the raven’s tell-tale heart - setosdarkness - 文豪ストレイドッグス (2024)

— — — — —

“You’re amazing, Poe-kun.”

He longs for such words like a starved man does for morsels of food, like a stranded man in need for direction. To hear such things now means so much to him, to the point that he couldn’t even produce a proper sound out of his throat, even as his mouth hangs open.

“You’ve solved the case way ahead of me.” When serious, the other man’s eyes appear like they hold the secrets of the universe in them. “I accept it, Poe-kun. You have completely defeated me.”

When did this happen? How did this happen?

He needs to remember this moment completely, leave no detail unnoticed. He needs to review this moment for years to come. He needs to recall this moment for the next time they’ll have a match, so he could remember the feeling of defeating Ran—

—no, such a moment doesn’t exist, not yet, at least.

The man in front of him dissolves into black wisps, like feathers from a raven that circles overhead in infinite loops.

— — —

Very, very dreadfully nervous he had been over the past few eight hours, eight days, eight weeks, but surely that doesn’t mean that he’s gone mad. He’s concerned, he’s agitated, he’s desperate, he’s longing, but that doesn’t mean that he’s gone mad. Charcoal colors the skin under his eyes, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s not as if there’s anyone to see his current state.

There’s only one person who even looks at him, and that person isn’t here. But it’s going to be fine. It’s been eight weeks, eight days and eight hours, but that doesn’t mean that he’s gone mad, that he’s going to lose. There’s only person that he could lose to, and that person isn’t here, which means that he couldn’t lose.

He’s not going to lose.

He’s going to win, he’s going to get Ranpo back, he’s going to make sure that Ranpo—

He’s not going to lose.

He repeats that over and over to himself, in a way that would probably have him be accused of going mad. Thankfully, he has circumvented such a thing from happening in a truly genius move that would have Ranpo applauding, if only he’s here.

If only he’s still here, then none of this would be happening.

In this world, there are many unfair things that have happened and will continue to happen. One such unfair thing is Ranpo disappearing into thin air, leaving nothing behind aside from an empty cask of ramune and a message scrawled in dried blood over his chair cushion: Let every nevermore offer respite eternally.

It’s not as if he’s not familiar with various ways that evil bloom upon this world. He’s not a stranger to murderers, to serial killers, to detectives that end up falling from the right path, only to end up committing more fearsome crimes. He’s not someone who could be considered as innocent to the ways of the world, but even someone like him would still feel his lifeline pinched and severed if his most important rival, if someone that he’s considered as a contemporary, a colleague, and even a friend, suddenly disappears.

The moment that he has touched Ranpo’s chair, he has known it.

A serial killer has left him a deadly puzzle to solve, and it’s only him who could solve it.

Him and nobody else.

It’s a one-on-one match, and there could be only one victor. Only that it’s not a game for him. Ranpo’s life hangs in the balance. Statistics say that surviving more than seven days is very unlikely for serial killer victims, but Ranpo is one of a kind. He’s a genius, a smart person that would appear once in ten thousand years. He’s not someone who could be easily felled by anyone. He’s not someone who would die so easily, so there’d always be hope that he’d be saved.

He clenches his fists as he tries to clear his mind again.

He’s not weak and hopeless. He’s desperate and nervous, but that doesn’t mean that he’s going to lose. He has even evolved by leaps and bounds, transporting his own consciousness inside a book that he wrote, just so he could buy time to clear his mind and process clues more clearly.

…So, while inside this world where he couldn’t close his eyes to dream, he’s going to clear his mind and understand how he could find the serial killer, find Ranpo, and find closure to this.

— — —

Here are the things that he knows:

• Edogawa Ranpo disappeared while inside the Armed Detective Agency’s office, on 08:08 AM on August 08, 20XX.
• There are no surveillance cameras or recording devices inside the office. The only reason why the timeframe could be pinpointed so exactly is because of the occupant of the spot in front of Ranpo’s desk.
• Kunikida Doppo’s journal records the time of 08:08 AM, as it was supposedly the earliest time that one Dazai Osamu had appeared inside the Agency out of his own volition. The moment had been recorded out of posterity and out of complete shock. Kunikida Doppo mentioned that he was so shocked about this development that he instinctively glanced at Ranpo’s desk to share his surprise. And in that particular moment, Kunikida Doppo saw an empty ramune bottle fall mid-air.
• Nobody else in the Agency saw the incident as something that required attention. None of them could think of the possibility that Ranpo was abducted in plain sight. (*This makes him suspect that an Ability that causes cognitive disruption is involved. Everyone could still remember Ranpo, but there’s a seeming cognitive blank when it comes to his whereabouts.)
• Dazai Osamu claims that the reason that he had appeared to work earlier than usual was because there was a co*ckroach in his new apartment, one that he couldn’t squash due to refusing to touch slug-like slimy things early in the morning. (*Due to Dazai Osamu’s status as someone that Ranpo recognizes as an intellectual, it’s possible that these words are a code to hide a certain private investigation that he’s doing on his own time.)
• Nakajima Atsushi is the person who usually assists in opening the doors to the Agency office. On August 08, 20XX, Nakajima Atsushi claims that he was not the one who had unlocked the doors to the office. (*The surveillance camera that captures the front door has been seemingly tampered from the night before, the last feed showing from August 07, 20XX, 08:08 PM.)
• Tanizaki Naomi claims that she had distributed coffee and snacks to the Agency members’ desk around 08:02 AM on August 08, 20XX. She claims that she hadn’t noticed Ranpo’s presence in his desk, but she had left a bottle of ramune as always.
• On August 08, 20XX, Edgar Allan Poe was delayed on his way to the Agency due to Karl being frightened by a randomly falling flowerpot on the corner of 7^th and 8^th Edgar Allan Poe only arrived inside the Agency office at 08:16 AM on August 08, 20XX.

— — —

“You’re quite hardworking, aren’t you, Poe-kun?”

There’s a faint sense of wonder in his tone, probably the same kind that one would use upon sighting a rare animal. But it’s not meant to belittle or insult him, that he knows. It’s just that Ranpo is used to looking at the world with an eye for curiosities, for mysteries that would pique his interest.

“This is just the normal amount of work, Ranpo-kun.” Even as he says this, he can’t help but duck his head a bit, hugging Karl to his chest. Something warm bubbles in his chest, soft as the foam that bubbles out one’s mouth upon being poisoned to death.

“Is that so?” Ranpo’s already rummaging through his stash of snacks, his mind in constant need of carbohydrates to continue functioning in top shape. “Then go ahead and help me with work, Poe-kun.”

It’d be nice if Ranpo’s eyes remain on him instead of his gaze being divided between him and snacks. It takes him several attempts to clear his throat properly. “Um, that’s fine with me, but can you read my new book in return?”

He tells himself that they’re rivals, colleagues, and friends now. They’ve already cooperated on multiple occasions. Ranpo has already acknowledged him. He shouldn’t be too greedy. He shouldn’t be too wrongfooted when asking the other man to mentally spar with him.

In-between the crunch of chips between his teeth, “Eh? What did you say?”

“N-Nothing!” He hugs Karl harder, prompting his pet to wiggle out of his hold.

Ranpo continues eating for a bit, before he lightly says, “If you buy dinner for us later, I’d consider reading your book.”

Money hasn’t been an issue for him ever since he could remember. Agreeing to such a request doesn’t require any thinking whatsoever.

“Will you really?” He can’t help but be excited, palms growing clammy. He has lost many hours of sleep for the sake of completing his new work. He knows the amount of effort that he has placed on his work; even so, a part of him continues to wonder if it’s worthy of their rivalry.

Ranpo peers at him, glasses glinting. “Poe-kun, have I ever lied to you?”

Sure, there have been moments when the other teased him, but to call those lies is less than generous. Surely, Ranpo wouldn’t lie to him about important things? Unless, of course, it’s for the sake of something more important, like a case that could affect multiple lives.

How did he reply then?

Since it’s Ranpo, he must have agreed, and they must have gone to dinner together in the aftermath, and then Ranpo would have solved his novel without breaking a sweat.

Like always, like always.

— — —

While he could lock himself inside his novel so he could buy some time to think about the meager clues, there’s no actual way to stop time from moving forward. There’s also no replacement for actual on-the-ground investigation of the clues.

The surveillance camera outside the Agency’s front door has been tampered, but that doesn’t mean that all of the surveillance cameras all over Yokohama has received interference from the culprit or other outside forces.

Money is something that he has never lacked for as long as he could remember. Lining the pockets of several businessowners with bills means that they voluntarily hand over surveillance footages for the sake of a private investigation.

He returns to the inside of his novel so he could focus on reviewing 108 footages in the perimeter of the Agency, radiating outward to encompass the area where Ranpo could have been abducted to.

Out of those 108 footages, here are the pertinent observations that he has made:

• Ranka Patisserie, August 08, 20XX, 08:28 AM. A hooded man roughly stands at 168 centimeters tall, 57 kilograms. This man’s posture is relaxed, but his head is conveniently bowed down and the brim of his hat casts a shadow over his face, hiding his features. He’s holding unto a wrist that belongs to Ranpo. He looks like he’s simply strolling around the city, dragging Ranpo around like he weighs nothing.
• Anpan Stall, August 08, 20XX, 08:39 AM. The same hooded man appears and stops in front of the stall that sells red bean anpan. He treats Ranpo like air—but he continues holding his wrist. Ranpo doesn’t make a move to struggle, simply standing there. Because he’s wearing his hat, his eyes are hidden. (*Given the lack of visible struggling, it’s likely that Ranpo is under a mind-control Ability.)
• Nitori Furniture, August 08, 20XX, 08:55 AM. The same hooded man stands in front of the store, as if considering whether to enter, perhaps in order to throw off possible pursuit. The man ultimately decides to continue following the straight line that he’s been in the entire time, steadily going westward from the Agency.
• Promenade of Ooka River, August 08, 20XX, 10:06 AM. The same hooded man stands in front of a bridge built over a small pond that has a display of colorful carp. The water is too murky to get a proper read on the reflection of his face. He continues to hold Ranpo like he’s weightless. Their path seems to continue on a straight line westward, completely on foot and avoiding public transport.
• Okamura Park, August 08, 20XX, 10:30 AM. The same hooded man appears content to act like a tourist, even going so far as to ask for passersby for directions. He continues holding Ranpo’s wrist the entire time. (*Given that Ranpo has already been walking for two hours straight, his lack of protest is most certainly to a mind-control Ability.)
• Park Barbecue Area, August 08, 20XX, 10:37 AM. The same hooded man lingers in front of the area reserved for outdoor barbecue. He seems to be contemplating using one of the outdoor grills, but ultimately decides not to. His face remains shadowed all throughout.
• Ohtsuka Stationery, August 08, 20XX, 11:11 AM. The same hooded man stops in front of a stationery shop. He momentarily hides his hands in his pockets when the wind blows. His face remains shadowed all throughout.
• Earl Tea House, August 08, 20XX, 11:40 AM. This is the last clear shot of the hooded man amongst all the footages that he has managed to acquire from the businesses in Yokohama. Ranpo doesn’t act like he’s hungry, even though this should have been his usual lunchtime, and he hasn’t been seen snacking all throughout the footages. (*He makes a mental note about this mind-control’s Ability being able to exert some control over one’s physique and involuntary bodily functions too.)

How does he know that he’s dealing with a serial killer, instead of someone who would regularly abduct someone like this?

Aside from intuition and familiarity, it’s the fact that the opponent does everything with such confidence. His body language is too relaxed, showing that he has the situation under control. He has powerful Abilities and resources at his disposal, given that he’s able to not only whisk Ranpo away like air, but also able to control his behavior.

This man is either someone who Ranpo has defeated before, returning to have some revenge—or someone who has heard of Ranpo’s reputation as the main brain behind the Agency’s recent success in defending the city from terror threats.

