Chapter 2
Rookie actress Fan An’s first-ever audition: a spectacular failure.
“Was it because I was too nervous after all?” An’an felt a little dejected. It was her first time acting; it was truly hard not to be nervous.
And yet, she had done exactly as her senior had told her, immersing herself in a familiar scene.
Male Lead: Do you dare tell me exactly which scene you were immersing yourself in? Say it! Just say it!
Fan An: The slaughterhouse back home—is there a problem?
He was the one who said to immerse herself in the most familiar scene. She had been a professional pig butcher for eighteen years. There was absolutely no mistaking the place. Don’t underestimate An’an’s professional standards.
“Strange,” the dark-haired girl muttered, unable to figure it out. “I’ve been butchering pigs back home for eighteen years. My heart should be as cold as my butcher’s knife by now. Why would I still get nervous?”
Ah, she got it. It must be because her beloved boning knife wasn’t with her. She shouldn’t have checked her luggage at the police department.
Fan An had an epiphany. “So it was my own law-abiding nature that caused this mess.”
The Director: “…”
Can you really say that with a straight face?
If she had passed the audition and the drama aired, audiences would be shocked to discover the idol drama set had been transformed into a slaughterhouse. The “devilish young master” would be reduced to a fattened pig awaiting its fate, while the “broken-winged angel” heroine, brandishing a freshly sharpened blade, would advance step by step, her shadow enveloping the male lead… One could only imagine the psychological trauma for the viewers.
The Director: I will not allow such a future to come to pass—give it up, a plot like that would never get past the censors!
“Miss Fan An, I am deeply fortunate—I mean, deeply regretful that we cannot continue to work together.”
Under the immense pressure to survive, the director spouted words that went against his conscience. “Have you ever considered that your acting is actually very good, but you’re just running in the wrong race?”
My apologies to my industry colleague, he thought. Better you die than me.
The director opened the contacts on his phone and found a sacrificial lamb. “A friend of mine has a script. It’s perfect for you.”
To have a new job offer appear just when things seemed hopeless! Fan An, who thought she’d be sleeping on the streets tonight, asked expectantly, “May I ask what kind of script it is?”
She didn’t actually have a preference. She had only auditioned for an idol drama because of Second Uncle Fan Ren’s suggestion: “Idol dramas are simple. You just have to stand there and look pretty. The audience will screenshot everything and ship the couple themselves. And with a face like our An’an’s, she’s a dead ringer for the female lead in a crime-of-passion case.”
The Director: Well said, but the female lead in a crime-of-passion case can be a model, a white-collar worker, a teacher, a lawyer, a CEO, or even a migrant worker. The one thing she cannot be is a butcher.
When a butcher is involved in a case, we don’t usually call it a “crime of passion.” Let’s just call it what it is: a vicious homicide. Okay? Okay.
“Rest assured, it’s a role where you’ll be absolutely unbeatable just by being yourself,” the director promised, patting his chest as he gave her an address.
He personally saw Fan An out and told his assistant, “Notify everyone else waiting. Auditions are over for today.”
The assistant gave him a knowing look. “So the female lead has been decided?”
“No,” the director said, closing his eyes. “The male lead suffered a workplace injury. We’re delaying the start of filming.”
Assistant: “Huh?”
Fan An was completely unaware of the conversation between the director and his assistant.
Even if she had known, An’an had no money to compensate the male lead for his mental anguish. The only possessions she had left were the clothes in her suitcase and the boning knife she’d checked at the police department.
Taking her knife was like taking her life. And if it came to that, she might as well strike first…
Fan An: [malice_intensifies.jpg]
Male Lead: (Screaming, throws his wallet on the ground, scrambles into the ambulance, and deadbolts the door) “GO!!! GO NOW!!!”
….
Before heading to the address the director gave her, Fan An first had to go to the police department to retrieve her beloved boning knife.
The retrieval process wasn’t exactly smooth. But after An’an offered to give a live demonstration of her eighteen years of “practice” in the police department’s kitchen, she and her knife were politely escorted out.
The stop at the police station had taken some time, and the sky outside had turned gloomy.
“The weather forecast said there might be a thunderstorm later,” An’an noted, glancing at the cloud-filled sky.
Wow, what awful weather. Anyone caught outside would be soaked to the bone.
The girl quickened her pace. Unfortunately, as an out-of-towner, Fan An was completely unfamiliar with Beika’s streets. She could only fumble her way forward, asking for directions as she went. The sky grew darker and darker.
Finally, she stopped in front of a café.
“Is this the place?” The dark-haired girl looked up at the sign and read, “Café Poirot?”
The café was located right below a detective agency.
The owner must have done some serious market research before choosing this location, she thought. The results must have shown that the place with the most foot traffic in Beika Town isn’t a shopping mall or an office building, but the one true god—a detective agency!
Truly the number one career choice for Beika residents. Is this the power of a top-tier profession?
The moment Fan An stepped under the eaves of Café Poirot, the heavens opened up in a torrential downpour.
