When Amuro Tooru returned to Café Poirot, a light rain was falling over Tokyo. The hazy drizzle splashed against the café's floor-to-ceiling windows, softening the faint light from the attic into a warm glow.
He suddenly thought of the first night Kazawa came here.
He was the same then—sitting in the driver's seat, staring at the closed door of the attic, brows tightly furrowed, helpless and anxious.
He had sped all the way from Gunma back to Tokyo, and now the night was deep and silent, as if echoing the pain in his heart.
Amuro Tooru took a deep breath, pushed open the café door, and went up to the attic.
The attic door wasn't locked. He turned the handle and easily opened it.
A person in a Teitan High School uniform was sitting at the desk with his back facing the door, lightly humming a tune. The small attic was neat and clean, brightly lit by the ceiling lamp, as if everything was normal.
If not for the fact that the person—who looked like Kazawa—was carefully wiping down and maintaining a sniper rifle, Amuro Tooru might have thought that the despairing video he saw was just a nightmare.
Hearing footsteps behind him, "Kazawa" quickly disassembled the rifle into parts, placing them neatly on the desk. He stood up with a smile and extended a hand toward Amuro Tooru:
"Hello, you must be the senior Bourbon, right? I'm Kumeru. Nice to meet you. Please take care of me."
He spoke in the same polite tone Kazawa had used when they first met, which only made the resentment in Amuro Tooru's heart surge even more.
Amuro's face was dark, and he didn't shake the offered hand. He just folded his arms and asked coldly:
"Whose plan was it to have you replace Kazawa Akira? Why wasn't I, the one executing the mission, informed in advance? Was it Gin who sent you? Who gave him the authority to shove someone under my command? Shouldn't I get an explanation?"
Kumeru paused in surprise but didn't mind the hostility. He retracted his hand and casually stuck both hands into his pants pockets.
"If you've got complaints about him, better take it up with him directly, senpai. I'm just a nobody who just got here—I can't control this stuff."
"Gin said you're good with a sniper." Amuro's attitude was still nasty, raising his chin slightly. "How many yards?"
"Six hundred, Bourbon-senpai."
"What about close combat? What can you do?"
"Boxing."
"You can disguise yourself too?"
"Yup yup. Want to give it a try, senpai?"
Kumeru seemed very used to this kind of intense questioning, as if he was answering an HR interview. He responded one by one with a calm smile.
Amuro looked at that handsome face, which belonged to Kazawa. But in his mind, he could only picture Kazawa's lifeless eyes and blood-covered cheeks before his death.
Having the murderer speak to him with Kazawa's face made Amuro Tooru feel nauseous.
Seeing Amuro didn't reject the idea, Kumeru smiled and turned toward the desk. There was a multi-layered makeup box filled with common cosmetics and strange bottles and jars—clearly his disguise tools.
"Want me to disguise myself into what I look like now? Hmm… your skin tone's a bit tricky, might need heavy concealer—just kidding." As he fussed with the kit, Kumeru muttered,
"Just give me a reference picture, and I guarantee I can make the exact same face. My disguise skills are even better than my fighting. In the future, you—hm? Senpai?"
While he was turned around talking, Amuro had already pulled out his gun, flipped the safety, chambered a round, and pressed the muzzle against the back of Kumeru's head—without hesitation.
Kumeru looked completely innocent. He spread his hands, the brush and bottle in them falling back into the case with a clatter. Then he sensibly raised both hands to show he was harmless.
"I don't like people dirtying my place." Amuro's voice was cold like winter snow. "And I hate fake faces even more."
The attic was now spotless. Not even a trace of blood could be seen.
Amuro knew what he should do—he should smile, praise the cleanup and body disposal skills, then use that as a lead to ask about Kazawa's body. He should wrap an arm around the man's shoulder, casually say probing words, act like a proper intelligence agent.
But he couldn't.
Just like how he could never be nice to Akai Shuichi, when he saw this man's face—which belonged to Kazawa—all he could see was blood and death.
Even if he could pretend it was all part of "Bourbon's moody temper," it couldn't hide the impulsive truth underneath.
He understood. He just couldn't help it.
Right now—at least right now—he didn't want to see someone wear Kazawa's face and talk cheerfully to him. He wanted to tear off that mask and face the real, hateful truth. Face another unforgivable criminal.
So, Amuro directly reached out, grabbed Kumeru's cheek, and yanked—hard.
"Ow ow ow ow!" Kumeru, with a gun pointed at his head, screamed without any dignity. He raised a hand to cover the red mark forming on his cheek. "I told you that hurts!"
…Huh?
HUH?!?!
Amuro blankly pulled his hand back and looked down at his glove.
The fabric was completely clean. Not a trace of makeup powder.
He looked up, even more confused, at Kumeru, who was hunched over in pain and sucking in air.
"Your disguise…" Amuro's voice trembled with shock, "Wait, you're not disguised…"
Kazawa, rubbing his numb face—Amuro had really used full strength; that hurt—ignored the gun still aimed at him and turned around with a big smile.
"Surprised, Amuro-san?"
Amuro blinked. And blinked. He blinked hard.
His mouth opened slightly as he slowly lowered the gun.
"You're Kazawa… You, you are…"
"I am." Kazawa dropped the sweet, sticky tone of Meiji Gorou and returned to his usual voice. "I'm not dead, Amuro-san. Or wait, should I even call you that?"
At this point, Amuro's mind finally started working again after being blank for a second time.
"Then Kumeru and Meiji Gorou, that video…" If it wouldn't look silly, he'd be digging out his phone to rewatch the email video, or grabbing Kazawa's face to inspect it up close.
Kazawa lowered his head and laughed, his shoulders shaking.
"Filmed with a special technique. Just think of it as a really realistic performance." Kazawa looked casual as he pulled a small black camera from his pocket and waved it in front of Amuro.
Actually, he knew it was a bit risky.
Not because he might be exposed as faking his death, but because he couldn't explain how he did it.
He used methods beyond normal science for the filming and disguise. And where he learned his disguise, sniping, and fighting—he couldn't explain any of it.
To be safe, he should've kept it from Amuro.
But he couldn't.
Even if Amuro found out that this "Kazawa Akira" was really "Meiji Gorou," a good undercover agent wouldn't arrest him out of anger. Conan and the others would never find out that the "new Kazawa" wasn't actually new—because he really was himself.
Revealing himself to Amuro was the risky move.
He'd have to tell Amuro part of his plan—which also meant exposing that he had powers related to Cognitive Science. Whether Amuro believed it or not, his abnormal intel-gathering skills would definitely raise suspicion.
Keeping it secret was all gain, no risk. Life would go on.
Telling him had no benefit—except that he could strip away Amuro's onion layers and see Zero Furuya underneath.
He understood. He just couldn't help it.
Truth is, his original plan was to hide it. If he wanted to, he had countless ways to make Amuro believe that Kazawa was truly dead, his ashes already scattered in Tokyo Bay.
But then Kazawa saw Amuro sitting silently in that theater like a tomb, smiling at the past, watching dead people appear in his dreams…
Kazawa realized—he couldn't just stand by. He couldn't let Amuro, because of how much he loved him, end up hating him even more.
He had to admit it—he could no longer see Amuro as just a 2D character from another dimension. He couldn't manipulate a friend's fate like a game route anymore.
This was real. A person of flesh and blood. A deep undercover agent with a complicated past. Someone who had lived with him for a long time.
So…
Kazawa smiled in relief.
"Shouldn't you be telling me your real name now, Mr. Public Security?"