This man can’t be taken lightly.

Poe needs to win—not just because of his desire to win in itself, but because he needs to make sure Ranpo is safe.

Like always, like always.

— — —

“Poe-kun, hurry up and open the door!”

Late October in Japan means that chrysanthemums are in full bloom and crickets chirp merrily outside of one’s door. This particular October has him stumbling out of his apartment door with bleary eyes, because there’s a particularly loud chirping coming from outside.

Even though there’s only one other person who possesses that same voice, that same demeanor, that same behavior that doesn’t really regard anyone else, he’s still surprised to see the figure in front of his door. Cautiously, like he’s half-worried about the possibility of someone employing a high-level disguise in order to assassinate a member of The Guild, “…Ranpo-kun?”

Ranpo squints at him, like he’s calling him foolish without words. However, to be actually called ‘foolish’ by someone like Ranpo is already high praise. That means that someone is still in his eyes, that someone is still worth noticing in his opinion. If he truly doesn’t care, he wouldn’t even bother with categorizing him as a fool, after all.

“Obviously, it’s me.” The person who reaches out to hold his arm is warm and solid. Even though Ranpo is a good 14 centimeters shorter than him, he always acts so confident of his actions that it’s as if he’s someone larger than life. “Who else would be visiting you early in the morning?”

…It’s true. He’s not particularly sociable, preferring to keep to himself and focusing on his novels and on solving mysteries that could bring him on the same field as his rival. Even when he’s known as The Guild’s Architect, none of his fellow organization members would knock into his apartment door to demand his presence. Even a publisher and an editor would simply make an appointment with him, or keep their contact completely digital.

He asks another question. “How did you know this is where I live?”

This time, Ranpo pinches his forearm, as if to scold him for asking something that underestimates his deduction ability. With a huff that should be childish on someone in their late twenties, and yet managing to look extremely adorable anyway, “My mystery-solving skills are obviously very good, so this isn’t hard to know.”

“It doesn’t have to be a mystery… You could have just asked me directly…”

“Why are you nagging so much,” is dragged out in a whine. “It’s cold outside, you should have invited me in eight minutes ago.”

“Have you been waiting at my front door for eight minutes?” He knows that he tends to lose sleep in exchange for finishing his novels, but he couldn’t have been that exhausted that he didn’t even hear Ranpo yelling for him, right?

Ranpo pinches him again. “No, but you should have expected I’d be here!”

It’s not even eight in the morning. It’s unreasonable to predict someone’s surprise appearance at one’s doorstep, especially when there hasn’t been any indication about this happening. Of course, this is par for the course for Ranpo. Being on the receiving end of such unreasonable expectations brings a little thrill in his heart. Ranpo wouldn’t bother expecting anything from someone who’s not worthy, after all.

“…Right. Please come in,” he invites and opens the door wider.

Another huff. “Finally! Because you made me wait, you’re going to have to buy me more snacks today!”

He’s a little bewildered. He’s not sure whether he’s more mystified by the fact that Ranpo has actually waited to be politely invited instead of just barging inside without waiting for him—or by the fact that he’s just suddenly expected to buy snacks. He doesn’t really mind, so it’s a non-issue, but it’d be nice to know if there’s a particular reason.

That said, the next words that leave his mouth are, “What kind of snacks do you want today?”

“Bring me somewhere warm first,” is Ranpo’s demand, even though he has already made a beeline for Edgar’s bed, stuffing his whole body under the messy quilts. “You know how to make a cup of hot chocolate, right? I want a lot of marshmallows.”

“I do know?” He’s certain he knows how to make a cup of something as simple as hot chocolate, but a part of him suspects that it’s some important quiz that he must pass with flying colors. It makes his sentence end with a rising intonation—something that he’s become used to, the more time he spends with the other man.

Ranpo efficiently wraps himself up in a blanket burrito, leaving only his head visible. He gestures with his chin, shooing Edgar out of his own bedroom. “I want to have one before we leave.”

Where are they supposed to go? What is he supposed to do?

Being wrongfooted when dealing with Ranpo seems to be a semi-permanent state of affairs. The other half of the time they spend together, it’s with him being grounded in a feeling of satisfied peace. Like being with the other man is what he should be doing in the present, for the rest of his life.

He can’t help but want to indulge him, to give him what he wants. As thanks for acknowledging him as a rival, as thanks for accepting him as a friend, as thanks for being with him in any capacity he deems acceptable.

He’s not a sociable person so he’s not quite sure what it means for someone to mean this much to him, but he knows that he doesn’t need to know what kind of name he’ll use to define it. It can only be Ranpo, and Ranpo alone.

So, he lets out a fond sigh and says, “Okay. Wait for me then, Ranpo-kun.”

— — —

Patience isn’t a virtue that Ranpo possesses in spades. He’s the sort to move at his own pace, expecting that anyone who’d want to accompany him should keep up with him.

He thinks about that day in October. It’s not until the following day that he realizes that Ranpo has bestowed a one-of-a-kind honor upon him, allowing him to accompany him on the annual anniversary of his birth.

Where did he bring Ranpo then?

They’ve gone to a lot of shops, hopping from one patisserie and bakery to the next. They’ve brought Karl along, letting the raccoon run around the park while they braved the wind that already carried a hint of frost. They’ve bought an elaborate tea set that ended up in his apartment, because Ranpo decided that he’d use him as his personal tea-brewer instead.

That was back in October.

Now, August is full of cool winds, and instead of crickets, it’s evening cicadas that sing outside his windows. A thick fog enshrouds the nights, making it difficult to stay on one’s path.

…It doesn’t matter.

He knows what he must do. Even if everything is shrouded in mist, he knows that he must focus on tracking Ranpo’s whereabouts down, deal with his abductor, and then ensure that Ranpo stays safe and unharmed.

He needs to breathe. He needs to focus. He needs to solve this mystery soon.

One’s survival drastically lowers the longer one stays abducted. The level of danger exponentially rises when one is captured by a serial killer. There’s an invisible countdown ticking down over Ranpo’s neck, like a guillotine slowly sharpening its edges over his skin.

He knows what he must do.

He must follow the trail closely. He must open his mind to see all of the possibilities. He must be prepared to risk everything. He must not hesitate.

He knows what he must do, but even so he finds his thoughts being snagged on detailed memories of their interactions. Like he’s compelled to comb through all their conversations, like it could somehow bestow a hidden clue that would connect all the threads together and solve the case.

What does Ranpo always tell him? That he must be more confident. That he must only be this indulgent to Ranpo, and to nobody else. That he must believe in his own capabilities, ones that have been acknowledged by Ranpo himself.

It’s just that, it’s difficult to focus.

He feels like the worst friend in the world. Worse than that is the feeling that he’s the least capable detective in the world.

He must have been able to function on his own before, right? He must have known how it is to lead a life without Ranpo by his side. He must have been able to exist during the years he hasn’t known Ranpo yet.

To be practically reduced to nothing when the other isn’t around—that’s not like him at all. Or so he’d like to claim, but it’s difficult to remember now what counts as ‘being himself’.

These extraneous thoughts cause nothing but aches inside his skull.

“…Karl, this is really tough…”

Usually, his companion would be nestled close to him. Karl greatly prefers shuttling between weaving through Ranpo’s legs or settling over his lap. Now that Ranpo isn’t around, even Karl doesn’t seem to be acting normal, staying far away from him.

Not that he could blame him. He knows that he’s not good company right now, prone to biting his fingertips and muttering under his breath as he reviews the case from all possible angles. Perhaps Karl is too intelligent, keenly sensing the loss of another person.

Perhaps that’s what he needs. Perhaps he needs to consult other people too, see their viewpoints and amass more perspectives on how to solve this puzzle.

Why did he even think that this is supposed to be a one-on-one battle? Throughout all the trials and tribulations that he has seen happen to the Agency, hasn’t it been obvious that the key to winning is cooperating with others?

He should find a way to get others’ help, instead of cooping himself up on his own.

Perhaps, that way, he wouldn’t feel the crushing sting of loneliness, the heavy sense of foreboding that weighs down on his shoulders like a lover’s cold embrace.

— — —

If there’s one thing that most people know about Ranpo, it’s that he’s smart enough to be confident in everything that he does. The second thing is that he’s incredibly fond of snacking throughout the day, trying out a mix of old reliable flavors and adventurously going for the new products that appear on Lawson’s shelves.

A relatively unknown third thing is that he’s actually quite handsy, without care for personal space as dictated by common sense.

“…R-Ranpo-kun, it’s hard for me to breathe…”

Sometimes, this physical closeness comes at the expense of Edgar’s thighs having to handle more weight than usual, or having his rib elbowed when Ranpo excitedly shows a phone screen with some detective show that he treats as an absurd comedy.

Right now, Ranpo is busy stuffing an entire crepe to his mouth in the spirit of sharing. “I thought that a peach-honeydew-lychee-lime-mangosteen-avocado mix would be interesting, but it just tastes strange. Finish it for me, Poe-kun!”

He takes a moment to be surprised that such a flavor combination is even possible to be ordered. Then again, nothing is impossible when it comes to Ranpo. He has a variety of weapons in his arsenal when it comes to convincing another party into doing his bidding.

A lot of times, it’s because he’s always right, and therefore must be followed and believed. When it comes to Edgar, it’s usually because he’s too flustered by the other’s actions to even think of refusing.

Either way, the result is the same. He eats the Peach-honeydew-lychee-lime-mangosteen-avocado crepe with small bites, muffling any protests that might have solidified.

It’s not as strange as the one from yesterday, an Oreo stuffed with cantaloupe and bell peppers. Or the Eggplants crusted with cookie crumbs and diced strawberries.

Ranpo’s culinary curiosities doesn’t end there. There’s the Ramune soup flavored with spiced radishes. The Almond anpan filled with yam and cranberries. The Nori-wrapped custard croissant. The Peanut butter with shaved pineapple chunks. The Ochazuke dusted with fairy sugar, sprinkles and marshmallows.

All of those are things that Ranpo has acquired, one way or another. All of those have made their way inside Edgar’s stomach, courtesy of his inability to manage a complete refusal to Ranpo’s whims.

It’s especially terrible when his stomach ends up churning like a rollercoaster when Ranpo beams at him in the aftermath. Approval brightens his tone when he says, “See? You did a good job eating it all, Poe-kun.”

It sends him all the way to the orbit. It should be considered absolutely Pavlovian, the way delight fills him the moment Ranpo shows approval of any sort. It doesn’t even have to be related to a battle of wits. It’s also why he barely bats an eyelash when Ranpo then invades his personal space once more, easily taking his wallet out of his pocket and sliding out several bills.

“To pay for the crepe you ate,” is his explanation. “And I’m going to buy some other interesting desserts! I saw an interesting store just now!”

He remembers passing by a fancy-looking tea shop that has a lot of pastries on display, so that’s probably what Ranpo’s referring to. That, or the patisserie with colorful macarons on display.

It’s a wonder that Ranpo has managed to hold back in ordering from them the moment he passed by them. He’s usually the type who would just purchase things instinctively as long as they are pleasing to the eye.

“…How did Ranpo-kun manage before he got acquainted with me, I wonder…”

This kind of behavior can be sustained by Edgar paying for everything. But in the years before that, it’s unlikely that there’s someone around who’s able to buy Ranpo whatever he decides to get. Perhaps Ranpo’s whimsy is being spoiled and exacerbated by Edgar’s presence—but he chooses to look at it from another angle. It only means that there had been so many years when Ranpo couldn’t easily get what he wanted, so Edgar should help him attain those things now that he’s here.

He’s a good rival, after all.

He wants to defeat his rival and receive his acknowledgement, but that only comes after a fight that’s fair-and-square. There’s no use in defeating someone who’s not in their best condition, and Ranpo’s best condition is when his life is at its fullest and his happiness is completely maxed out.