With no time for further thought, she pushed open the door and stepped into the warmth.
The faint aroma of coffee filled the air. The dry, warm environment chased away the damp chill of the storm, making one instinctively relax.
An’an could not relax.
She had been lucky enough to avoid the rain, but her suitcase was not so fortunate. The case and its wheels were being mercilessly battered by the cold, icy rain, leaving it completely drenched.
This suitcase was a second-hand item An’an had found at a flea market. While its exterior looked plain, its wheels had a slip-resistance approaching zero. It was perfectly suited for bringing a “shocking” new twist to the world of figure skating.
Even more fatally, the café floor had just been mopped. It was so clean that it seemed to gleam.
When these two forces combined—the moment the suitcase wheels touched the café floor—friction ceased to exist.
Inside the shop, Amuro Tooru had just put away the cleaning supplies and was taking out a “Caution: Wet Floor” sign to place by the entrance.
“Aaaah! Don’t leave me—”
A girl’s frantic voice rang out along with the chime of the door’s bell. The experienced undercover public security officer’s mind immediately jumped to a crime of passion: a young woman, dumped by her lover, refuses to accept his heartless departure. She gives chase, he tries to flee, but there is no escape!
An out-of-control suitcase, sliding wildly across the floor, careened into Amuro’s field of vision, a running, dark-haired girl in hot pursuit.
Him: “…”
The blond young man repented for one second for his inopportune occupational hazard, then immediately moved to help.
“Miss, don’t run so fast! Be careful you don’t fall.”
Amuro’s warning came too late. An’an went into a slide, her fingertips straining to reach the suitcase that was making a break for freedom.
Just a little more—
CRACK!
Accompanied by a massive clap of thunder from outside, the café’s power tripped.
Plunged suddenly from light into darkness, An’an saw nothing but black.
Her body, still carried by inertia, continued forward. Her fingers grabbed the suitcase, but its spinning wheels sent her veering off course, and she crashed headfirst into… something.
The girl ran into a wall that was both hard and soft.
The impact made the tip of her nose tingle, but the sensation on her forehead was soft. There was none of the cold, concussive pain of hitting a real wall. Instead, there was a warm, faint fragrance.
“Are you alright?” A pair of strong hands steadied An’an’s shoulders, helping her stand firm.
The girl, still shaken from nearly taking a tumble with her luggage, replied, “Thank you, I’m fine.”
But she thought she heard something fall to the floor. Did someone drop something?
Before An’an could figure it out, the lights above flickered twice and came back on.
“KYAAAAAAAA!”
A scream pierced through the sound of the rain, echoing throughout the café.
An’an whipped her head around. At the table closest to her, a strange man slumped back in his seat, his chest soaked with blood, his eyes wide open in death.
The people around him, only just now realizing their companion had been brutally murdered, let out horrified screams.
“Everyone, please don’t panic!” The Café Poirot waitress, Azusa Enomoto, stepped forward to calm the frightened customers.
“Mouri Detective Agency is right upstairs! Not only that, but Detective Mouri himself is on the scene right now!”
As soon as she finished speaking, a tall figure stood up, silhouetted against the light.
That sagacious expression, that sagacious mustache, that sagacious gaze—there was no mistaking it. It was the famous detective, Sleeping Kogoro, in his fully conscious form.
Detective Mouri did not disappoint his formidable reputation in Beika Town. He merely glanced at the victim before adopting an expression of complete confidence.
“I already know who the culprit is,” he said in a deep voice.
Everyone: What? You already know?
Conan: What? What do you know?
“The culprit is—” Mouri Kogoro raised his arm and pointed forcefully. “You!”
Edogawa Conan followed the direction of Mouri Kogoro’s finger. The person he was pointing at was…
“Mr. Amuro?!”
Conan was floored. Have you lost your mind, or have I?
Fortunately, he quickly realized that Amuro Tooru wasn’t the only person in the direction Mouri was pointing.
The scream had erupted at almost the exact same moment the lights came back on. Everything had happened so quickly that everyone was still frozen in the positions they’d been in during the blackout.
The dark-haired girl who had crashed into Amuro’s arms was no exception. She had been so busy trying to catch her slippery suitcase that she hadn’t noticed her own predicament.
Fan An looked up and found everyone staring at her.
“Me?” she asked, completely baffled. “Why?”
Her information tag was hanging from the suitcase. Amuro Tooru’s gaze paused on the name field.
Him: “…”
The blond public security officer looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. It was as if Mouri Kogoro’s voice was echoing in his mind: “Suspicious! Far too suspicious! Miss Fan An, the fact that you’re the culprit is written right in your name!”
No, no, no. Amuro shook his head, trying to clear the strange thought. Even a famous detective couldn’t convict someone based on a pun.
Mouri Kogoro must have had his reasons for being so certain she was the killer after just one glance.
Amuro gestured for the girl to look down.
“This boning knife on the floor,” he reminded her tactfully, “it seems to have fallen from your person.”