years ago. Other people saw impossible brilliance and assumed it must be fueled by ego. They imagined that someone capable of solving any mystery would surely delight in proving everyone else wrong. Ranpo rarely seemed interested in that, to him, answers were simply answers and if he reached them first, it was because they were there to be found. Whether anyone else could follow his reasoning afterward was almost an afterthought.

Poe often wondered if that was what made him so difficult to understand. His genius wasn’t performative, it was instinctive, almost as natural as breathing. “So,” Poe said at last, setting Karl carefully on the back of a chair, “you mentioned a case.”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve come all this way because you require my assistance.”

“Yep.”

Poe folded his arms, studying him carefully. “I confess… I find that somewhat surprising.”

“Why?”

“You rarely ask for help.”

“I’m not asking for help, I’m telling you to come with me.”

A laugh escaped Poe before he could stop it, small and soft, almost disbelieving.

“There it is,” Ranpo said.

“What?”

“You laughed.”

“I did.”

“You were too serious.”

“I was attempting to understand why the greatest detective in the world appeared on my doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm.”

“And?”

“I still don’t understand.”

Ranpo looked almost disappointed. “I thought I explained it.”

“You told me to come with you.”

“Exactly.”

“That isn’t an explanation.”

“It is if you’re coming.”

Poe pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. “I fear our definitions differ considerably.”

“They probably do.” Ranpo reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded envelope. Unlike the aged letters resting back at the Agency, this one was crisp and dry, protected from the rain despite the state of the detective’s clothing. He held it out without ceremony. “The client left copies.”

Poe accepted it carefully and inside were several photographs. The first depicted an enormous manor perched atop a low hill surrounded by dense woodland. Even in daylight the building seemed reluctant to welcome the camera. Ivy climbed its stone walls unchecked, swallowing entire sections of the façade until windows peered through the foliage like watchful eyes. Time had weathered the estate without softening it. Instead, every cracked stone and sagging balcony lent it an austere, almost solemn dignity. The second photograph showed the entrance hall. The ceiling rose three stories overhead, crossed by dark wooden beams. Twin staircases curved upward before disappearing into shadow, while countless portraits lined the walls in heavy gilded frames. Dust lay thick across the marble floor despite the image being only a few weeks old. The final photograph was different. It depicted a family gathered on the front steps, most wore reserved smiles while one figure near the center had been circled in red ink. “Missing person?” Poe asked.

Ranpo simply nodded. Poe studied the circled face for several moments. The young man couldn’t have been much older than himself, perhaps with the same thoughtful expression one often saw in people who preferred libraries to parties. There was nothing immediately remarkable about him, still, something about the image felt… peculiar. He frowned. “The photographer.”

“Hm?”

“They’re standing too far away.” Ranpo looked at the picture again. “They had room to move closer.”

“Exactly.”

Poe tapped the edge of the photograph. “The estate occupies nearly the entire background, yet whoever took this picture chose to frame the building rather than the family.”

“You think that’s important?”

“I don’t know.” He looked back toward the image. “But it feels intentional.”

For the first time since arriving, Ranpo’s smile widened just a fraction. “Good.”

Poe glanced up. “…Good?”

“I wanted to know if you’d notice.” Realization dawned. This hadn’t been just an invitation, it had been a test. Not of intelligence, but of perspective. Ranpo had already extracted every factual clue from the photographs long before arriving. What interested him now wasn’t what Poe could observe—it was what Poe chose to question. The distinction, though subtle, mattered. Maybe that was why Ranpo had chosen him, not because he needed another detective, but because this particular mystery demanded someone who understood stories just as well as evidence.

For several long moments, neither of them spoke.

The rain continued its patient rhythm against the windows, a constant murmur that softened the sounds of the city beyond the townhouse. Somewhere deeper in the house, the old radiator gave a tired groan before settling once more into silence. It was such an ordinary afternoon that the conversation felt strangely out of place, as though the simple act of Ranpo standing in Poe’s living room had nudged the world ever so slightly off its axis.

Poe remained where he stood, one hand still resting against the back of the chair Karl had abandoned moments earlier. His thoughts had become tangled somewhere between surprise and disbelief. Ranpo had asked—no, not asked. Ranpo had simply arrived with the expectation that Poe would accompany him.

It should not have mattered as much as it did, and yet… “You’re serious.”

Ranpo looked up from a framed photograph he had been studying. “When am I not?”

Poe opened his mouth before quietly conceding the point. “…Frequently. You once insisted an entire afternoon meeting could be replaced with a coin toss.”

“It worked.”

“Kunikida disagreed rather passionately.”

“Kunikida disagrees passionately with lots of things.”

“…That is true.”

Ranpo smiled with unmistakable satisfaction, as though he had just won an argument that had barely begun. Poe watched him wander idly around the room, his gaze drifting over bookshelves, framed sketches, piles of loose manuscripts, and half-finished cups of tea. There was something oddly comforting about it. He never seemed interested in appearances, if he observed it was because observation came as naturally to him as breathing, not because he wished to pry. Many people found that unsettling, Poe however, found himself strangely at ease with it. Maybe because he had long ago accepted that there was very little about him Ranpo couldn’t determine within the first few minutes of entering a room. “So,” Poe began carefully, “what exactly is this investigation?”

Ranpo leaned against one of the shelves. “A missing person.”

“I gathered as much.”

“They disappeared in an old manor.”

“So you said.”

“They’re still sending letters.”