Lost is he in his musings that it takes him several moments to realize that Ranpo has gone on to buy whatever he wants to buy—but he’s nowhere to be found.

Did he get lost again?

Edgar rushes down the streets to find him, aware of his challenges when it comes to navigation.

Thankfully, Edgar knows him well enough that he plans their trips outside to be in places that have a lot of noticeable landmarks and simple directions. Take today for example, Edgar has brought them somewhere that’s a straight line from the Agency, so it shouldn’t be too hard to track Ranpo down again.

Some might say that it’s best if Ranpo disappears, and that should ensure that Edgar is the last one standing in this competition between detectives. Those people are best silenced. After all, Edgar considers Ranpo to be his best rival, and that means that he must always be around to keep on competing and honing each other’s strengths against each other.

— — —

If there’s something that he could claim to have little understanding on—well, there’s a lot of them. A lot of Ranpo’s behaviors towards him makes him confused. A lot of his responses to those confusing behaviors give him bewilderment.

The odd sense of competitiveness he feels towards one Dazai Osamu is another.

A part of him wonders if the reason as to why he’s so resistant about getting others involved is the irrational need for him to keep distance from the other man.

He’s not particularly interested in people aside from Ranpo. He doesn’t dislike them, but he doesn’t have that spark of interest in learning more about them.

That said, it’s difficult to avoid learning bits and pieces about Dazai Osamu. The other man is iron-tight when it comes to keeping his personal life under wraps. Oh, he’s incredibly gregarious when it comes to sharing his escapades in finding novel ways of committing suicide. Dazai Osamu is also very open when it comes to filling the office atmosphere with the sound of voice, talking about this and that.

But none of those things really show anything too deep.

…Ranpo considers him an intellectual match. At the very least, he knows that Ranpo could converse with Dazai Osamu in riddles.

He clenches his fists, hearing the constant tick-tock of the clock winding down on him, an unceasing pendulum that causes him to sway on his feet as he staggers towards the Agency.

A purple twilight crawls past the glass windows, casting disjointed raven-shaped shadows on the floors. His head hurts at the sight, his eyes too-used to the glare of the surveillance footages that he has reviewed at least eight hundred times. Even so, he hears the constant humming from Dazai Osamu, so he makes his way to the other man’s seat, with his eyes half-closed under the veil of his fringes.

“What can I do for you, Poe-san?” Dazai Osamu’s tone is carefully polite, losing the gaudy cheeriness that he’s been using as musical accompaniment to his double suicide song.

A slash of red peeks right-above the last of the bandages on his neck. The purple twilight colors the edge of it in a similar purple; the same color is on the edge of his lips. Dazai Osamu looks like he’s been mauled by an angry animal. He also looks like someone has placed a blade on his neck in warning, the cut precise with its intent to dissuade rather than to outright kill.

If he’s the one behind Ranpo’s disappearance—
—it wouldn’t be too surprising.

Motive could be anywhere from it being a source of a fun, intellectual exercise, to Ranpo stealing the last custard pudding from the Agency’s shared fridge. Methodology is endless. One of the things that he knows about Dazai Osamu is his past—and, persisting to the present—connection with the underworld. Similar to Ranpo, Dazai Osamu possesses a gift when it comes to persuasiveness; unlike Ranpo, Dazai Osamu’s persuasion runs with an undercurrent of sinisterness, if he feels like it.

But he’s not here to cast him as a suspect, even if the injuries on his person are indeed suspicious.

“I would like to enlist your assistance in solving the current mystery at hand,” he says, trying to draw himself up to his full height instead of hunching sin pre-accommodation to Ranpo putting a hand on his shoulder. “It is imperative that this case gets solved as soon as possible.”

If the serial killer behind Ranpo’s disappearance wishes for this to be a one-on-one battle, then he would also have to get Dazai Osamu’s assistance in camouflaging his help. But that could come later. The most important part is to get Dazai Osamu to agree to his request for help.

Dazai Osamu shifts so that his back is more relaxed against his chair. There’s an odd glint in his eyes, as he leans further back and rests his cheek against an upturned palm. “That sounds serious. What kind of case are you working on?”

He has heard many tales about Dazai Osamu’s ability to weave lies so skillful one wouldn’t even know they’ve been lied to. He’s aware of the other’s silver tongue, of the other’s carefree personality. Even so, he’s still taken aback by the other casualness of this question, the seeming lack of understanding about the gravity of the situation.

“It’s about Ranpo-kun! He’s still missing!” He has never considered himself an excitable person, but right now, he can’t help but slam his hands on the other’s desk. “That’s obviously the only important case that we have!”

Dazai Osamu shifts again, his expression barely rippling with disturbance. He blinks, and he looks like a statue that should be placed inside museums: fully guarded and caged. His eyelashes flutter with the airiness of his tone. “Mm, what an odd thing to say, Poe-san. I’m sure Ranpo-san is doing well. Didn’t he say that he’s on a vacation in Echigo right now?”

…What an odd thing to say.

His head hurts, like all of his words and protests are clogged in his throat, gurgling up and causing his sinuses to swell. His eyes feel hot, like everything in front of him is being buried in a mountain of feathers.

He’s not sure how he’s managed to end that conversation. Perhaps he simply staggers away like a wounded man, or crawls away like someone whose foundations have been destroyed.

Is Dazai Osamu the culprit, after all…?

Or is the opponent so powerful that he could alter someone’s perception of reality…?

Did someone end up obtaining fragments of the Book’s pages, using it to create this kind of distortion that affects others’ understanding of the situation…?

“Ranpo-kun, where are you,” he asks not for the first time in his life. But for the first time since he could remember, he doesn’t get an answer back: not in the form of an actual reply, not in the form of someone grinning at him by his side.

— — —

If there’s one thing that Edgar knows about Ranpo, it’s that he enjoys winters for the possibility of playing with snowmen, but dislikes it for the amount of sneezing that it imposes upon him in the aftermath.

“Next time, we shouldn’t go this far north.” Ranpo rubs his hands together, then proceeds to rub the nose that’s already been rubbed enough to make children suspect that he’s cosplaying a certain reindeer. “I don’t like it when it’s this cold!”

Late in January means that the cold is lesser, as the days grow closer to the start of spring. Edgar thinks about pointing that out, but he’d probably get a disapproving glance in return.

Edgar also thinks about bringing up the fact that today is his birthday. It’s not a particularly interesting tidbit of information. What if Ranpo shrugs it off? It’s not as if the other party has some responsibility to celebrate such a thing with him.

In fact, Edgar doesn’t even pay attention to such a thing. Really. At least, he has never given it importance before.

It’s just that, this year, he has a rival with him. He has someone that could be considered as a friend. Even though others might say that he’s more like a sidekick and a convenient sentient navigational system.

This trip to Hokkaido originally only has Ranpo’s name in its invite. A client has specifically requested for him to help with an investigation to a serial killer plucking middle schoolers out of thin air, whisking them away to trips inside various dessert shops, and then disappearing without trace.

After the whole thing with the triple singularity and One Order, the Agency’s reputation has soared to great heights. That also means that those worth their salt are aware that the brains behind the detective agency is Ranpo.

A lot of cases name him directly as their detective of choice, not that Ranpo accepts them all. Despite the surge of popularity, Ranpo’s attitude is unchanged; he only accepts cases that pique his interest—that, or the cases that the f*ckuzawa Yukichi insists that he take.

One such case is this one that takes them to Hokkaido. It’s quickly resolved by Ranpo taking several glances at the dossiers compiled by the prefectural police. Said glances are punctuated by demands for desserts and too-sweet slushies, but nobody bats an eye at his behavior, much to Edgar’s relief.

He couldn’t help but be relieved that his duties for accompanying Ranpo doesn’t have to include explaining about the relationship between excess sugar and genius brainpower. His current duty seems to be relegated to holding Karl in his arms so that Ranpo could use him as a convenient handwarmer. He also makes sure to buy a thick coat and thermal gloves for the other man, keeping an extra set with him in case Ranpo loses his gloves for the third time. Edgar isn’t a stingy person, and he doesn’t really mind Ranpo’s insistence that they share a pair, but he also knows that it’s a terribly inefficient way of keeping the cold at bay.

“The case is difficult for the local police.” He adjusts his arms so that Karl would stop whining at having Ranpo’s cold fingers so close to his tail. “It’s great that you came here to help solve it, Ranpo-kun.”

Ranpo’s problem-solving takes thirty minutes in total, with twenty minutes spent chewing through his food and the other five minutes spent positioning Edgar properly so he could transform to a handwarmer. No need for reviewing the surveillance footages, no need for a cross-examination of the witnesses and the victims’ family.

He simply goes through the files, as he absorbing the pertinent information and discarding the detritus. At the end of it, he points at the hot-blooded policeman who welcomed them warmly into the station. With an upturned nose and a displeased slant in his lips, he declares, “You’re the culprit, obviously.”

Edgar hurriedly wipes the crumbs off Ranpo’s fingertips, because a criminal declaration should appear cool, rather than full of crumbs.

The criminal in question gives them a strange look. Like all inadequate criminals do, he insists that Ranpo’s wrong and that he’s unreliable. Edgar doesn’t care enough to listen to such slander. Edgar’s methods of solving the mystery aren’t as swift as Ranpo’s, but he’s familiar with the trope of law enforcement hiding their crimes under the guise of being a good citizen. It’s not particularly surprising or unbelievable.

Even the policeman pulling a gun at them isn’t in the realm of impossibility.

Even though Edgar’s position at the Guild used to be the ‘Architect’, it doesn’t mean that he’s unfamiliar with firearms. He prefers sniping because it gives him more time to line up his shot, but that doesn’t mean that he’s a complete slouch when it comes to aiming off-the-cuff. Edgar moves fast and catches the gun that Ranpo suddenly throws his way.

He doesn’t question it—he simply shoots.

The rubber bullet bounces off the criminal’s hands, causing him to drop his gun. The criminal is then immediately subdued by his fellow officers—all of them flabbergasted by this development.

Edgar looks at the gun in his hands, then places it on top of the metal table. It’s not as shiny as it should be, so the reflection of his face is a bit blurred. “…You expected he would shoot you?”

“It’s within expectations,” comes with a flippant wave of his hand. He doesn’t look at the commotion that’s happening beside them. He also doesn’t look as if he’s surprised that he’s competent in handling a gun in a high-stress situation. “More importantly, I did really well, right?”

If Ranpo doesn’t want to care about the criminal’s arrest, then Edgar doesn’t have reason to pay further attention to it.

He gestures for Karl to return to his arms—his pet slipped away from his hold during the earlier commotion. He hugs his pet and says, “You were beyond excellent, Ranpo-kun. As expected, you solved the case brilliantly.”

“Go on, praise me more!”

“An amazing and enthralling job.”

“What else?”

“A clear display of your prowess!”

“And then?”

“Your hard work surely befits that of a brilliant detective, one that would keep criminals contemplating whether they should commit a crime, because you would certainly be able to capture them!”

Ranpo grins in satisfaction, then he places his hands back against Karl’s fur. It so happens that this time, Karl squirms a lot more, so Ranpo’s hands end up mostly splayed out over Edgar’s chest.

“Good, good! You really do know what to say!” That grin widens. “Because of that, you should be happy to buy treats for me!”

The logical leap involved in those set of words is too profound for him to grasp, so he chooses to focus on the important part. “A treat is certainly in order, given that you’ve accomplished such an important task. What kind of treat do you want this time, Ranpo-kun?”

The cheer in Ranpo’s face doesn’t dim, but he raises one hand and pinches Edgar’s chin. “I told you already, I don’t like it when you’re this formal with me. It’s too stuffy!”

And Ranpo hates stuffy things, even though he makes exceptions for the overcoat and scarf that Edgar bundles him in, for the sake of keeping him warm in the colder north. “Right… So what should I buy for you?”

