Chapter 9
Home. The safe harbor for a weary worker’s soul.
Even a “Working Emperor” juggling multiple jobs can’t help but let his guard down when he gets home.
The Trojan Horse Apartments was a rare, neighbor-friendly complex in Beika Town. Not only did it have zero stigmatized properties, but it had never even had a case of petty theft. The residents all marveled at their good luck.
What the residents didn’t know was that the criminals who avoided the Trojan Horse Apartments due to some strange intuition were the ones who were truly lucky. Amuro Tooru didn’t mind working late one bit. Writing reports all night made him irritable, and he was more than willing to stretch his muscles.
“Mr. Mouri mentioned he was called in to solve roommate murder cases in shared houses for three consecutive days. The strange thing is, the suspect in all three cases was the same person.”
The apartment elevator doors closed. Amuro Tooru reached up to loosen his tie, recalling the idle chat from Mouri Kogoro’s lunch at Café Poirot as he relaxed.
Amuro had only heard the beginning before a new customer came in and called him over to take their order. The café was too busy, and by the time he was free, Mouri Kogoro had already changed the subject and was now gushing about Miss Okino Yoko’s new album.
Amuro never got the name of the suspect from Mouri Kogoro, which left him a little curious.
Although she was only a suspect and not the real killer, and had been cleared by the great detective, this kind of cursed, suspicious constitution felt strangely familiar to Amuro.
Have I seen this episode before?
To encounter the brutal death of a roommate three consecutive times while renting… that suspect had probably been blacklisted by every real estate agency. It would be difficult for her to rent a decent place in the future.
The agencies wouldn’t care if you were the real killer or not. Let’s be real, if you wake up every day to find your roommates’ corpses strewn about, are you telling me you bear absolutely no responsibility for that? (voice booming with conviction)
Amuro thought not. If responsibility were to be assigned, the Mouri Detective Agency should be the first to answer for Beika Town’s crime rate.
She’s just unlucky, a victim herself. How can they engage in victim-blaming?
I hope she’s managed to settle down safely, Amuro sent a blessing to the unlucky stranger.
He stood in front of his door and took out his key.
Click.
The door to the apartment on Amuro’s left suddenly opened a crack, pushed from the inside.
Has this apartment been rented out? I remember it was empty yesterday.
Amuro turned his head to greet his new neighbor amicably. “Hello.”
The girl, holding a blood-stained kitchen knife in her right hand and a dripping black garbage bag in her left, looked up. Her cheek was spattered with blood. “Hello.”
In an instant, “roommate murder case,” “same suspect in three cases,” and “wakes up every day to find roommates’ corpses, does the suspect bear no responsibility?” flashed through Amuro’s mind, the sound of police sirens ringing in his skull.
Before he could instinctively pull out his handcuffs and bring the suspect to justice on the spot, Amuro’s culinary expertise saved him.
“You’ve got some blood on your face,” the blond young man said, gesturing to his own cheek. His tone was understanding. “It’s easy to get blood everywhere when you’re preparing chicken or duck.”
An’an, who had just been slaughtering a live chicken on a cutting board, heard his reminder and wiped her cheek with her sleeve. “Is it clean now?”
Amuro: Not at all. Smearing the bloodstain just makes you look even more like a serial killer.
His high EQ kept his mouth shut. He just smiled and nodded.
Amuro recognized the dark-haired girl before him. They had met once before.
Back then, she had also appeared before him as a criminal suspect. Miss Fan An was truly a strange woman who never forgot her roots.
An’an also recognized the blond waiter from Café Poirot. She was very surprised. “What a coincidence! Mr. Amuro, you live here too? Does Café Poirot pay that well?”
I heard labor costs are high in the big city. Maybe a waiter’s salary really is that high, enough to afford a high-end apartment.
Fan An convinced herself. This was only because she hadn’t yet seen Amuro’s Mazda RX-7. Otherwise, she would have definitely reported Café Poirot for suspected money laundering. Your car is completely beyond your pay grade! What do you really do for a living, mister?
“I have other part-time jobs,” Amuro explained with a hint of suggestion. “If you see me elsewhere, Miss Fan An, don’t be surprised.”
The dark-haired girl’s gaze swept over his face, the pectoral and abdominal muscles hidden beneath his shirt, and the long legs accentuated by his suit pants.
The girl took a step back and said calmly, “Okay. My lips are sealed.”
Amuro: “…”
Amuro: “I was referring to my part-time job as a detective. You might see me at a crime scene.”
Delete the host club from your brain! Don’t ask how he knows, he just knows!
“I’m the one who should be surprised,” Amuro seized back control of the conversation. “Did you rent this place through an agency, Miss Fan An?”
Fan An shook her head honestly. “The agencies blacklisted me.”
Amuro was now certain. The number one suspect in three separate roommate murder cases was standing right in front of him.
Suspect An, on her fourth attempt at renting, had finally stopped plaguing roommates and had moved on to plaguing her neighbors.
“Someone did introduce me to this place.”
An’an didn’t elaborate. She and Amuro weren’t close enough for her to reveal her special ability.
“Oh, right,” the girl said as if she’d just remembered something, pressing her hands together in a plea. “Mr. Amuro, do you have any cooking wine at home? Could I borrow a little?”
“Of course,” Amuro agreed quickly. He added tactfully, “I would have lent it to you even if you weren’t pointing a knife at me.”
An’an swiftly hid the kitchen knife behind her back, pretending nothing had happened.
She received the gift from her kind neighbor and, after throwing out the trash, returned to her apartment.
…
The girl closed the door. A cat-eyed young man wearing an apron emerged from the kitchen and took the cooking wine from her hand.
“The ingredients are all prepped,” Hiromitsu Morofushi said gently. “I’ll make dinner.”