Poe nodded. “The impossible letters, and the family believes…”

“They don’t know what to believe.” That answer caught Poe’s attention. Ranpo’s expression, while still relaxed, had become noticeably more thoughtful. “They’ve gone through every explanation normal people usually reach first. Forgery but that’s ruled out. Kidnapping, but there’s no ransom. An Ability, but they already hired someone to check.”

Poe folded his arms. “And what do you think?”

Ranpo’s eyes wandered toward the rain-speckled window. “I think…” He paused. “…there are too many things that don’t fit.”

“Such as?”

“The letters.” Poe waited. Ranpo rarely explained his thought process willingly, but when he did, it usually meant he respected the person enough to believe they would follow. “The handwriting matches.” Poe nodded. “The dates don’t. The paper is old, but the wax is new. The ink…” Ranpo smiled faintly. “…is the part I haven’t figured out.”

Poe frowned. “You examined it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“It behaves strangely.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Ranpo searched briefly for the right words. “…the ink looks old, but it hasn’t aged.”

Poe blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” Those three words settled heavily between them. Poe had known Ranpo for a while, long enough to recognize the subtle differences between uncertainty, curiosity, and genuine confusion. This… This was none of those. It was fascination, like a mathematician stumbling across an equation that seemed to contradict itself. Not impossible, just simply incomplete. Ranpo continued before Poe could respond. “The client hired us because everyone else stopped asking questions.”

“They became frightened?”

“They became satisfied.”

Poe tilted his head. “Satisfied?”

“They decided the house was haunted and they accepted that answer.” Ranpo looked almost disappointed by the notion. “I don’t like answers that make people stop thinking.”

Poe found himself smiling despite himself. “No… You don’t.”

“Ghosts are boring.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“They’re lazy.”

Poe laughed softly. “I suspect many horror writers would disagree.”

“They’re allowed to be wrong.”

“How generous of you.”

“They’re welcome.” Karl, having grown tired of observing the conversation from atop the sofa, padded across the cushions before leaping gracefully onto Ranpo’s shoulder once again. The detective accepted the intrusion without so much as glancing up from the photographs spread across the nearby table.

Poe watched Karl curl comfortably around Ranpo’s neck with an ease usually reserved for people he trusted completely. “He’s become rather fond of you.”

“I know.”

“He generally dislikes strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger.”

“No.” Poe’s voice softened almost imperceptibly. “I suppose you aren’t.” The realization lingered longer than expected. When had that happened? Certainly not years ago when his life had revolved around proving himself. But somewhere in the past year, between impossible mysteries, literary debates, and unexpected reunions, Ranpo had simply… remained. Like a recurring character who quietly became indispensable to the story. The thought embarrassed him enough that he quickly redirected his attention. “You still haven’t told me why you chose me.”

Ranpo looked genuinely puzzled. “I did.”

“You said you wanted a mystery writer, I find it difficult to believe that’s your only reason.”

“It isn’t.” Poe waited as Ranpo was silent for several moments, seemingly giving the matter far more consideration than expected. Finally, he spoke. “This case is strange. I can solve crimes, but mysteries aren’t always crimes.” Poe’s expression became more thoughtful and he continued. “When people panic… They stop making sense. They leave things out, lie without meaning to, remember things in the wrong order, and tell stories.” Those final words hung quietly between them. Ranpo tapped one finger against the edge of the nearest photograph. “I don’t need someone who’s good at evidence, I need someone who’s good at narratives.”

Poe slowly lowered his gaze. That… made an unexpected amount of sense. Years of writing mystery novels had taught him that evidence alone rarely revealed the truth. Objects could be stagedm, timelines manipulated, and witnesses mistaken. But stories… Stories always betrayed the people telling them. Not because they intended to deceive, but because everyone arranged memories differently. Every narrator emphasized different details and every witness unconsciously revealed what mattered most to them. Poe had spent years studying exactly that, not simply how crimes occurred, but how people transformed those crimes into stories.

Ranpo watched him with quiet satisfaction. “You figured it out.”

“I think I did.”

“You were wondering why I didn’t bring Atsushi or Kunikida.” Poe nodded. “They’re both good detectives, but neither of them reads people the way you do.” Poe was taken aback. It wasn’t the compliment itself, Ranpo rarely delivered praise in conventional terms, he simply stated facts as he perceived them. Which somehow made those moments feel far more sincere.

“You… think I’m useful.”

Ranpo blinked. “Obviously.” The answer came so quickly that it almost sounded ridiculous. “As a writer, as Poe, and as both.” He tilted his head. “You’re acting like this is surprising.”

“It is.”

“Why?”

Poe hesitated. He searched for a response that didn’t sound foolish and found none. “I’ve always…” He stopped and Ranpo waited without interruption. “I’ve always felt as though I was trying to catch up to you.” The confession escaped more quietly than intended. “I called you my rival because…” A faint, self-conscious smile crossed his face. “…because calling you my idol would have been rather humiliating.”

Silence and Ranpo stared. Then, to Poe’s complete astonishment, he laughed. Not loudly or mockingly, just simply with genuine amusement. “I know.”

Poe felt his face warm immediately. “…You knew?”

“You make it really obvious.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“You absolutely do.” Ranpo grinned. “You always start using bigger words whenever you’re trying to impress me.”

“…I hate that you’ve noticed that.”

“I notice everything.”

“I am painfully aware.” Karl chose that exact moment to climb from Ranpo’s shoulder back into Poe’s waiting arms, as if sensing his owner’s mounting embarrassment. He sighed dramatically, burying his face for the briefest moment against the raccoon’s soft fur. “I believe,” he murmured, “that today may prove considerably more exhausting than anticipated.”