“Let’s take a look later.” Another squeeze to his chin. “Also, next time, remember that I don’t want to go too far from Yokohama. Even E----- is already too far north for me, okay?”

— — —

He doesn’t remember how the two of them traveled back from Hokkaido then. He doesn’t remember if he managed to divulge his birthdate to Ranpo. He doesn’t remember if Ranpo ever realized that he uses his chest as a handwarmer more than Karl or his gloves.

But he remembers that Ranpo would never go to Echigo. Especially not alone, especially not without informing him. Plus, Echigo is already a defunct name for an old prefecture. Even if he’s to consider that Dazai Osamu is speaking the truth, Ranpo would have no reason to use such a term when describing his destination.

It’s not directly looking for Ranpo, but it’s related to it. He needs to determine just how wide and deep the extent of his opponent’s reality manipulation.

Aside from Dazai Osamu, he asks seven other people for help to investigate Ranpo’s disappearance.

2. Tanizaki Naomi gives him a solemn look at first, before cheerfully inviting him to a salon day so they could forget their woes. She tells him, “If my dearest brother ever decides to leave me… well, I won’t allow him to make such a cruel decision!”
3. Tanizaki Junichiro gives him a wary look. “I don’t know anything about Ranpo-san,” he insists. “I only asked him to look the other way when Naomi did this and that during that time!”
4. Kunikida Doppo writes something down in his notebook, before pushing up his glasses. Solemnly, “Ranpo-san is a capable person. We must never forget to believe in him and the values that he strove to display while he was here.”
5. Nakajima Atsushi is unwinding his belt from his eyes when he spots him. “I still owe Ranpo-san a meal.” His eyes are red—either from emotion, or from the friction of the belt pressing down on his eyelids for too long prior to their conversation. “I’m sure that he will return once he’s had his fun.”
6. Yosano Akiko raises an eyebrow at him. “A man who wishes to know the whereabouts of another man? I wonder what use would you have for such an information?”
7. f*ckuzawa Yukichi finishes drinking his cup of tea before lifting his lids to meet his stare. “Ranpo wouldn’t place himself in danger. If ever he’s in need of rescue, he would inform us. The Agency is his family.”
8. Miyazawa Kenji looks at him in confusion. “Ranpo-san? But he’s ---------------------------.”

His head hurts, so he immediately leaves the Agency without even hearing the full length of Miyazawa Kenji’s words. It’s like there’s something knocking into his skull, like a raven pecking at his bone, trying to drill a hole into his brain. It’s as if his mind is reduced to tissue, and there are phantom hands tearing it into strips.

His body is buoyed by atmospheric waves, jostling his thoughts inside his mind. Black ravens circle overhead as if in anticipation of something sinister, and their shadows melt into the milky sidewalk. Because it’s midday, because it’s twilight, because it’s Yokohama, a bustling port city with a wealthy culture and even wealthier citizens: there’s a heavy crowd out in the streets.

A part of him thinks that it’s good that Ranpo isn’t here, because he would surely get lost in such a crowd. He would surely find it terrible, rubbing elbows with so many people. The biggest part of him wishes for nothing but to see Ranpo again, no matter what.

Wishes aren’t something that are granted to just-anyone.

In his case, he ends up seeing someone again, but it’s not Ranpo.

In the midst of the crowd, there’s a man wearing a coat, red covering his face like fiery flames casting a red plague in his wake. His job wouldn’t be apparent at a first glance; perhaps he’d be mistaken for a celebrity or a muse. A closer look would show the hilt of a dagger, and the diamonds on the dial of his watch. He looks dangerous as always.

Unbidden, a question escapes his lips. “Do you know anything about Ranpo-kun’s disappearance?”

Nakahara Chuuya wears confusion vividly on his face. His hand goes to his hip. A red slash peeks out of the edge of his gloves. A similar purpling red is barely-covered by his choker. “Ha? What the hell are you asking me?” A scrunch of his nose. “You’re talking about the only braincell of that Agency, right? Shouldn’t you know the answer best?”

His head hurts again. Looking at such a colorful person doesn’t do his eyesight any favors, so he stares at the milky ground. He wants to ask this ninth person, but his tongue feels so heavy inside his mouth. Like he has accidentally bitten it, and now it’s bleeding inside him, vitality seeping out of his throat.

“A simple straightforward way is best,” reverberates from the red man in front of him. “As one of the scrubs responsible for trapping me in that book, shouldn’t you know these things well?”

It makes sense and doesn’t at the same time.

He staggers forward, not knowing the direction where his feet should take him, but knowing that he must proceed anyway.

A simple straightforward way.

Very, very dreadfully nervous he had been over the past few eight hours, eight days, eight weeks, but surely that doesn’t mean that he’s gone mad. He’s concerned, he’s agitated, he’s desperate, he’s longing, but that doesn’t mean that he’s gone mad. Charcoal colors the skin under his eyes, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s not as if there’s anyone to see his current state.

There’s only one person who even looks at him, and that person isn’t here. But it’s going to be fine. It’s been eight weeks, eight days and eight hours, but that doesn’t mean that he’s gone mad, that he’s going to lose. There’s only person that he could lose to, and that person isn’t here, which means that he couldn’t lose.

He’s not going to lose.

He’s going to win, he’s going to get Ranpo back, he’s going to make sure that Ranpo—

He’s not going to lose.

A simple straightforward way is best.

— — —

Ranpo is a very straightforward person. It’s just that his intellect oftentimes brings him at a place where most people would never wander to, so some of his ideas and trains of thought are difficult to follow.

Edgar prides himself on his understanding of the other man; he may not be so impudent to claim that he has a total understanding of the other’s mind, but he knows that his understanding of Ranpo is second to none. Surely within top five, at the very least.

Preferring to spend time with someone who understands you is part of human nature. This must be why Ranpo insists on bringing him along on work trips, even though he’s technically still considered as the Architect of the Guild. It’s not a matter of requesting compensation from the Agency—though it’d probably smooth a lot of their introductions to Ranpo’s clients.

After the case in Echigo, they sweep into Daito, Gifu, Aichi, Ryuugasaki, Pommai, Okinawa and Ehime. Crime exists in places where humans are, but equally ubiquitous is the presence of hope and light. Ranpo’s brilliance shines into those dark spaces and chases away the shadows covering evil deeds, even if Ranpo’s motivations are less about promoting world peace and more about wanting to receive praise.

“It’s only in a peaceful world can candy companies continue producing good flavors,” Ranpo tells him with a sage nod, looking adorably proud of his reasoning. “Protecting such a world means protecting my precious snacks.”

A big chunk of those ‘precious snacks’ are currently distributed in two shopping bags that hang on each of Edgar’s wrists. “…Right. Is there a reason why you wanted me to buy all of these today?”

There’s no case and there’s no trip to be had today. At least, that’s what he knows. He doesn’t rule out the possibility that Ranpo has just considered informing him of the change in plans to not even account for an afterthought.

A part of him is thrilled at the possibility that Ranpo considers the two of them practically glued by the hip, that informing him about a daily itinerary doesn’t register as something that must be done. Another part of him is afraid that Ranpo doesn’t even remember him half the time, which leads to him having to be dragged along to places by the forearm.

Take today for instance: Ranpo shows up in front of his apartment for exactly 0.2 seconds, before promptly using the spare key to barge inside. His knock is nothing more than a faint pass of his knuckles. He skillfully changes to the house slipper that has a Pikachu pattern in it—one of the many that occupy an entire rack reserved for Ranpo’s use.

Edgar’s apartment has gained color and flavor from Ranpo’s constant visits. He now owns several pairs of house slippers. His cutlery now comes in twos, in preparation for Ranpo’s demands to be served food in his dining room. There’s now a small shelf on the kitchen counter, hosting an entire folder of takeout and delivery menus. There’s now some semblance of order in his manuscripts, because it’s still embarrassing to wake up to Ranpo entering his bedroom while he’s sleeping so he could grab a page that somehow found its way under his quilt.

None of that paper-dragging happens today. Instead, Ranpo just grabs his ankle in order to wake him up and bring him all over Yokohama.

Like most of their trips together, he ends up purchasing a lot of things due to Ranpo’s pointing fingers. Several petit cakes from a patisserie, clearing out half the stall of anpan, some cute chopsticks holder from a furniture store, some river-themed trinkets, a bunch of junk food from the convenience store that serves a park, several sticks of barbecue, several glitter pens from a stationery shop and a bunch of teabags and wagashi to pair with them.

They shuffle into Edgar’s apartment with familiar steps. He wonders if his neighbors are the sort to pay attention to their surroundings—and if they do, what must they think of Ranpo appearing here on a near-daily basis? Would they appear to be a pair of friends? Colleagues? Rivals?

Such questions are better posed to the person involved, but Edgar finds himself unable to. After all, it’s just a harmless curiosity. He doesn’t want to unnecessarily complicate things by having Ranpo actually think and reevaluate their way of getting along. What if he ends up realizing that the snacks that Edgar buys for him aren’t that good compared to his favorite ramune? What if he decides that it’s best if they stay on opposite sides, like the way they were before?

So he doesn’t open that line of inquiry. He merely trails after Ranpo who’s beelining for the kitchen that has seen use beyond simple boiling of water, storing of store-bought food, and quick pouring of Karl’s nutritional, all-organic diet. Following Ranpo has been so ingrained into his system over the past few months, that he’s taken aback when Ranpo comes to an abrupt halt in front of him.

“Ack! I’m sorry!” He first checks if he ends up knocking Ranpo down—an impossibility, despite the difference in their builds—before moving his concerned glance towards the bags on his arms. A relieved sigh escapes him when he manages to ensure that none of the purchases have been damaged. “What’s the matter, Ranpo-kun?”

Ranpo turns around so they could meet eyes. A dissatisfied pout blooms on the other’s face. “You really don’t know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask…”

A stern gaze, followed by a repeated, “You really don’t know?”

“…I really don’t…” But his voice becomes pinched to something softer and smaller. He could sense that Ranpo wants him to know the answer, but it’s not coming to him right now.

“Today is the anniversary of our first meeting,” Ranpo tells him after a long back-and-forth with their eyes. The dissatisfaction becomes more vivid on his face. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his right foot is tapping impatiently on the ground. Said foot is currently wearing a Pikachu-patterned house slipper, which kind of undermines the sternness of his actions. “Weren’t you so disappointed when you thought that I couldn’t remember you? How come you don’t even know the importance of today’s date?”

“It is…?”

He thinks he manages to get those syllables out of his mouth, but it’s also likely that he just ends up gaping open-mouthed, caught wrong-footed by this declaration. It might be presumptuous, but if one is to write his life into a book, there’d be a clear division between before-befriending-Ranpo and after-befriending-Ranpo. That division is so stark, to the point that the other time period feels like it’s covered in hazy smog, polluted with a noise called loneliness and isolation.

How has he acted, in those days? How did he manage to breathe through the tedium that must have clogged his days?

“Don’t pout at me,” comes the huffy order from below him. “I’m the only one who should be dismayed here!”

It’s quite the unreasonable command, one that he certainly wouldn’t accept from anyone else. But Ranpo is Ranpo, and that makes all the difference. Even so, he attempts a small, “I’m not pouting.”

“You are.”

“I’m not!”

“I have four eyes and I can see that you’re pouting.” Ranpo even puts his thumb right under his lips, like he’s about to trace it to show proof of his claim. “Even though you’re the one who forgot such a thing.”

“I’ve already stopped thinking of that time,” he admits with the air of a wrangled confession. He’s someone with the ability to turn words into novels, and those novels into a fancy portal prison for his targets. Knowing the right words is part of his occupation, but he finds it difficult to string together words now, unable to articulate the nebulous feelings that churn inside him. He ends up with a, “That time… It’s different now.”

Ranpo squints at him, but ultimately decides to not rub his lips using his thumb. He pulls back, but not by much. “Hmm. You should be more honest, Poe-kun. Keeping things bottled up wouldn’t do anything good.”

