Confirmed dead? Did Kazami and the others succeed?
That thought flashed across Amuro Tooru's mind for only a second before a strong sense of foreboding tightened his throat.
No. If they had really succeeded, Kazami would've at least sent a confirmation email...
["Let me introduce your new colleague, and also your future subordinate — 'Kumel.' He's skilled in disguise, sniping, and hand-to-hand combat. Though a little immature, he's a rare talent. Train him well."]
There were no further details about Kazawa Akira's death in the email, but the sender had attached a video file at the end.
Amuro steadied his breath and tapped the video.
After a nerve-wracking load time, the screen first showed a blurry close-up of a face — the lens was so near it couldn't focus.
The person in the video seemed to be adjusting the camera. The footage was dark and shaky, sometimes flashing white due to overexposure. Amuro narrowed his eyes unconsciously.
"Ah, looks like it's working now. Sorry, sorry, I'm not very good with this kind of thing."
As he spoke apologetically, the video finally stabilized. He smiled and pulled back the camera. The shot came into focus, revealing a young man with a sunny smile.
Soft chestnut hair framed his face, and his amber eyes sparkled like honey under the light — warm and friendly.
Amuro instantly recognized him: the rising high school detective recently popular with the media for his handsome looks and approachable demeanor — Mameji Goro.
He was a member of the Organization? And even held a codename?
"I remembered halfway through the interrogation — I should be recording this. Paranoid coworkers are such a pain. I hope my future boss, Bourbon, isn't this difficult to deal with."
He cradled his cheek as he complained with a troubled expression, but his gloved hand accidentally raked across his face, leaving two streaks of fresh blood — instantly warping his youthful face into something eerie.
Startled, he looked down at his glove and sighed.
"Didn't notice I got it dirty… oh well, doesn't matter."
He picked up the camera and turned it toward another direction, revealing what had been hidden behind his body.
It was a place Amuro knew all too well.
The attic of Café Poirot.
Directly opposite where Mameji stood was the only chair in the attic. Seated on it was Kazawa Akira, slumped forward, bound tightly.
Mameji approached slowly with the camera, and the closer he got, the clearer the blood-soaked state of Kazawa became.
Whoever had restrained him clearly knew what they were doing. Kazawa's limbs weren't just tied — his hands had been nailed into the armrests by knives, completely immobilizing them. Like a dissected lab rat, pinned and helpless.
Mameji reached out with a gloved hand, grabbed a fistful of Kazawa's sweat-soaked hair, and yanked his head up.
Kazawa didn't resist. His pale, sweat- and tear-covered face was carved with two deep cuts from a sharp object, and blood was flowing down his neck.
His whole body trembled from unbearable pain, but his mouth was sealed shut with multiple layers of tape. Only faint, shaky groans could be heard.
Even through the screen, Amuro could feel the pain — his hands trembled around the phone. But he didn't dare look away. Couldn't look away. He clutched the phone tightly and stared in horror at the unfolding footage.
"See? It's really him — Kazawa Akira."
Mameji carefully zoomed in on the terrified, agonized face before setting the camera down on a table to capture both himself and Kazawa in frame.
"I don't like being so rough, but the soundproofing here isn't great. You'll have to bear with me."
He patted Kazawa's drooping face sympathetically. Kazawa jolted from the touch. Then Mameji picked up a brand-new butterfly knife, twirled it open, and continued:
"Same rules as always. I ask, you nod or shake your head."
He pressed the blade to Kazawa's neck and left a thin line of blood.
"Understand?"
Kazawa struggled to lift his head and stared at him with hatred, despite the blade at his throat.
"Ah, that look again."
Mameji's soft voice darkened. He grabbed Kazawa's injured shoulder, eliciting a pained grunt.
"So, you didn't understand, huh?"
"Mm!"
Kazawa groaned through the tape.
Then the knife plunged through his forearm, pinning it to the wooden armrest.
"I don't believe you've got nothing. Someone with nothing to protect doesn't endure this much. Where's the thing your parents left you?"
Kazawa trembled. After a few breaths, he slowly looked up at Mameji — no nod, no shake, just a hint of a smile beneath the tape.
Another stab followed.
"Elsewhere? No, not elsewhere…"
Mameji muttered like a scientist examining a specimen.
"It's here, isn't it?"
Kazawa twitched but didn't answer, only breathing hard.
But Mameji didn't give him time. He twisted the embedded knife in a full circle before yanking it out.
Blood spilled out again, splashing onto a wide plastic sheet spread across the floor.
Clearly, the attic floor had been prepped. The large plastic sheet meant no blood would touch the real flooring. Afterward, all it'd take was folding up the sheet and cleaning up — Mameji was experienced at this.
Amuro's mind went blank. He was stuck in a loop of mechanical thoughts, unable to fully comprehend what he was seeing — just staring at the screen with growing horror.
The footage didn't show the entire interrogation. It had clearly been trimmed — repetitive torture sequences were cut. Judging by the timestamp in the corner, the session lasted two to three hours.
By the end, Kazawa's once neat uniform was completely soaked in black-red blood. His body was covered in gaping wounds, skin flayed and curling.
What had once been a tall, handsome teenager had been reduced to a barely human mass of flesh.
Kazawa Akira had been butchered, one cut at a time.
That sentence carved itself into Amuro's brain. His vision blurred. When he blinked, he realized his eyes were brimming with tears — he could barely see the screen.
After spending weeks side by side with Kazawa, Amuro knew every detail of the boy's expression and demeanor — all of it shattered by this gruesome reality.
"Eh?"
While slowly slicing into Kazawa's leg, Mameji suddenly made a surprised noise.
He pulled out his blood-caked knife and reached in with his fingers, seeming to touch something. He carefully pinched it between thumb and forefinger and slowly pulled it out.
Lifting it to the light, a smile spread across his face.
He leaned in close to Kazawa's bloodied face and whispered like a devil:
"You really tried hard… but it seems Lady Luck's on my side. Sorry about that."
Then, soaked in blood himself, Mameji walked to the camera and held up the object in his hand for the lens.
It was a small black memory card, with arrows pointing inward on the top, bottom, and right sides.
Tears welled in Amuro's eyes as he clenched his teeth.
He knew that symbol — it was Kazawa Akira's memory card.