Ranpo’s grin only widened. “We haven’t even left yet.” Outside, thunder rolled once more across the gray Yokohama sky. Neither of them noticed how the room had grown strangely dim despite the hour, nor did they notice that, for just an instant, one of the photographs lying forgotten on the table seemed to catch the light differently than before. The manor’s tallest window, obscured moments earlier by rain and distance, now reflected a pale silhouette standing behind the glass, watching and waiting. Then, as another flash of lightning illuminated the room, the figure was gone.

The rain had eased into a fine mist by the time they reached the main road. What had been a downpour only half an hour earlier now lingered as a veil over the city, turning distant buildings into pale silhouettes and coating every stone path and storefront with a muted sheen. Yokohama breathed differently after the rain. The streets were no less busy, but the noise softened beneath the steady drip of water from awnings and telephone wires. Shopkeepers swept puddles from their entrances while pedestrians stepped carefully around overflowing gutters, umbrellas folded beneath their arms now that the storm had mostly passed.

Ranpo walked several paces ahead without appearing to have any destination in mind, but Poe knew better. He had observed this enough times over the years to recognize the pattern. Ranpo never seemed to navigate the city through conscious thought. He wandered with an almost lazy confidence, taking turns without hesitation, crossing intersections just as traffic lights changed, weaving effortlessly through crowds that seemed to part around him before they even realized he was there. It reminded Poe of watching water find its course downhill, natural and effortless, as if there had never been another possible route. Poe adjusted the strap of Karl’s satchel over his shoulder and quickened his pace until he walked beside him. “You realize,” he began, “you still haven’t told me the client’s name.”

Ranpo glanced sideways. “Hm?”

“The family.”

“Oh.” He looked forward again. “Doesn’t matter.”

“…I rather think it does.”

“It won’t.”

“You’ve already decided that without meeting them?”

“I already met one.”

Poe sighed quietly. “I mean the family as a whole.”

“They’re all part of the same problem.”

“…That’s an oddly broad conclusion.”

“It’s accurate.”

Poe resisted the urge to press further. One thing he had learned early in their acquaintance was that Ranpo disliked explaining deductions before he believed someone possessed enough information to understand them. It was never meant to be insulting. In fact, it almost seemed the opposite, Ranpo genuinely expected other people to arrive at the answer eventually. He simply forgot that most minds did not move at the pace his own did. Karl poked his head from the satchel and chirped inquisitively. Ranpo reached into his pocket without even looking and a wrapped caramel appeared between his fingers.

Poe raised an eyebrow. “You carry quite an impressive assortment of sweets.”

“I like sweets.”

“I had noticed.”

“I plan ahead.”

“I suppose that extends to raccoon bribery as well.”

“It isn’t bribery.”

“What would you call it?”

Ranpo considered the question with complete seriousness. “…Diplomacy.”

Poe laughed, shaking his head. “I see.”

“Karl understands.” Karl accepted the caramel with what Poe felt was entirely too much enthusiasm.

“…You are both impossible.”

For a while they walked without speaking. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Poe had once believed silence existed merely to be filled, whether by conversation, observations, or the narration that constantly occupied his own mind while writing. Yet somewhere over the years he had discovered that Ranpo possessed a peculiar talent for making quiet feel complete. He never seemed compelled to speak simply because no one else was, instead, he watched. Children splashed through shallow puddles outside a bakery while their mother apologized to the owner. A delivery driver struggled to balance three wooden crates while answering a telephone balanced awkwardly between his shoulder and ear. An elderly couple stood beneath the awning of a flower shop debating which bouquet to purchase.

Ranpo’s gaze lingered on each scene only briefly before moving on. Poe found himself wondering—not for the first time—what the world looked like through those eyes. Did every passerby become another puzzle waiting to be solved? Did every wrinkle in someone’s coat, every scuff on their shoes, every hurried glance over a shoulder announce a story before a single word had been spoken? It sounded exhausting, and yet… Ranpo had never appeared burdened by it. Almost as if observation had stopped being something he actively performed and had instead become how he experienced the world. “You’ve been staring.”

Poe blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been looking at me.”

“…Have I?”

“Mhm.”

“I was thinking.” Poe looked away with mild embarrassment. “I suppose I should stop trying to hide that.”

“You weren’t hiding it.”

“No?”

“You always get the same expression.”

“…Which expression?”

Ranpo gestured vaguely toward his own face. “The one where your eyebrows do that.”

“My… eyebrows?”

“They get all…” He attempted to imitate the look. “…serious.”

Poe couldn’t help smiling. “I fear your impression lacks precision.”

“It gets the point across.”

“It certainly communicates… something.”

“What were you thinking about?” The question surprised him. Ranpo rarely asked what occupied another person’s thoughts unless he already knew the answer.

Poe considered giving one of his usual deflections before deciding against it. “You.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve often wondered…” He searched for the right phrasing. “…whether constantly noticing everything ever becomes tiring.”

Ranpo didn’t answer immediately, instead, he looked upward toward the gray sky where the clouds had begun to thin. “Hm.” Another thoughtful hum. Finally— “I don’t notice everything.”

Poe looked at him. “No?”

“I miss stuff all the time.”

“You do? What kinds of things?”

Ranpo shrugged. “Depends.”

“Such as?”

“…When people change their haircut.”

Poe blinked. “You don’t notice?”

“Usually not.”

“I confess I find that difficult to believe. You observe microscopic details in handwriting but fail to notice hair?”

“It isn’t important.”

“It generally is to the person who changed it.”

“I guess.”