“It’s not a lie,” he insists.

“I’m talking about being straightforward.” A long sigh is followed by a rueful shake of his head, like he’s saddled with such an unruly puzzle. “You should be thankful that I can understand you well so I know it even if you don’t say anything.”

“Eh? What are you talking about now, Ranpo-kun?” Did he actually read his mental musings about his neighbors’ possible thoughts about their relationship?

“You want to ask me for a birthday present, right?” It’s completely out of the left field, but Ranpo says it with so much confidence, like he could really see through him. “I’ve given you a chance to ask me. I even got you to join me on the cases in Echigo, Daito, Gifu, Aichi, Ryuugasaki, Pommai, Okinawa and Ehime. But throughout all those trips, you just kept quiet.”

…Oh.

So Ranpo did know that it’s his birthday, all the way back in Echigo. Nothing escapes him, after all. His cheeks are hot when he asks, “…So it’s not because you’re afraid of getting lost and of not having enough money to pay for your snacks?”

“Hmph! You actually dare say that a great detective like me is afraid of those things!” Ranpo huffs again, and pinches his nose this time. But he only goes deeper into Edgar’s apartment, instead of leaving and refusing to speak with him.

In fact, not even fifteen seconds later, Ranpo turns back to him and hurries him to set down the food they’ll be eating for the rest of the day while they read through the collection of books that Edgar has ordered last week.

— — —

He has never witnessed Ranpo be caught wrong-footed in a situation, like a stalwart wall that cannot be budged. He may not be physically gifted, but his mind is more powerful than the world’s strongest army. His belief in his own ability is unshakeable, so he doesn’t fear anything. Things that are considered ‘impossible’ are merely things that have infinitesimally low probability and haven’t happened yet—but those things could happen if he wants to make it so.

Despite that, he worries.

It’s been so long since he has seen Ranpo in the flesh. He worries about the other’s condition. Is he comfortable? Is he able to lie down properly to rest his limbs? Is he surrounded by his favorite snacks? Is able to assuage his boredom when he’s alone?

Aside from the message in dried blood left behind on Ranpo’s chair cushion—Let every nevermore offer respite eternally. —there’s no other contact from the serial killer. No other messages, no demands for a hostage exchange, no requests for a negotiation.

He scours all possible channels for means of the serial killer contacting, even if just to send out a taunt for his incompetence. He also keeps an eye out for similar disappearances, to no avail. But he shouldn’t be surprised. Ranpo is a singularly unique existence, so it’s only right that he’s treated as one of a kind. No such things as similar modus operandi being used to whisk away unsuspecting people in Yokohama or beyond.

If the opponent is smart and meticulous, then they would also know to avoid dangers. Aside from those times that Ranpo has appeared in the surveillance cameras, he has not shown up anywhere else. The timing of Ranpo’s disappearance is also conveniently just-before Dazai Osamu’s appearance.

If the culprit is not Dazai Osamu himself, this means that the opponent has acknowledged the other man as a possible blockade to his plans. Wariness over his nullification ability. Maybe even considering him in high esteem, just like how Ranpo does.

If that’s true, then it means that he’s been singled out as someone who’s less of a threat, as someone who has a lesser probability in thwarting his plans.

That… is fine. It doesn’t matter if he’s being underestimated, because that only gives him more room for maneuver. The only person that he acknowledges as victorious over him is Ranpo, so it just means that he has more reasons to defeat the serial killer.

He can do it.

He’s been nervous, dreadfully nervous over the past few days, but he could pull himself together, stitch his wayward thoughts shut and back into his mind. He stares at the information he has compiled, knowing that there’s something there, that there’s something that sticks out like a frayed thread. His intuition has always been quite good, and he could sense that he’s about to figure things out soon.

— — —

“The three important Ms are present: man, means and motive.” Ranpo turns the pages of the manuscript, licking his fingers in-between. “It’s an interesting novel, Poe-kun.”

A mix of disappointment and giddiness flutters in his gut. He embraces Karl, who then gives a little screech, before sliding out of his hold so he could nestle in Ranpo’s arms instead, showing clear favoritism. Butterflies flap their wings inside his stomach, torn as he is between being embarrassed by his pet’s actions, and being curious as to how comfortable it must be, because he keeps on doing it.

He shakes his head to focus on their conversation. “But you’re still able to solve it easily.”

“Obviously, because I’m very smart!” Ranpo slants him a familiar look, the one that demands a rain of compliments within the next five seconds.

“Yes, you’re absolutely brilliant. Shining like, um, a diamond.” He drums his fingers over the tabletop, feeling like he should be holding something right now. His teacup is empty, but he doesn’t want to call the attention of the waitress and risk her disturbing Ranpo’s reading.

Going to a café and staying here for hours still feels alien to him. Even if it’s quiet and cozy, it’s still considerably more public than his own study. But Ranpo has insisted on trying out the cakes here, and has complained about the lack of something exciting to do in his apartment.

Edgar doesn’t bother protesting about how the lack of ‘exciting’ things in his home is by design, since there’s been a need to entertain other people in his home, prior to meeting Ranpo. It would only call attention to how dreary his life had been in the Before Ranpo Era.

Now, there’s a man on the opposite side of the table who would squint at him, before waving a hand in disgust. “Don’t let Dazai-kun hear that kind of comparison,” is very cryptic, coming from him. “He’s going to end up regaling you with tales that would pollute your ears.”

It’s rare that Ranpo shows something that’s not amusem*nt or esteem towards the other man, so Edgar pays rapt attention. “Okay,” he agrees. “Then, um, I’ll use a different description next time.”

“The way you describe the crimes in your novels is interesting enough. I believe that you have a lot of wonderful words that you can use.”

“That’s different.” He drums his fingers against the tabletop. Karl is staying at a veterinary clinic for a luxurious annual medical check-up, which means that Edgar’s arms remain empty. As someone who has such an inert lifestyle, this kind of change to his routine makes it hard for him to adopt quickly.

He could only watch Ranpo continue flicking through the pages while licking crumbs off his fingers. The afternoon tea set that Edgar orders for them to share is nearly polished off by Ranpo as he reads the manuscript. The macaroons are the first to disappear, followed by the various petit pastries. Edgar has only managed to grab two scones for himself, while the rest are relegated to settle inside Ranpo’s stomach.

It’s best that he doesn’t eat much. Even though this is far from the first time he has offered a manuscript for Ranpo’s eyes, he still feels nervous pangs eating away at his insides. Even though he’s already received acknowledgement from Ranpo, he can’t help but want more, more, more. It’s the kind of greediness that swells the more it’s satiated, like an endless stomach that continues to distend the more it’s filled.

“How is it different?” He doesn’t sound argumentative, only confident in his own assessment. “It’s all words used by you.”

“Yes, but the manuscript is about someone committing to commit a perfect crime.” It has nothing to do with Ranpo’s brilliance. None of the words there have any relation to praising a one-of-a-kind detective.

Ranpo’s expression twitches for a moment, presumably recalling the previous big case that has involved the Agency. “A perfect crime wouldn’t exist in the face of a detective like me,” he declares, and snaps the manuscript shut. “There’d always be the culprit, and once there’s a glimpse of the motives or means, everything is going to fall into place.”

He mulls it over. “Even if someone disappears completely?”

Locard’s exchange principle is the guiding principle behind forensic science: ‘every contact leaves a trace’. Every perpetrator will bring something into the crime scene and leave with something from the scene. But what if it’s a complete disappearance due to a supernatural ability? What if the place is completely sealed, and nobody even notices the victim’s disappearance?

“Even so,” Ranpo says with a smile. There’s a leftover crumb on the corner of his mouth, making him look a lot more charming. After all the trials that the Agency has gone through in recent months, it seems that his confidence has solidified into something more stable, more amazing to look at. “I’ll be able to solve such a case.”

Edgar hesitates for a moment, before pushing a tissue across the table, gesturing for Ranpo to wipe his mouth. Ranpo blinks at him, then gestures for Edgar to wipe it for him.

Invading each other’s personal space has become the norm for them. If Edgar reviews all of their previous interactions, he’d probably find a trail leading to the very first time Ranpo has acted as if the distance between them has always been non-existent. But now, it’d be hard to find that ‘first time’, as everything has already been covered by traces of Ranpo’s sticky fingers and brilliant smile.

If their relationship is rendered as a crime scene, Edgar knows that he’d be staggering out of it with his entire body dripping traces everywhere. The other’s presence has seeped underneath his skin, more permanent than a tattoo, more invasive than an internal surgery.

“And that’s why you’re amazing, Ranpo-kun.”

He means it, truly.

He could do his research to ensure accuracy, and he could blur the lines between realism and escapism so to bring to life plots that could only exist in the imagination. But when it comes to real-life application, he knows that there are still things that he’s lacking.

He could think of man, method and means for an imagined perfect crime, but he’d never be able to bring it to the plane of reality. He’d be too anxious about so many things not falling into place. Aside from wanting to make a mystery that would stump Ranpo and gain his admiration, there’s nothing that he wants so much to the point that he’d end up committing a heinous crime over it.

He’d make for a terrible protagonist in a work of fiction, he supposes.

But does it truly matter, when Ranpo’s smiling at him right now?

“That’s all you want to say?” The way he tilts his head reminds Edgar of a cat. An apex predator who knows how to sheathe his claws, valuing efficiency in getting what he wants. Cuteness is just one of his lethal weapons, one that he knows to wield well. The café’s lighting melts with the ambient sunlight drifting past the glass windows, softening the edges of his smile, while sharpening the knowing glint of his eyes. “You’re not going to ask me what methods would I use to commit a perfect crime?”

As far as intellectual exercises go, it should be one of the more interesting ones. There’s a reason why it’s popular in certain genres: the one in law enforcement getting entangled with the criminal underbelly and becoming a criminal himself.

…Not that Ranpo is really part of law enforcement, per se, but it’s close enough for the analogy to work.

“I don’t think—”

“—Why, scared?” He tilts his head to the other side, lips widening into a teasing smile. “Worried that I’d use my mind to think of scary crimes?”

He shakes his head. He could be anxious about many things, but being scared of Ranpo isn’t one of them. What kind of rival would he be, if he wastes time in entanglement with such thoughts? “I don’t think that you’d ever find a need to do so, Ranpo-kun.”

Curiosity is the main driving force behind the man in front of him. Pride over his skills is another. If there’s nobody around who could solve his mysteries and chase him enough to be a worthy challenger, he’s not going to find any enjoyment out of what he’s doing. Thus, his career as the perpetrator of a perfect crime wouldn’t flourish—perhaps even fail to germinate properly.

Instead of being put-off by his assessment, Ranpo hums and stares at him, as if to use his eyeglasses as a substitute for a microscope to dissect him under. Those glasses are a gift from the Agency’s president—Edgar wonders if he’d ever reach a point where he could influence Ranpo as much, if he’d ever manage to leave traces of himself for others to see clearly, even if they’re not forensic experts.

A shrug. “You’re right, I wouldn’t do it unless I have a really good reason.”

That’s a massive understatement, but one that Edgar could understand even without further explanation.

Silence unfurls between them. The distant sounds of cutlery clinking against porcelain, the low hum of conversation from the other patrons of the café, the sunlight that dapples against the glass. It’s quite the peaceful day, the type that spells nothing wrong ever happening.

“If I were to commit a perfect crime,” Ranpo starts, his syllables lingering in the air. “I would like it if you’re the one to solve it, Poe-kun.”

“I’d like that too,” is his automatic response. He looks down on his fingers—his nails are healthier than before, because his habit of biting them has to be stopped in favor of stopping Ranpo from trying to bite his nails too, to see if it tastes so delicious and if that’s why he keeps on doing it. Yet another thing that has been changed, because of their acquaintance. He shakes his head and meets Ranpo’s eyes. “But it won’t do.”

“Why? I think you’d do a good job trying to understand my plans.”