An’an remembered now. The wish she had made when choosing her mentor was for a “yasashii mentor who can handle a sniper rifle and also cook a meal, someone as gentle and loving as a mother.”
Her ability had not deceived her. Truly her own flesh and blood, that ability.
“Okay, okay!” An’an said cheerfully. “I’m not very good at seasoning or preparing vegetables, but I’m great at handling live animals.”
“Whether it’s killing live chickens and ducks, gutting them, or scaling and deboning, just leave it to me.”
Sometimes, Hiromitsu thought that perhaps if Fan An changed her name, she could improve her luck and shed her identity as Suspect An.
Other times, he felt it was hopeless.
Completely and utterly hopeless.
“I remember the blood on your face was a spatter pattern when you left,” Hiromitsu said, his expression complicated. “Why did you come back looking like a calico cat?”
The horror level had skyrocketed. It was a miracle she managed to borrow cooking wine from her neighbor instead of a police visit.
“Huh?” An’an tried to wipe her face. “Mr. Amuro didn’t tell me. He seemed very calm. He probably wouldn’t call the police secretly.”
I’ve already been to the station for three days in a row. Give me a break, Mr. Amuro.
The girl, looking down to wipe her face, didn’t notice the way Hiromitsu’s breath hitched for a moment.
Zero! Hiromitsu clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms.
Just a wall away. Only a single wall away.
The dark-haired girl, having wiped her face clean, looked up. Her pupils, darker than ink, reflected Hiromitsu’s face.
Scotch snapped back to reality as if startled from a dream. He smiled at her.
“Want an apple?” Hiromitsu asked softly. “I’ll peel one for you.”
“Yes, please!” the girl cheered, pumping her fist. She received a round, crisp, sweet apple and held it in her palms, taking small bites.
Like a chipmunk. It was really cute. Seeing her so happy, the tense strings in Hiromitsu’s heart gradually relaxed.
He couldn’t go see Zero yet.
The power that had brought him back to the world of the living was not under his control. An ability exists to serve its master.
Probably feeling that it was rude to keep her respected mentor cooped up in the ability’s space, An’an had let Hiromitsu out after moving into the apartment.
Afterwards, she had gone out with the kitchen scraps, but she hadn’t locked the door.
Hiromitsu stared at that slightly ajar door, knowing he couldn’t leave.
He couldn’t hear any sounds from outside, nor could he see any light through the crack in the door.
An’an’s phone was on the living room coffee table. Hiromitsu picked it up and, as expected, saw the “No Signal” icon.
An invisible shackle locked down the space. In a place unknown to its master, the ability jealously guarded all her possessions.
“I’m back!” the dark-haired girl announced, pushing the door open cheerfully and showing off the cooking wine she had hunted down.
The moment she entered, the invisible pressure vanished into thin air. The ability obediently made way for its master, perfectly docile.
This was an ability-user. A person with incredible power.
I can’t act rashly, Hiromitsu told himself.
He knew too little about An’an, and she knew too little about him. Their interactions were friendly, but they hadn’t truly established trust. It was only natural that the ability would place heavy restrictions on him.
Thinking of this, Hiromitsu gave a bitter smile.
The fault was his. After all, the girl didn’t really have anything to hide; her past record was spotless. But Hiromitsu himself carried far too many secrets.
Just like now. They were sitting face-to-face at the dining table. An’an, her cheeks puffed with food, asked, “Mentor Scotch, why is your name Scotch? Are you from Great Britain?”
Hiromitsu couldn’t say anything. If he were to explain that Scotch was short for Scotch whisky, he would have to further explain why he had given himself an alcohol name, explaining that it was a unique part of the distillery’s corporate culture and not because he was an alcoholic.
And then the ordinary citizen An’an would surely ask: What’s the distillery?
Was Hiromitsu supposed to tell her: The distillery is an evil, multinational criminal organization, and the silver-haired model and sunglasses-wearing bodyguard you wanted me to take care of a few days ago were actually my former colleagues.
And beyond that, there was his identity as an undercover agent. Could he even talk about that?
The definition of a state secret is that you keep it secret even after you die. Even if you die and come back to life, you still have to keep it secret.
An’an could see the hesitation and conflict on the cat-eyed young man’s face.
Mentor Scotch really does have a lot of secrets, she thought seriously. He’s so hesitant to even tell me his nationality. Could he be the legendary Gary Stu with blood from 108 different countries?
My respects, my respects.
An’an was a considerate person. She thoughtfully changed the subject. “I won’t ask about your nationality. Can I call you ‘Glan’? You can call me An’an.”
Hiromitsu: “…What’s ‘Glan’?”
Fan An: “Isn’t your surname ‘Sco’ and your given name ‘Glan’?” Just like her surname was Fan and her given name was An. (Scoglan sounds like Scotland)
Then she had a realization. “My apologies, I made a mistake—so your surname is ‘Scog’ and your given name is ‘Lan’? Can I call you ‘Xiao Lan’? What a delicate name, as cute as a girl’s.”
(T/N: “Xiao” is a common diminutive prefix. “Lan” or “Ran” is also the name of Ran Mouri in Detective Conan.)
“Achoo!” On the second floor of the Mouri Detective Agency, Mouri Ran let out a huge sneeze.
Edogawa Conan: “Sister Ran, did you catch a cold?”
Sister Ran had not caught a cold. She had just had her name stolen without permission, just like Edogawa Ranpo from the Armed Detective Agency.
Hiromitsu chanted to himself: The Secrecy Act is the most important thing. Everything must serve the Secrecy Act… To hell with the Secrecy Act!
“No, that’s not my name,” Hiromitsu said softly after a moment’s hesitation.
“Hiro.”
“If you’d like, you can call me Hiro.”