The answer was so genuinely earnest that Poe found himself laughing again. “And here I had nearly convinced myself your powers of observation bordered on omniscience.”

“They don’t.” Ranpo spoke with such certainty that the joke dissolved before it fully formed. “I notice things that matter.”

“…Matter to solving a mystery?”

“Everything else…” He shrugged again. “…kind of blends together.”

Poe let that settle, it was a surprisingly human admission. People often spoke of Ranpo as though he existed above ordinary limitations, as though his mind operated according to entirely different rules from everyone else’s. Yet moments like these reminded Poe that extraordinary strengths often came paired with equally ordinary blind spots. The realization felt strangely… comforting. Ahead, the familiar brick building housing the Armed Detective Agency gradually emerged through the lingering mist. Its windows glowed warmly against the overcast afternoon, and even from across the street faint voices drifted down from an open window on the upper floor. Kunikida, there was no mistaking that voice. “…I specifically organized them by date!” Then Atsushi answered with something too distant to make out.

Poe smiled faintly. “They appear lively.”

“They’re probably looking for us.”

“You’ve been gone less than an hour and they’ve managed to begin arguing already.”

“They’re probably arguing because I’m gone.”

Poe glanced sideways. “Is that confidence?”

“No.” Ranpo smiled. “It’s experience.” As they climbed the narrow staircase leading toward the Agency offices, the familiar sounds grew clearer. Paper shuffled, a chair scraped loudly across the wooden floor. Someone—almost certainly Dazai—laughed at something that prompted another exasperated sigh from Kunikida. The atmosphere carried a warmth that surprised Poe every time he visited. For all the unusual personalities gathered beneath one roof, there remained an undeniable sense of belonging within those walls. People interrupted one another, they argued and teased, yet beneath it all lingered a quiet trust that was difficult to manufacture. It was, Poe realized, the sort of place that slowly became home without anyone noticing exactly when it happened.

Ranpo reached the office door first and he rested one hand lightly against the handle before pausing. Poe nearly walked into him. “What is it?”

Instead of answering, Ranpo looked over one shoulder. “Ready?”

The question was so unexpected that Poe hesitated. “For the case?”

“Mhm.”

Poe looked at the worn wooden door, then at the stack of photographs tucked safely beneath his arm. Somewhere beyond that door waited maps, reports, the anxious client, and a mystery that had already begun to resist simple explanations. He drew a slow breath. “I believe so.”

Ranpo smiled—a small, satisfied smile that suggested it had been the answer he expected all along. “Good.” He pushed open the door and the conversations inside stopped almost immediately. 

Every pair of eyes turned toward the entrance, Kenji was the first to brighten. “Poe!”

Kunikida had been the only one that remained standing over the conference table, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, surrounded by an intimidating collection of folders, maps, notebooks, and what appeared to be enough camping equipment for a week-long expedition. He looked from Ranpo to Poe, then adjusted his glasses with the unmistakable air of a man preparing to impose order upon chaos. “Excellent,” he said. “You’re both here.”

Ranpo glanced at the mountain of supplies. “…Why is there a shovel?”

Kunikida stared at him. “Because if you insist on investigating an abandoned estate in the middle of nowhere, someone needs to prepare for every possibility.”

Ranpo looked thoughtfully at the shovel. “Can I leave it behind?”

“No.”

“I don’t want to carry a shovel.” Ranpo’s eyes immediately drifted toward Poe.

Poe sighed with theatrical resignation. “I suspected that might be the case.”

Karl poked his head from the satchel as if to silently agree. The shovel, to Ranpo’s visible disappointment, remained on the table. He regarded it with the same expression one might reserve for an unexpected tax or an especially inconvenient rainstorm. “I still think,” he said after a long moment of consideration, “that we’re being a little dramatic.”

Kunikida looked up from his notebook. “A little dramatic?” He raised an eyebrow. You’re investigating an isolated estate where an individual has disappeared, multiple investigators have refused to return, and our client believes there is a possibility—however unlikely—that an unknown Ability is involved.”

“I know. That’s what makes the shovel dramatic.”

Atsushi, who had been attempting with limited success to fold several heavy wool blankets back into their original compact shape, glanced uncertainly between them. “…I don’t actually think the shovel is the dramatic part.”

“It absolutely is,” Ranpo replied.

“The rope?” Atsushi offered.

“Reasonable.”

“The first-aid kit?”

“Very reasonable.”

“The emergency lanterns?”

“Makes sense.”

“The portable radio?”

“Fine.”

“The shovel?”

Ranpo shook his head. “That’s where he lost me.”

Kunikida closed his notebook with a measured breath. “The shovel is staying.”

Ranpo sighed with theatrical resignation. “I tried.”

“You barely objected.”

“I objected internally first, it was very passionate.”

Yosano laughed softly from her chair near the window. “I almost feel sorry for you, Kunikida.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I don’t.” She took another sip of tea before turning her attention toward Poe, who had remained quietly near the doorway, taking in the familiar rhythm of the Agency with the detached curiosity of someone accustomed to observing rather than participating. It struck him, not for the first time, how different this office felt from the headquarters of the Guild. The Guild had always impressed through scale. Everything about it had been designed to communicate wealth, influence, and power. Conversations were often strategic, every meeting carrying the subtle weight of politics and expectation. The Agency… The Agency felt lived in. Books leaned haphazardly against filing cabinets, a chipped coffee mug sat forgotten atop a stack of reports, and someone—almost certainly Ranpo—had left brightly colored candy wrappers scattered across the edge of the conference table despite Kunikida’s obvious efforts to keep the workspace immaculate. Nothing matched, nothing looked particularly expensive, yet the room possessed an unmistakable warmth. It felt less like an office than a home that happened to solve mysteries. “You’ve been here before,” Yosano observed, noticing the direction of his gaze, “but I don’t think you’ve ever stayed very long.”