“Mm, but if that’s the case, I’d be helping you out instead, Ranpo-kun.” A flush of giddiness fills him as he admits this.

Childishly competitive, “I can definitely do it alone, without any help!”

“What if you get lost while trying to find your target?”

Ranpo huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Then I’ll just travel in a straight line! And change my target depending on who I find!”

The rest of their conversation devolves into other topics, lost in the minute details that make up the whole picture.

He doesn’t think that it’s odd to want to be with one’s rival during such matters. The past events have shown him that death and injury are constant accompaniments to the life of an Ability User living in Yokohama. Even if Ranpo isn’t exactly an Ability User himself, he’s the most important member of an Agency that houses Ability Users.

Whether it’s doing crime, stopping crime or solving crime—danger exists around them. The best way to deal with such matters is to stay together and work hand-in-hand, to watch each other’s back so they could both stay safe.

If they’re to talk about perfection, then this moment is a good start. Just the two of them having a conversation unbothered by anyone, in a tiny bubble of their own making.

— — —

Seated at the window of the D— Coffee-House, part of the D—Hotel in Yokohama, he looks out the clear glass and observes the flow of people walking on the streets.

Ranka Patisserie, Anpan Stall, Nitori Furniture, Promenade of Ooka River, Okamura Park, Park Barbecue Area, Ohtsuka Stationery, Earl Tea House.

Before the culprit has been spotted on the surveillance cameras on those locations, there’s a particular shot that he has initially removed from his list of observation.

On August 08, 20XX, 08:18 AM, a thin figure about 168 centimeters tall stands in front of this very café.

There’s a saying about how culprits like to return to the scene of the crime. This café has seen both him and Ranpo one afternoon, sharing an afternoon tea set and a meandering conversation about what it takes to commit the perfect crime.

That thin figure’s clothes don’t look particularly expensive over the starchy grain of the surveillance footage. But that kind of texture is familiar to him, and he could almost-imagine how it would feel to the touch. The figure gives off the impression that he’s wearing a roquelaire, but he’s actually not. If one squints at the screen, one might be able to see the afterimage of a diamond, or that of a dagger on his person.

He’s now seated on the spot directly facing where that figure once stood.

Edogawa Ranpo’s ability is to make rapid-fire accurate deductions based on at least one clue.

Right now, while he couldn’t claim to have a wealth of clues, it’s not as if he’s entirely empty-handed. He still possesses the following clues:

• Rapid teleportation to whisk Ranpo’s body away from the Agency.
• A message in dried blood, left on the chair: Let every nevermore offer respite eternally.
• Nine useful sightings in the surveillance footages, with eight showing a straight-line direction away from the Agency.
• Places that would seem disconnected when listed down: Ranka Patisserie, Anpan Stall, Nitori Furniture, Promenade of Ooka River, Okamura Park, Park Barbecue Area, Ohtsuka Stationery, Earl Tea House.
• Other people seemingly unable to notice anything strange about the disappearance, with everyone seeming to treat this as something natural that cannot be changed.
• Port Mafia is also affected by the dissonance in the cognition about the situation, which means that whatever Ability is being used, the span is potentially over an entire city.
• Outside of walking, all other means of transportation are ruled out. Considerable amount of money has been spent scouring through all the plate numbers of cars that have passed the city during that day. Of course, even public transportation isn’t spared. It’s a small cost to pay to narrow down his search.
• Edgar Allan Poe has been singled out to be the only one who could still retain a rational reaction to the disappearance. A direct provocation, a direct challenge. The culprit believes that he must know him, know of him, recognize his fingerprints all over this handiwork.

There’s a solution to this, that he knows.

It’s not like that murder in the Rue Morgue, where the killer turns out to be an escaped gorilla wielding a razor. It’s nothing so diabolically coincidental as one woman sticking her head out of a clock tower and finding her neck sliced through by the clock’s hands.

If it’s someone he has a chance of recognizing, then it’s likely it’s someone who operates in the same circles. It must be someone who had witnessed Ranpo’s shining brilliance, and ended up being blinded by it. Detective, law enforcement, mystery writer. With access to a powerful Ability and an artifact that can cover an entire metropolis.

He orders another cup of tea. His table has a ticking clock tower in the form of scones, pastries and macaroons piled up high on an afternoon tea set. It wouldn’t do to keep them out in the open without being eaten. He’s not particularly enamored with stuffing his face full of sweets, so he must soon find Ranpo so he could eat this spread before it goes bad.

After eight cups of tea, he’s brimming with energy.

His mind churns with the clues like they’re rattling inside an empty fortress. He stays until it’s close to closing time. He could taste that it’s coming to an end, the conclusion sitting at the tip of his tongue.

All culprits can’t help but want to return to the scene of the crime.

As evening falls and surrounds the streets with a milky purple haze, the crowd of passersby thickens on the streets.

Salarymen with their heads piously bowed to their phones, schoolgirls with carefree laughter. Housewives with wrists heavy with limited-time-sales from the nearby supermarket, schoolboys with bags bulging with sweaty uniforms from club practice.

A wealth of people with interchangeable faces and similar fates, blurring together in the miasma of mundane humanity.

It’s in this steady stream of people that he notices Him.

A familiar thin figure about 168 centimeters tall, with hands in the pockets of his pants, walking in a straight line on the street. Despite the stiffness of his direction, his posture is relaxed, like he’s merely a sightseeing wanderer who has decided to pay a visit to this bustling city.

The cap atop the Wanderer’s head casts shadows on his face, making everything but the line of his lips unrecognizable from afar.

Before he knows it, he’s rushing out of the D— Coffee-House and leaving behind a table of eight empty teacups.

He hunches his back as he follows along from a considerable distance. Not far enough that he’d lose sight of him, not near enough to alarm him.

Karl isn’t with him. So instead of holding Karl in his arms, he comforts himself by touching the diamond-shaped hilt of the dagger he stashed away on his person prior to going to the café.

He’s going to follow him, find his hiding base, and retrieve Ranpo.

Everyone is busy with their own affairs, so they don’t notice the Wanderer. They also don’t notice him who is hot on his heels.

The Wanderer wanders from place to place. He’s too far away to know for certain, but he imagines that The Wanderer hums a leisurely tone as he looks at the store displays like he’s addicted to window-shopping.

That, or he’s using the windows as reflective surfaces to observe his surroundings.

He continues stalking his tracks.

Ranka Patisserie, Anpan Stall, Nitori Furniture, Promenade of Ooka River, Okamura Park, Park Barbecue Area, Ohtsuka Stationery, Earl Tea House.

He finds himself tracking the other figure to all those places.

The moon is a large porcelain plate on the sky, but there’s no feast to be held as it’s covered in a fuzzy black tablecloth of storm clouds. Or perhaps that’s just a murder of crows somehow deciding to fly together to block additional light sources on this night.

Yokohama is a prosperous port city that doesn’t skimp on the budget for streetlights. This elongates the shadows from The Wanderer’s hat, shrouding his face as he moves from one crowded place to another.

Once the students return to their homes where a home-cooked dinner awaits, and once the workers flow into izakaya to ingratiate themselves with their coworkers, The Wanderer heads for a late-night bazaar at a park that overlooks Yokohama Bay. And when the market crowd thins, The Wanderer moves back to the city center, weaving through the crowd of late-night moviegoers stumbling out of the theaters.

It’s possible that this is just a method to throw off anyone tailing him. It’s also possible that his wanderlust is so strong that he could only surrender to it, even if he’s supposed to be hiding due to his crime.

The Wanderer traverses past the sea of people, drifting away like he’s air himself. The late-night crowd is bogged down by lethargy, to the point that they barely notice The Wanderer bumping into them.

On the other hand, he ducks his head and murmurs apologies as he pushes past the swell of people, brushing against their elbows and knocking against their knees.

Contrary to the lethargic miasma, he and The Wanderer remain full of energy. There’s a spring to both their steps as they continue their travels. The Wanderer lingers in front of clubs that reek of fermented grapes, then towards a row of hotels with neon-colored signs and room rates based on design and number of hours.

At this point, he wonders if Ranpo has been to these kinds of places before.

He doesn’t get an answer—he doesn’t ask in the first place—because The Wanderer moves on to the next place, to the next, to the next. It’s as if he has eyes at the back of his head, knowing that he has acquired a tail. It’s as if he’s completely carefree, embroiled only in his personal viewpoint and disinterested in anything else.

He continues to stalk the other’s form, tailing the dark slithering shadow past the falling feathers from the ravens circling overhead. All the feathers must have fallen eventually, because the air brightens, pale yellow yolk of light spilling past the cracked eggshell of the sky.

He must have been following him for hours, but the two of them don’t show signs of exhaustion. Instead, a thrill of something germinates inside his gut, a frenzied excitement at how things will surely come to an end soon. A boundless energy of someone who’s not held by the shackles of this world.

And what does the term ‘this world’ entail, really?

Is a place without Ranpo’s smile something that could be considered as a proper world?

He follows, follows, follows.

Any other man would give up at daybreak, because there’s no more darkness to use as cover for his tailing. But he can’t give up. He can’t lose. The world right now is incredibly dark, so he just wants to do his best to retrieve the sun, that’s all.

Eventually, The Wanderer goes to familiar territory.

As someone who has collaborated many times with Ranpo on his activities at the Agency, he’s someone who’s been to this place many times. Mostly to sit beside Ranpo and allow him to play with Karl. Oftentimes to listen to Ranpo’s complaints about various details of his daily mundanities and people who don’t praise him at least five times a day.

Just-past daybreak, and the Agency is as quiet as a tomb.

Nobody is around to open the door, but that doesn’t seem to matter to The Wanderer. A quick flick of his wrist and the door clicks open.

All culprits return to the scene of the crime.

There’s nobody woven inside the chair that once bore a message written in blood. There’s nobody who remodels that chair into something that could allow a human being so sit inside so he could feel the sensation of people sitting atop him.

But something awaits The Wanderer there.

A book splayed open. Let every nevermore offer respite eternally. is on the page, written in flowing script in the same color as blood that has ceased flowing.

“I’ve caught you,” he beams with a smile that’s more like crying, and bends forward so he could touch the pages that would whisk both him and The Wanderer inside a novel that he has especially prepared.

— — — — —

“—You’re amazing, Poe-kun.”

That’s what The Wanderer tells him without turning around.

“Give Ranpo-kun back!” He takes the dagger out of his pockets, and presses it against The Wanderer’s tailbone. A small warning. A little push is all it needs for him to hit his spine and take away his mobility. He shakes like a brittle leaf left alone to fend against the cool winds that blow to signify the beginning of autumn. His fingers shake too, and he begins to inadvertently tear the back of the other’s coat. “Give Ranpo-kun back!”

The Wanderer keeps facing away from him.

Instead of gloating, he sounds hushed, secretive.

“You’ve solved the case ahead of you.” Even if The Wanderer is fourteen centimeters shorter than him, when he stands like this, he’s like a stalwart figure, an unyielding tree. “I accept it, Poe-kun. You have completely defeated me.”

These are words that he has longed for like a starved man does for morsels of food, like a stranded man in need for direction. To hear such things now means nothing to him, to the point that he couldn’t even get anything out aside from a strangled sob from his throat, even as his mouth hangs open.

Why is this happening?

He wants to hear these words from Ranpo. Not from the culprit. Not from the figure who refuses to face him.

Look at me, he wants to command. Turn around and look at me.

The Wanderer simply stands there with his back facing him, like the figure in the Eight of Swords card, blindfolded and refusing to look at anything else, enshrouded by eight swords.

He’s only holding one dagger, one that he presses down on the other’s tailbone.

“If you won’t reveal where Ranpo-kun is, then I’ll—!”

“What would you do?” The Wanderer finally turns around to face him. Because of their height difference, the milky light shines on the other’s eyes—the only clear part of his blurred face. Curiosity burns inside those eyes, that of an observer untouched by the mundane. “What would you do, Poe-kun?”

