Thursday night. When Conan opened the front door of the Agasa residence, he noticed a single white envelope tucked into the mail slot. No sender. Only printed text, lined up coldly across the paper. *We have taken Sherry. Interfere, and we cannot guarantee Mouri Ran's life.* Conan gripped the envelope, unable to move. The sensation drained from his fingers. Only the bite of the paper's corner into his palm kept him tethered to reality. "[scared] Conan-kun!? What happened!?" The professor rushed over, read the message, and his face went pale. "[scared] We need to call the police immediately—" "[cold] No." A low voice. So devoid of emotion it surprised even himself. The Organization has people in the police. Ran's name is in play. No matter which path he chose, someone would get hurt—a perfect double trap. He collapsed onto the living room sofa. His field of vision narrowed. Only the wall clock's second hand ticked on, meaningless. "[gentle] …Conan-kun." The professor could say nothing more. He quietly placed the envelope on the table. --- Late night. The rice balls the professor had made sat cold on the table. Conan hugged his knees at the edge of the sofa, staring at a single point on the wall. "[gentle] You need to eat, or your body won't hold up." No answer. The professor sat in a chair and opened a book. But the pages didn't turn. The helplessness of being able to do nothing but stay nearby piled up heavily in the silence between them. Words kept spinning endlessly in Conan's head. *What the hell am I doing. I couldn't protect Haibara. I keep lying to Ran. It's all over.* Haibara's profile behind the science room, her voice trembling as she said, "This feels like the safest place." Her tear-filled eyes in the late-night living room: "You're all I have." The cold weight of the Baikal capsule pressed into his palm. Memories of failing to protect her piled up in the pit of his stomach. Friday came, and Conan still didn't move. The morning toast, the afternoon sandwich—both went untouched, growing cold. Eventually, the professor placed a cup of hot milk beside Conan. "[gentle] Even if you blame yourself, Ai-kun isn't coming back. But… if you collapse, things will only get worse." He said only that, then retreated to his study. Conan stared at the hot milk. Steam rose and vanished, wavering. He took one sip, then set it down. It was the only thing he had consumed in twenty-four hours. --- Five in the evening. His smartphone vibrated. The name "Mouri Ran" and a photo of her smiling face lit up the screen. Conan lifted the phone and simply stared at those characters as the call kept ringing. If he answered, he'd have no choice but to lie. Pretend to be fine so Ran wouldn't worry, pile on another lie—"I'm staying at the professor's house again tonight." But tonight—Haibara wasn't here. On the night Haibara had vanished, he wasn't strong enough to pretend to be fine for Ran. Just before the call ended, a single tear traced down Conan's cheek. "[crying] Sorry… Ran…" He murmured at the screen. Another tear fell, unwiped. He shoved the phone into the gap of the sofa cushions and covered his face with both hands. No one else was in the living room. The faint sound of the professor's footsteps came from upstairs—the only sensation connecting him to reality. --- One in the morning. Two hours had passed since the light in the professor's room went out. Conan lay on the sofa, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. He had no intention of sleeping. The moment his mind went quiet—suddenly, Haibara's voice echoed. *You're my detective, and mine alone.* The words she had whispered that night, when she'd stolen his tranquilizer watch and teased him. *Mine alone*—at the time, he'd brushed off the intensity of that possessiveness with a wry smile. But tonight, those words alone rang with perfect clarity in his head. Conan slowly sat up. He wanted to protect Ran. He wanted to get Haibara back. He wanted to follow the proper steps as a detective of justice—when he pushed all those complicated feelings aside, only one thing remained. He wanted to bring Haibara back with his own hands. That was all. He slipped into the study and pulled the power-enhancing kick shoes and turbo skateboard from the back of the shelf. He opened the map of the Verna warehouse on his phone and confirmed the route. Just before stepping out the front door, he glanced back at the living room one last time. The Earl Grey tea set. The edge of the sofa where Haibara always sat. The air, still faintly carrying the scent of black tea. *Wait for me, Haibara*—he mouthed the words without a sound, pulled the door open, and stepped out into the Beika night. The turbo skateboard began to move quietly. Slipping through the late-night residential streets, accelerating southeast—toward the Verna warehouse. It wasn't a sense of justice. It wasn't a sense of duty. What pulled him up from rock bottom was pure, ego-driven obsession.