Poe inclined his head politely. “Usually only long enough to discuss a manuscript or an investigation.”

“You’ll be here a while today.”

“So it would seem.”

Atsushi finally managed to wrestle the last blanket into submission before offering Poe a sheepish smile. “I don’t think we’ve ever actually had the chance to properly talk.”

Poe returned the smile, though his remained characteristically reserved. “Our meetings have admittedly been… brief.”

“I’ve always wanted to ask you something, how do you write mysteries that complicated?”

Ranpo looked up immediately. “Oh, don’t encourage him.”

Poe blinked. “…Encourage me?”

“He’ll start explaining.”

“I fail to see the issue.”

“It’ll take forever.”

Poe straightened slightly. “I believe literature deserves careful discussion.”

“I believe snacks deserve careful discussion.”

“Those are entirely different subjects.”

“They’re equally important.”

“They most certainly are not.” Karl poked his head from the satchel at the sound of Ranpo rustling another packet of candy. Poe sighed. “…You are proving to be an exceptionally poor influence.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Karl now expects sweets every time he sees you.”

“That’s because he has excellent instincts.”

Karl chirped in enthusiastic agreement. Traitor, Poe thought with fond exasperation. Across the room, Kunikida had spread a detailed topographical map over nearly the entire conference table. Several additional documents were arranged around it with almost military precision, each weighted carefully beneath a fountain pen or paperweight so the lingering breeze from the open window wouldn’t disturb them. “Everyone.” His voice immediately drew the room’s attention. “If we’re finished debating excavation equipment…” Kunikida adjusted his glasses before pointing toward the map. “The estate is located approximately two hours outside Yokohama by car. After that, the road becomes too narrow for larger vehicles.” He traced a finger along a winding line disappearing into densely shaded woodland. “The final stretch will need to be covered on foot.”

Poe stepped closer, studying the terrain. The manor sat alone atop a low rise surrounded almost entirely by forest. A single road connected it to the nearest village, though “road” felt generous. It appeared little more than a narrow ribbon weaving between densely packed trees. “No neighboring properties?” he asked.

“None within several kilometers.The estate originally encompassed much of the surrounding land,” Kunikida explained. “Over the years portions were sold, but the woodland immediately surrounding the manor remains privately owned.”

Ranpo, who had seemed only half interested until now, suddenly spoke. “How many people live in the village?”

Kunikida glanced toward another sheet. “Current census…” He scanned briefly. “…One hundred and twelve.”

Ranpo frowned. “Hm.”

“What?”

“They’re lying.” Silence settled over the room.

Kunikida looked up. “The census?”

“No.” Ranpo tapped lightly against the edge of the map. “Whoever drew this.” Poe followed his gaze. “The road, it leads directly to the estate, but…” He traced the route with one finger. “…It doesn’t.”

Poe leaned closer. At first glance, nothing appeared unusual, the road curved naturally with the landscape before terminating at the front entrance. Perfectly ordinary. Then—His eyes narrowed. “…The elevation.”

Ranpo smiled. “There it is.”

Poe looked toward Kunikida. “May I?” Receiving a nod, he reached for a pencil lying nearby and lightly sketched several contour lines over the map. “The hill rises here,” he said quietly. “And the road…” His pencil paused. “…shouldn’t.”

Atsushi frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Poe looked up. “If these elevation measurements are accurate, the road climbs the western slope.” He shifted the pencil several centimeters. “But the manor is positioned on the eastern ridge.”

Atsushi blinked. “…So?”

“So the road approaches from the wrong direction.” 

The room grew quiet and Kunikida leaned forward. “…That’s impossible.”

“Not impossible.” Poe’s expression remained thoughtful. “Just inconsistent.”

 Ranpo rested his chin in one hand.“I noticed when the client first unfolded the map.”

“You didn’t mention it.”

“I wanted to see who else would.”

Poe glanced sideways. “You’ve been testing me all afternoon.”

“You’re doing pretty well.” The compliment arrived so casually that it took Poe a heartbeat to recognize it for what it was. Not exaggerated praise or empty encouragement, simply an acknowledgment. Coming from Ranpo, it carried unexpected weight.

But before he could respond, Kunikida reached for another folder. “I requested updated satellite photographs after the client left.” He withdrew several glossy images and spread them across the table. “If the survey map contains an error, these should—” His voice stopped. The photographs showed the estate exactly as expected. The manor, the surrounding woodland, the narrow road. Yet… The road differed slightly in every image. In one, it curved around the southern edge of the hill. In another, it approached from the west. In a third, it seemed to vanish entirely beneath the trees before reappearing near the entrance. At first the differences were subtle, so subtle that most people might have dismissed them as variations in camera angle. But viewed side by side they couldn’t all be correct.

Atsushi looked from one photograph to another. “…Were these taken years apart?”

Kunikida shook his head slowly. “All in the same day.” The words settled heavily over the room.

Poe felt an almost imperceptible tightening in his chest. He reached for the nearest photograph, comparing the position of the shadows, the angle of the trees, the weather conditions. Everything else remained consistent, only the road had changed. “…Curious,” he murmured.

“No,” Ranpo replied quietly. Everyone looked at him. For the first time since Poe had arrived, the easy playfulness had faded almost completely from Ranpo’s expression. He was still calm, still composed, but his eyes remained fixed on the photographs with unusual intensity. “It’s worse than curious.” His voice had grown softer, more thoughtful. “The road isn’t changing.”