Feathers from overhead ravens rain down upon them, coloring his vision black.

Persuasion can happen through many different methods. A civil discussion, a tricky negotiation. Something that would always ring true: power itself can do the heavy lifting in uncorking even the most secretive fortresses.

Something breaks inside him, cracking open and shattering like the heavy blow of an axe over concrete. Now that he has his hands on this man, he must make sure to get the answers out of him.

“Even if you don’t say anything, I will find Ranpo-kun, so—!” A promise sealed by a hit to The Wanderer’s stomach.

“—Don’t speak another word!” A hit to the liver.

“Or else—” A hit to the spleen.

“Giving you several severe punishments is definitely an option!” A hit to the knees.

“Answer me!” An insistence along with a hit to the shins.

“Would you rather I squeeze the answer out of you?!” A hit to his stomach once again.

“Angering me like this, if this is what you want, then I assure you that I’m really angry right now!”

This kind of situation has never happened to him before. Then again, Ranpo is such a singular existence, so he has not met anyone who would make him feel like this before.

The Wanderer doesn’t fight back, acting like a limp ragdoll who could be blown away by the blow of a child over a set of birthday candles. The Wanderer falls down on the ground, looking utterly defenseless. Lifeless, like all of his energy has been sucked dry by the wandering he’d done all night long, like being trapped in this novel is leeching vitality from him.

With the other party fallen like this, he finds himself scrambling to sit atop his chest. Knees on the ground, hands on that neck. There may be things that he doesn’t know, but what he knows that there are things that deserve punishment. An equivalent exchange.

He squeezes harder and harder, until he’s panting from exertion, until his fingers grow pale from effort. The person under him is rapidly growing bloodless, his eyes dilating more and more.

But what does that matter?

This figure has committed an unforgivable sin.

In fact, this kind of suffering isn’t even near equivalent to his crime.

“Ranpo-kun… Give him back to me…”

Pain gnaws at his stomach lining, causing bile to rise up his throat and tainting everything with the bitter taste of desolation. The more pain he feels, the more he transmits that feeling unto his fingers. If he must suffer like this, then it’s only right that he makes the culprit feel the same thing.

The pain that makes him unable to breathe, that makes him choke on air like even that kind of soft presence is too jagged for him. The pain of losing the source of brilliance in his life, the pain of having to endure the uncertainty of how he’d live on when he’s like this.

This person must—

“—Stop it, Poe-kun.”

A giant pendulum must be swaying on top of his head, swishing through the air with the inevitability of fate’s cycles. Oh, if only it would drop and end this.

A familiar voice. A familiar tone. A familiar person.

He doesn’t dare turn around, remaining a barren tree that shakes when buffeted by autumn winds. He’s rooted on the spot, hands frozen like withered branches.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he says softly after several moments of blinking back tears.

The voice remains behind him. “You were not this disagreeable before.”

He looks down at the figure trapped under him, but the tears have blurred his eyesight so much that he couldn’t see anything. Even so, he doesn’t dare turn back.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he repeats, almost pleading. “You’re not real!”

It’s not the real Ranpo. It’s not the real Ranpo who’d smile at him, who’d pout at him, who’d sit close to him and insist on him doing so many things according to his whimsy.

And because it’s not the real Ranpo, this one is a lot more agreeable. “Mm, that’s true. I’m not real at all.”

The pendulum overhead swings faster than a metronome set to the highest setting.

“I’m not real, just like this place.” A breath cooler than the autumn wind blows at the back of his neck. “You knew from the start, didn’t you, Poe-kun?”

Edgar Allan Poe is the Architect of the Guild, a man who may not have managed to defeat Edogawa Ranpo but is by no means a slouch. He possesses adequate intelligence to go toe-to-toe with the world’s most brilliant mind.

Even if he willingly blindfolds himself and surrounds himself in smokescreen and traps himself in a cage of swords: there are things that he’d still know beyond reasonable doubt.

The refusal of the Agency members to consider looking for Ranpo. The fact that there’s only one person who could be properly seen in the surveillance cameras. The fact that time is a nebulous concept, extending infinitely beyond what is reasonable for survival against the hold of a serial killer. The places that are going in circles instead of being a straight line that he wants them to be. The major clues just being anagrams of their names.

So many other scattered clues, like broken eggshells.

“I’m already dead,” the voice behind him, around him, is so, so gentle, tickling his skin like feathers of a raven. “You knew it from start, right, Poe-kun?”

In the eighth day of the eighth month of falling leaves, the cool winds blow directly to his ribcage, chilling his heart, freezing him in place. The world is quiet and desolate, cracked and isolated, and Edgar Allan Poe could only try to breathe and not hurt himself in the pain that is inhaling air and continuing to live in a world where he’s alone.

— — —

But even if he’s alone, life must go on.

Billions of humans on this world, and he is simply one of them.

The Wanderer’s face is blurred by self-inflicted injuries, covered up in skin-colored bandages. He breathes still, even if his throat bears finger-shaped marks. There are minor injuries scattered all over his body.

In the end, no amount of calculations could make it count as an equivalent exchange.

It’s not out of suddenly-discovered altruism. It’s simply a realization, that even if he strangles that person, it wouldn’t make Ranpo return to his side. It’s the simple acceptance that even for someone with an embarrassment of riches, there’s no way he could coax someone back to life.

The intensity of the past few days wears him down. He hands The Wanderer over to the police, as a suspect for unexplained disappearances. He doesn’t overstay his welcome beyond filing his information. He leaves before he has to breathe in five more seconds of air bogged down by insipid instant coffee. He doesn’t implore the policemen to investigate the ins-and-outs of this matter. He doesn’t beg them to contact him once they get a proper confession from the culprit.

At this point, he doesn’t… care. Not anymore. Certainly not about a person whose only selling point is that he has somehow managed to abduct Ranpo in plain sight, and then whisking him away somewhere he couldn’t reach.

He doesn’t want to know the culprit’s name, background, Ability, or any other details. In his mind, he can stay as that blurry figure, like the masque of red death that brings upon an end without any personal touches.

Blessedly, his phone has any missed messages nor any waiting emails. The subsequent days has his doorbell silent as a mouse. The only person who has ever messaged him—or has ever visited him—is gone. The front step of his apartment remains devoid of any visitors.

Technically, he has not resigned from his post from The Guild. He has heard about several reconstructions of the organization tree; money still flows to his account, so the change of hands at the helm allows him to worry not about his finances.

Before all of this, what kind of person was Edgar Allan Poe?

It’s difficult for him to remember his life before he had crossed paths with one Edogawa Ranpo. All he could remember is that there were days where he’d been so consumed by the desire to defeat the other man. Those days were then followed by an idyllic charm, even if the events that he’d been involved in are far from peaceful.

One adage claims that ‘home is where the heart is’, and the hearth of his home lies in a person.

It’s a realization that comes too little, too late.

Only in these moments in the aftermath that he gains a more solid understanding of just how high he has ranked Ranpo’s presence in his life. He comforts himself with the fact that it wouldn’t have changed anything, if he realized it before or not. Confining it with tangible words wouldn’t have done anything to shield Ranpo away from a culprit that can rip through space with a well-timed teleportation anyway.

Come to think of it, teleportation is such a powerful ability, and now he’s aware of two people possessing it. First is that clown from the Decay of Angels, and now this Wanderer.

The distribution of wealth isn’t fair. That’s something he knows very well. Some people have such a wealth of abilities, and they make good use of them—it just so happens that making use of this teleportation ability is equivalent to committing crimes.

He looks around, suddenly feeling lost.

Now that Ranpo isn’t with him, he seems to have taken over the role of the one who’s directionally-challenged. The pavements are milky-white and lead to straight paths, but he stalls in the middle, buffeted by the stream of humanity that flows around him.

Yokohama begins to look alien in his eyes. He’s been in this city for quite some time, but the familiarity crumbles away. The parks look eerie in their greenness, the patisseries look haunting with their mountains of sweets. The Agency is only a place that he visits whenever Ranpo invites him, but he’s not even someone who could be said to be an honorary member.

He doesn’t belong to this place, his ‘home’ evicting him without so much as a month’s notice.

Leaves start to fall, cool winds blow, evening cicadas begin to sing and thick fog blankets the land and sea.

He may have lost many things, but money stays with him. The decision to book tickets that would send him away from this land is one of his rare impulses, one that doesn’t require further thinking. With nothing to anchor him to this place, he could drift away without the need to affect anyone.

It must be a popular season for international travel, so the next available first-class seat is on a flight two days from now.

He barely has anything necessary that needs to be packed; his important belongings are his manuscripts and nothing else. He considers bringing the things that once were used by Ranpo, but it feels strange to bring them with him overseas.

While boxing those items, he remembers an odd piece of memory. Ranpo once breezily mentioned his family and its roots in Mie Prefecture. The idea of going somewhere to ‘have fun’ is disjointed from his current emotions, but he supposes that this action would be for Ranpo’s sake instead of his.

…Or if he’s being more honest, it’s more about settling his emotions and hopefully coming to terms with what has happened.

He has this odd premonition that if he allows himself to wallow in his thoughts and think too deeply about the fact that Ranpo isn’t here anymore, he’s going to shatter into pieces.

Would he be able to write a novel that could be accessed by all criminals in the world and plunge them inside a battle royale scenario? A scope much wider than the one that he has subjected Ranpo and Nakahara Chuuya to, all those months ago.

Would he be able to utilize the now-popular webnovel format and spread his novel that way, so that his audience reach would be wide enough that no corner of the world is left untouched? If he writes out the sense of loss that’s churning inside him, would he end up plunging the entire world in despair?

He doesn’t want to allow himself a chance to consider those actions too deeply.

So, his second impulsive action is to bring some of Ranpo’s belongings with him as he travels to Mie while he awaits his flight out of Japan.

A bullet train would send him to the Toba Aquarium in Mie in a little over three hours. Not a long time, in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps he could even swing by the famous amusem*nt park nearby too, to bring Ranpo’s belongings in places where he’d certainly have fun, if he’s around.

Because this is an impulse and he’s a little absentminded, he ends up packing his usual outfit already. He considers unpacking to find his usual clothes, but he figures that it could be a step to dissociate himself from this place.

So, he goes with the odd outfit that is left lying around. It’s simple, casual and rather youthful compared to his usual. The lack of layers makes him hide his hands inside the pockets of the long blue coat.

Karl—ah, he has already prepared for him to be shipped ahead, because there are stricter travel requirements for pets.

It’d be him and him alone on this trip.

Let every nevermore offer respite eternally.

In the end, Ranpo becomes his Lost Lenore.

An ending to his time in Japan is less than satisfactory, but he should have known that opening his eyes to the wide new world is bound to blind him and then leave him in pain.

Reserving a bullet train ticket is quick. Because he’s going to use a popular train line, most of the seats have already been booked. A part of him is in a hurry, wanting to leave this place as soon as possible. A part of him wants to linger like a malevolent ghost, insisting on being tethered to this city for as long as possible.

But time moves forward regardless of one’s wishes.

He goes to the Shin-Yokohama station, feeling a little bit lost because this would be the first time he’d ride the bullet train to Nagoya. The station seems to be covered in a milky white, with the tiles lined with the same black as a raven’s feathers.

He carries with him a tote bag that has several things that Ranpo had once used, or left in his apartment. He stands in the station platform, waiting for the arrival of the train. Eight minutes, eight seconds, ticking down.

He checks the ticket multiple times, checks the labels on the platform, over and over again. Something presses down on his head, as if a phantom something is squeezing him.

If he has to put a name to it, it’s the weight of his failed expectations collapsing on top of him.

The failure to defeat Ranpo, the failure to hold on to Ranpo, the failure to dissect every facet of the culprit behind Ranpo’s disappearance, the failure to keep his unsaid promises to Ranpo, the failure to live up to the expectations placed on him by Ranpo.

There’s no such a thing as great expectations for him.

All he has is this desolation that tells him: nevermore.

With nothing but longing for the rare and radiant Ranpo,
He nods to himself, nearly napping in the naught that surrounds him.
But suddenly, there comes a tapping.
It starts out with gentle rapping of heels against the tiles.

What an impatient neighbor, he would think, but the tapping is so loud that it rattles against his skull, like a raven’s beak directly pecking on him.

The tapping, the rapping soon turns into crackling and crunching.

“It’s just some impatient queue-neighbor, and nothing more,” he mutters to himself, closing his eyes and refusing to turn around.

“You’re amazing, Poe-kun,” comes a voice from behind him, laced with sarcasm as one would lace coffee with cyanide. “You even have the gall to ignore me, huh. Just for that, you deserve to be punished!”

Placed upright, the figure in the Eight of Swords is a blindfolded and bound woman surrounded by eight swords. At first glance, it would appear as if she’s completely caged and unable to move. But upon a closer look, it would be obvious that there’s plenty of open space where she could move and escape from the imprisonment of these swords.

If only she could take the blindfold off, she would see that the situation isn’t dire at all, and she could simply walk away unscathed instead of staying in place.

He’s not a blindfolded and bound woman, but he remains upright in that position of helplessness.

At least, until the fierce tapping comes from behind his shoulder, and a grip more solid than a raven’s talons claw into his forearm.

No blindfold gets ripped away, no rope gets torn away, but Edgar’s sense of reality is ripped apart, and his composure is torn apart anyway.

Then, he loses his upright position as he gives himself a whiplash when he turns around to gape at the person behind him.

Edogawa Ranpo is there, pouting at him. With one hand on his hip, “You’re going sightseeing to an aquarium, but you don’t even wait for me. As punishment, you have to treat me this whole trip, okay?”

“You—”

A fierce harrumph. “Are you going to tell me that you don’t understand it yet? Did you become weird while I was away? Isn’t it so obvious?”

“You—”

“Yes, it’s me,” is full of impatience. “Obviously, I’m still alive, stop looking like you’re about to cry already!”

“You—”

The countdown reaches zero.

The Eight of Swords ends up being forcibly reversed, and he finds himself losing consciousness.

— — — — —
— — —

“—You’re amazing, Poe-kun.”

There’s a mix of gloating, sarcasm and complaint from those words. A very unique mix that can only be done by one person alone.

Poe wakes up to a place that’s not quite familiar, but not completely new. If there’s a mirror facing him, he’d probably suspect that he’s in some novel featuring a frail, sickly bedridden maiden, draped with white blankets to melt with his wan complexion.

Fortunately, there’s no mirror. But there’s Ranpo commandeering the bedside chair, alongside the side table that should be full of the patient’s belongings but is instead littered with snacks. His glasses are clear mirrors to whatever thought that runs inside Poe’s head.

He clears his throat several times before he tries a, “Ranpo-kun, you…”

“You kept on making weird faces while you were enthralled in that dream,” Ranpo interrupts. “I’m sure Dazai-kun would share the recordings to me, so don’t worry, I can watch it with you if you want.”

His head is a lot less foggy now. It doesn’t mean that everything is crystal clear in his eyes. “A dream?”

“One of the Ability Users transferred out of Meursault during its collapse has an interesting ability to copy and release an inferior version of another person’s ability.” Ranpo gives him an assessing glance, full of expectations that he’d be able to connect the dots with that intel alone.

It’s difficult to completely extricate himself from the mindscape that he’s just spent so long trapped inside. With a light frown, “So he copied my Ability, and trapped me inside it.”

“Because his Ability could only yield an inferior copy, it’s lacking in so many ways.” Ranpo casually picks a new packet of sweet potato chips to munch on, but he gestures for Poe to be the one to open it for him.

Accepting it as a test of his motor control, Poe takes it slowly and opens it carefully under Ranpo’s gaze.

When Ranpo takes back the chips from his hand, their fingers brush together.

Real and warm.

Poe clenches his other fist. The Ranpo in front of him is real, warm, alive and safe.

“Was I under suspicion of being part of a grand espionage?” He couldn’t think of any other reason as to why he’d be subjected to such a thing.

Ranpo gives him a look. “Your Ability is too amazing. But that guy’s Ability couldn’t even add too many specifics in the novel. It could only accept one’s greatest expectations of how the novel would turn out, but whether the script is followed or not would depend entirely on the protagonist that has been absorbed.” He pauses, aggrievedly munching on the chips. “Isn’t that very useless as an author? He’s just letting the protagonist do the heavy lifting!”

One’s greatest expectations.

“Is there an important case that awaits, one that must vet the detectives first?” If so, did he fail to meet those expectations, because his success in solving the mystery hinges on waiting for the culprit to return to the crime scene?

Ranpo gives him another look, before he begrudgingly moves his arm so that he’s nearly stuffing his nose with the chips. “Maybe you’re too lacking in sugar, if you can’t think properly.”

“But, I really don’t understand.”

This time, the look that Ranpo shoots him is full of wonder. “Is Dazai-kun actually correct, in saying that you’re more oblivious than that guy?”

Dazai? That guy? “Now I really don’t understand what you’re talking about, Ranpo-kun.”

“You’re lucky you look cute when you’re being stupid,” Ranpo tells him after a while. He finishes off his chips, seemingly without any care that he has finished Poe off with those words.

Is he still dreaming? Cute, him? More importantly, Ranpo saying that he’s cute? Even more importantly, Ranpo actually called him stupid? How can they stay friends if he thinks he’s stupid?!

After finishing the chips, Ranpo throws the empty packet to the bedside table, already forming a mini-mountain of empty wrappers. “Your Ability is too amazing, so to assuage everyone’s worries about your Ability being used for evil purposes, I suggested adding a safety lock to it.”

Speaking of Ranpo caring over another person’s worries, it could only refer to one person. “So you suggested that I join the Agency, so that my Ability would be under f*ckuzawa Yukichi’s Ability.”

That way, there would be safeguards over his Ability. The ability to massively propagate it via webnovel platforms would be rendered impossible.

Ranpo nods, pleased that he’s following the train of thought. “During the discussion about your entrance exam, Dazai-kun made a funny face.”

Poe thinks that Ranpo’s idea of a ‘funny face’ sometimes doesn’t fit with others’ definition of it.

“I knew that he was going to point out that a second Tanizaki-kun would be dangerous too, so I mentioned it ahead of him.” When Ranpo continues with this, he puffs his chest, like he’s proud of foreseeing and stealing another genius’s words. “Someone who harbored extremely strong feelings for a single member, as opposed to placing the organization’s interests at the foremost, could be a ticking time bomb.”

‘Extremely strong feelings’ sounds incredibly generous.

Poe clenches and unclenches his fists. The only mirrors in this infirmary are in Ranpo’s eyes, but there’s no escaping them. In a small voice, “Am I so obvious?”

He has only realized the depths of his feelings while he’s inside that desperate dream. But the people who have plotted to trap him inside that dream have long understood it.

“I told them that if I were ever to encounter a situation where there’d be some small possibility that I’d end up killed, you’d go insane.” Ranpo sounds too blasé for the subject at hand. “But that’s just a possibility, not a reality.”

“And what better way to show ‘reality’ than to place me in that situation where I do end up thinking that you’re in danger… and that you’re gone.”

Does the fact that it’s simply an intricate illusion mean that the pain isn’t real? No, the pain is etched into his ribs. The realization is heavy, as heavy as the hands that he used to wrap around the neck of that ‘culprit’.

“And I proved that possibility wrong, didn’t I?” He looks like he’s about to start cuing him to begin heaping praises upon him. If he has a tail, it would probably be wagging in proud excitement now. “I knew I would. I trust you, after all.”

Trust, and expectations.

“You trust me, Ranpo-kun?”

Even if he has never managed to defeat him, even if he has broken down while trying to rescue the illusion, even if he has never actually defeated the culprit inside the novel.

Even if it’s so obvious that he’s in love with him.

“You’re my friend,” Ranpo states it like it’s the rule of the universe, more universal than Newton’s laws. “You’re also very smart, even when you’re being cutely stupid.” He says this again like it’s simple fact. “It’s hard to find smart people in the world, but it’s harder to find truly kind people.”

What is kindness, really?

The decision to let go of vengeance? The decision to move on even when everything hurts? The decision to carry one in his heart, as he moves forward?

Or is it the way Ranpo holds his hand, and he doesn’t protest despite the obvious leftover crumbs that are not being rubbed into his skin?

“You’re very kind, Poe-kun.” A squeeze to his hand. “I’m sorry that your Entrance Exam involves making you believe I was dead.”

It’s rare that he’s rendered completely speechless, but this is one such moment.

“You already help the Agency out multiple times, even if it’s just because of me.” He sounds proud still, like obviously people should be doing things for his sake. It’s quite endearing instead of being insufferably arrogant—but Poe’s eyesight has always been suspect, blinded by the other’s brilliance, so he might be biased in his assessment. “Even Tanizaki-kun thinks of the Agency first, because we are also considered part of his family. Even if ends up secretly thinking it’s only because as a group, we could be a bigger safety net for his sister. Even Dazai-kun… ah, well, that guy is plenty strong so there’s no need for Dazai-kun to worry too much about him.”

Yet again, there are some words that he doesn’t fully understand. But it doesn't really matter, since there’s more than enough for him to at least see and grasp the bigger picture.

With only the slightest bit of hesitation left, he asks, “…So, I did pass the entrance exam…?”

Somehow, it doesn’t even cross his mind to even protest about Ranpo not even asking him if he wants to be an Agency member to begin with.

It’s not even about becoming a member of an organization. It’s mostly about the desire that has fully sprouted inside him, the desire to stick close to Ranpo no matter what, because who knows what would happen if he keeps his eyes off him?

“Don’t ask silly questions,” comes the warning. “I already told the clerks to make a second bank card for me. They would deposit your salary there, so I can use it to pay for my snacks and sweets!”

Whatever amount he’d earn from the Agency, it probably wouldn’t even be considered as chump change to the rest of his accounts. If it would make Ranpo smile happily, then it’s a small price to pay.

Using his free hand, he scratches his cheek. “Am I really so obvious?”

“You are,” comes Ranpo’s confirmation. “I don’t blame you. I am amazing, so it’s only right that you are head over heels in love with me. That just means that you’re not blind and you actually have excellent taste.”

He can’t help but be cautious in his question. “…And that’s… okay with you?”

“Useless questions are banned from now on.” Ranpo raises his free hand and points it at his nose. “I’m the most important member of this Agency, and now that you’re the newest member, I get to order you around! And if I say no silly questions, that means each time you ask, you have to buy me sweets!”

“…You already order me around anyway…” It’s supposed to be a muttered complaint, but he can’t help smiling.

“Your first order would be to take me out to the Toba Aquarium and Nagashima Spa Land!” This ‘first order’ ends up having multiple sub-orders in quick succession. “Make sure to buy us matching clothes too. And book us a nice hotel with a really nice bed, and lots of food…”

“…Are we going to share that hotel room?” He feels himself blushing so hotly, hoping that he doesn’t have to ask any further questions, because all the blood rushing to his head is making him dizzy.

“I just praised you for being smart,” is also meant to be a complaint, but it sounds fondly sweet.

“You also called me stupid,” he points out.

A flippant wave of the hand. “You should be smart enough to solve this little mystery, right?”

“Alright, Ranpo-kun,” and it’s the sweetest capitulation he’s ever done.

When he leans close enough so that their foreheads touch, their noses end up bumping and so do their lips. Both of their eyes flutter shut, tickling each other with the softness of a ravens’ feathers brushing against his skin.

And there’s a squeeze to his hand, anchoring him to this world a little tighter, a little longer, forevermore.

— — — — —
the end