Poe slowly lowered the photograph. “…Then what is?”

Ranpo’s gaze lifted to meet his. “The manor is.” The room fell completely silent. Even Karl, who had spent the better part of the meeting searching hopefully for additional candy, had gone still inside Poe’s satchel. No one laughed or dismissed the statement as another one of Ranpo’s cryptic remarks, because the detective wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t trying to be mysterious, if anything he sounded concerned. Only faintly, only enough that someone who knew him well would notice.

But Poe noticed, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, that unsettled him far more than the photographs ever could. No one spoke for several seconds. The silence did not feel empty so much as suspended, as though the room itself had become reluctant to disturb whatever thread of thought Ranpo was following. Outside, a faint breeze stirred the leaves of the trees beyond the open window, carrying with it the lingering scent of rain-soaked pavement. Somewhere farther down the street, a bicycle bell rang twice before fading beneath the distant rumble of traffic. Ordinary sounds, comfortingly ordinary. Yet they seemed strangely out of place beside the collection of photographs spread across the conference table.

Kunikida was the first to recover. He removed his glasses, cleaned them with a folded handkerchief, and examined the images again with the deliberate care of someone who distrusted first impressions—even his own. “Let’s assume,” he began, his voice measured, “that the discrepancy isn’t the result of a printing error.”

“It isn’t,” Ranpo replied.

“I know that’s your conclusion.”

“It is.”

Kunikida sighed. “For the sake of discussion, allow me to finish.” Ranpo made a small circling gesture with one hand, granting permission. “If the road truly appears differently depending on when the photographs were taken, there are still several mundane explanations available. Seasonal maintenance, temporary closures, construction—”

“The trees don’t move.” Kunikida stopped and Ranpo reached across the table, tapping lightly against one corner of the first photograph. “The oak.” Everyone leaned closer. Near the bend in the road stood a massive oak tree whose broad canopy cast a dark shadow over the surrounding brush, Ranpo moved to the second photograph. “The same tree.” Then the third. “And again.” 

Poe studied the images in silence. At first glance, the oak appeared identical in every photograph. Then he noticed the roots. “They’re exposed.”

Ranpo nodded once. “They’ve been exposed for years.”

Poe’s finger hovered above the first image. “The road passes to the left.” He moved to the second. “Now it passes to the right.” The third. “And here…” He frowned. “…the road runs directly over them.”

Atsushi blinked. “Wouldn’t that damage the roots?”

“It would and the tree would probably die eventually. But…” His voice grew quieter. “…it’s perfectly healthy.” No one offered another explanation because there wasn’t one, not yet. Poe found himself reaching for the magnifying glass lying near Kunikida’s notes. Holding it above each photograph in turn, he examined the grain of the paper, the subtle variations in light, the texture of the leaves. He had spent years scrutinizing tiny inconsistencies in manuscripts and illustrations, searching for clues hidden where others rarely thought to look. The photographs resisted him. There were no signs of manipulation, no mismatched shadows and no awkward seams suggesting the images had been altered. If someone had fabricated them, they had done so with extraordinary precision or… they hadn’t been fabricated at all. He lowered the magnifying glass. “I don’t like this.”

Ranpo looked at him. “I know.”

“It feels…” Poe searched for the right word. “…as though the photographs are all truthful.”

“They are.”

“But they contradict each other.”

“They do.” Another pause. Ranpo’s expression remained remarkably calm, though Poe noticed the detective’s fingers had stopped reaching automatically for the packet of candies resting beside him. A small detail. One most people would never have noticed, but Poe had. Ranpo always ate when he thought. Always. The untouched sweets therefore meant something. Not fear, Ranpo didn’t strike him as someone who frightened easily. No… Concentration. The sort so complete that even long-established habits temporarily disappeared beneath it.

Yosano folded her arms. “You’ve seen something.”

Ranpo hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

“Ranpo.”

“I haven’t figured it out yet.” He said it without frustration or embarrassment, merely acknowledging a fact. Poe watched him carefully. For years he had imagined that solving mysteries came effortlessly to Ranpo, that answers simply appeared the moment a puzzle presented itself. Standing here now, however, he saw something different. Not effortless certainty, but process and questions, possibilities quietly arranged and rearranged behind observant eyes. The realization was strangely reassuring. Brilliance, he thought, didn’t eliminate uncertainty. It just gave someone better tools with which to navigate it.

Kunikida gathered the photographs into a neat stack before sliding another folder toward the center of the table. “There’s something else.” Ranpo looked up. “The local police.”

“What about them?”

“They responded to the original missing persons report. They searched the estate and found nothing.”

“Obviously.”

“But…” Kunikida opened the folder. “They documented something unusual.” Several photocopied statements emerged, each bearing official stamps and handwritten signatures. “The officers were interviewed separately.”

Poe accepted the first page while Atsushi took another. The statements were remarkably similar. No mention of apparitions or claims of impossible phenomena. Instead… Simple inconsistencies. One officer insisted the front entrance had faced east while another remembered approaching from the south. A third confidently described climbing a broad staircase that none of the others recalled seeing. None of them considered these details important because each assumed the others had simply misremembered. Poe slowly lowered the papers. “They all searched the same building.” Kunikida nodded. “On the same afternoon and each remembers entering it differently.”

“Exactly.”

Atsushi frowned. “Memory isn’t perfect.”

“No,” Poe agreed quietly. “It isn’t.” He looked back at the statements. “But this isn’t ordinary forgetfulness.” He pointed to one paragraph. “They all describe the wallpaper in the entrance hall.” Another. “They all remember the chandelier.” Another. “The portraits.” His finger stopped. “They remember almost everything identically.” Except… “The path they took.”

Ranpo smiled faintly. “There it is.”

Poe looked across the table. “They disagree about movement, not destination. It’s as though…” He hesitated. “…the house stayed the same, but getting there didn’t.” The words left his mouth almost experimentally. He expected Ranpo to dismiss them. Instead… The detective’s smile widened, not because Poe had solved the mystery, but because he had asked the right question.

“I think,” Ranpo said quietly, “that’s exactly what we need to figure out.”

The room fell silent once more. Atsushi shifted uneasily. “I don’t mean to interrupt…” Everyone looked toward him. “…but…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Does anyone else think it’s strange that nobody who searched the estate actually… disappeared?”

Poe blinked. That… Was an excellent point. The client had hired private investigators after the police. Those investigators had returned, shaken certainly and unwilling to explain themselves, but alive. The police had also come back. Only one person remained missing. The cousin. Ranpo turned toward Atsushi with an expression of mild approval. “Good.”

Atsushi looked surprised. “…Good?”

“I was wondering when somebody would ask that.”

“You already thought about it.”

“Mhm.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.” The admission came so readily that it caught everyone off guard. “I don’t know why the cousin stayed or why everyone else left or the letters keep arriving.” His gaze drifted toward the rain-speckled windows. “And I don’t know…” For the first time that afternoon, his voice became almost absentminded. “…why I feel like the client told us the truth without actually telling us everything.”

Poe frowned. “You believe they omitted something intentionally?”

“No.”

“Then…”

“I don’t think they know.” Silence settled once more. Not an uncomfortable silence, a more thoughtful one. Each person seemed to arrive independently at the same unsettling conclusion. Whatever had happened at the manor… The client was not hiding the answer, they were searching for it too.

Kunikida finally closed the last folder and straightened the remaining papers into careful stacks. “Then we proceed as planned.” His tone carried the calm finality of a decision already made. “We leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

Ranpo looked mildly disappointed. “Tomorrow?”

“It’s nearly evening.”

“We could still make it.”

“And arrive after dark.”

“…Yes.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Ranpo sighed dramatically. “The mystery isn’t going anywhere, so why wait?”

“Because,” Kunikida replied, fixing him with a level stare, “if there truly is something unusual about that estate, I would strongly prefer our detectives to arrive well-rested, properly equipped, and able to see where they’re walking.”

Ranpo looked unconvinced. Poe, however, found himself quietly agreeing. The photographs had left him with a peculiar sense of anticipation he could not entirely explain. Not excitement or dread, but something suspended between the two. Like standing before the first page of a mystery whose ending had already begun whispering to itself, just beyond the edge of comprehension. He glanced once more toward the stack of photographs and for the briefest instant, he thought the manor looked different again. Not changed, watching. The impression vanished almost immediately. When he looked again, it was only a weathered stone house beneath an overcast sky. Still… He couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that, somewhere far beyond the city and the rain, the investigation had already begun long before either of them agreed to take the case.

The meeting dissolved gradually rather than ending all at once.

Kunikida began gathering the documents into carefully labeled folders with the quiet efficiency of long practice, sliding maps into protective sleeves and making meticulous notes in the margins of a notebook that already seemed far too full. Atsushi volunteered to help almost immediately, though his attempts at organization never quite matched Kunikida’s exacting standards. Every few minutes another page would be shifted a fraction of an inch or a folder rotated until it aligned perfectly with the edge of the table. Yosano watched the ritual with open amusement. “You know,” she observed, balancing her teacup in one hand, “I think you’ve rearranged those same papers three times.”

“I’ve improved the arrangement three times,” Kunikida corrected without looking up. “There is a difference.”

“I’m sure there is.”

Dazai leaned over one of the maps before looking toward Poe. “So you’re really going?”

Poe looked up from the family photograph he had unconsciously picked up again. “It would appear so.”

“Are you nervous?”

He considered the question honestly. “…Curious.”

“Only curious?”

A faint smile touched his face. “I suspect I shall become nervous once curiosity has had sufficient time to think.” That earned a quiet laugh from several people around the room. Ranpo, meanwhile, had wandered away from the conference table entirely. No one had seen him leave. One moment he had been studying the police reports; the next he had somehow migrated to the wide windows overlooking the street below, where he stood with his hands in his pockets, watching pedestrians drift between puddles left by the afternoon rain. He hadn’t asked for more candy. Poe noticed again. It was a tiny thing, ridiculously tiny. Yet he had known Ranpo long enough that the absence of such an ordinary habit carried unexpected significance. His attention was elsewhere, entirely elsewhere. 

Poe excused himself from the others with a quiet nod and crossed the room and for a while he simply stood beside him, neither spoke. The city stretched below in muted colors, the last of the rainwater catching the pale afternoon light. Children hopped over puddles while office workers hurried toward the station, jackets draped over their arms now that the weather had begun to clear. Somewhere in the distance, the harbor cranes stood motionless against the horizon like enormous skeletal silhouettes. “You’ve been unusually quiet,” Poe said at last.

Ranpo hummed softly. “So have you.”

“I suppose I have.” Another silence settled between them. Poe found he didn’t mind it. In fact, there was something unexpectedly peaceful about standing beside someone who never seemed to demand conversation simply to fill empty space.

After another minute, Ranpo spoke without taking his eyes from the street. “You’re thinking about the photographs.”

“Yes.”

“The road?”

“Among other things.”

“What else?”

Poe rested one hand lightly against the windowsill. “The client.”

Ranpo finally glanced toward him. “What about them?”

“They’re grieving and frightened, but…” He searched for the thought that had lingered in the back of his mind ever since the meeting began. “…they never once asked you to explain what you thought had happened.”

Ranpo’s expression brightened just enough for Poe to recognize it. The observation had landed somewhere important. “They didn’t.”

“Most people would. If someone I cared about vanished under impossible circumstances…” Poe looked out at the rain-darkened streets again. “…I would ask every investigator the same question. ‘What do you think happened?’”

“Exactly.” Poe turned back toward Ranpo. “But they never did.” Ranpo smiled faintly. “They only asked us to bring them home.” The words hung quietly between them.

Poe felt a subtle unease settle in his chest. “…You think they don’t actually expect us to solve the mystery.”

“No.” Ranpo shook his head. “I think…” He paused. “…they’ve already accepted they may never understand it.” The distinction was small, painfully small, yet it changed everything. Hope and understanding were not the same thing. Maybe the client had already surrendered one in order to preserve the other. 

Poe was still considering that thought when Karl climbed carefully out of the satchel and onto the broad windowsill between them. The raccoon sniffed curiously at the glass before placing both front paws against it. Ranpo reached over automatically to scratch behind one rounded ear and Karl chirred contentedly. “You spoil him,” Poe murmured.

“He deserves it.”

“He has become entirely convinced you exist for the sole purpose of providing snacks.”

“He might be right.”

“I assure you, he is not.”

Karl looked between them before nudging insistently at Ranpo’s sleeve. Ranpo sighed with exaggerated resignation. “I knew this was coming.”

“You brought this upon yourself.”

“I did.” He produced another wrapped sweet from his coat pocket.

Poe stared. “…How many of those do you carry?”

Ranpo looked mildly puzzled by the question. “I’ve never counted.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“I’m beginning to suspect there’s enough sugar in your pockets to sustain a small village.”

“Only for a few days.”

Poe laughed, the sound quieter than the others but no less genuine. It surprised him, not because Ranpo was being particularly funny, but because laughter came so easily around him. For someone whose reputation rested upon impossible deductions and unmatched intellect, Ranpo possessed an almost childlike ability to treat ordinary moments as though they deserved just as much attention as extraordinary ones. It was… refreshing, perhaps dangerously so. He had spent years telling himself that his admiration stemmed purely from professional respect, that his fascination with Ranpo’s mind was no different from a scholar studying an exceptional work of literature. Standing beside him now, watching him solemnly negotiate with a raccoon over the distribution of candy, that explanation suddenly felt inadequate. Comfort. That was the word he had been avoiding. Ranpo had become comfortable. The realization embarrassed him enough that he cleared his throat and deliberately changed the subject. “Do you truly believe we’ll leave tomorrow morning?”

Ranpo nodded once. “Kunikida won’t let us leave tonight.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I wanted to see the house.”

“So did I.”

Ranpo tilted his head. “You don’t like waiting.”

“I dislike unfinished stories.”

“This one’s barely started.”

“Precisely.”

Ranpo smiled. “I knew there was a reason I picked you.”

Poe blinked. “You’ve said that several times, but you still haven’t told me the whole reason.”

“I did.”

“I suspect you simplified it.”

Ranpo considered him for several thoughtful seconds. The playful expression softened, not disappearing entirely, but settling into something quieter. “When I solve mysteries…” He spoke slowly, as though choosing each word with unusual care. “…people usually stop looking.”

Poe frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“They wait for answers.”

“I suppose that’s natural.”

“It is.” Ranpo rested one shoulder lightly against the wall beside the window. “You don’t.” Poe remained silent. “You keep asking questions.” Another pause. “Even after I answer.” “You don’t ask because you think I’m wrong. You ask because you want to understand.” The observation was delivered with complete sincerity. No teasing or smugness. Simply a statement of fact. 

Poe felt something tighten unexpectedly behind his ribs. It was not often that someone described him so plainly, less often still that they described him correctly. “I…” He hesitated. “I’ve always believed understanding matters more than simply being right.”

“I know.” Ranpo looked back out the window. “That’s why you’re coming.”

For a moment, the bustle of the Agency faded into the background. The shuffling papers, Kunikida’s quiet instructions, the murmur of conversation, all of it seemed to drift several steps farther away. Poe realized, with a curious mixture of pride and humility, that Ranpo had not chosen him because he expected agreement. He had chosen him because he expected questions and the thought lingered long after neither of them said another word.

Across the room, Kunikida finally closed the last folder with an audible snap. “Everything’s ready.” His voice carried easily through the office. “We’ll leave at seven sharp tomorrow morning.”

Ranpo groaned without turning around. “Seven is cruel.”

“It’s practical.”

“It barely counts as morning.”

“It has counted as morning for centuries.”

“I disagree with the centuries.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I make no promises.”

Atsushi laughed under his breath while helping stack the remaining supplies and Poe found himself smiling once again. The manor, with all its unanswered questions, still waited somewhere beyond the city. The photographs remained impossible, the missing cousin remained missing, and nothing about the investigation had become simpler. And yet, surrounded by the familiar bustle of the Agency, with Karl happily dozing against Ranpo’s arm and Kunikida already planning every practical detail of tomorrow’s departure, the mystery no longer felt like something they would face alone. For the first time since being introduced to the case, Poe found himself looking forward to the journey—not because he expected easy answers, but because he had the distinct sense that whatever waited beyond those woods would challenge both of them in ways neither could yet imagine.