Shinichi Kudo’s footsteps ground to a halt exactly three meters away.
His hair sat in its usual, gravity-defying spikes, and his face wore that highly punchable, signature expression—a look that practically screamed, I am a genius, and I am fully aware of it.
Tōhō Getsukai leaned casually against the mall’s glass railing.
A cascade of silver hair spilled over his shoulders, catching the fluorescent lights, while the crisp pleats of his skirt swayed in the gentle draft of the air conditioning.
He wore a brand-new pair of Mary Janes.
Barefoot, the smooth black leather hugged the fair curves of his insteps, the single delicate straps forming a shallow, elegant arc.
Ran Mouri’s hands were still firmly linked around his arm, showing absolutely zero intention of letting go.
Shinichi’s gaze tracked a frantic, disbelieving path: from Tōhō’s flawless face, down to the tailored uniform, down to the pleated skirt, and finally resting on those Mary Janes.
Then, his eyes snapped back up to the way Ran was clinging to him.
The Great Detective’s brain shifted into high-speed overdrive.
Subject of deduction: Tōhō Getsukai.
Male.
Household registration confirmed.
XY chromosomes verified.
Known since childhood.
Shared countless meals at Auntie Eri’s dining table.
Deduction result: He is a man.
Visual feedback: He is absolutely not.
“Shinichi, close your mouth,” Sonoko chimed in, her tone dripping with helpful sarcasm.
Shinichi’s jaw clicked shut.
He cleared his throat, burying a cough behind his fist.
“Yuekui.
Long time no see.” He took a step forward, fighting a desperate internal battle to force his facial muscles back into normal, everyday social mode.
But his eyes betrayed him, darting involuntarily back down to the hemline of Tōhō’s skirt.
“You’re wearing a skirt…
again?”
There was no malice in the question.
It was purely the exasperated, daily grievance of a straight guy directed at another—biologically speaking—straight guy.
Tōhō tilted his head, a silver lock slipping over his shoulder.
The word again was deployed with exquisite subtlety.
It proved that the Great Detective already harbored a rich, traumatic vault of memories regarding this exact scenario.
“What’s wrong?” Tōhō asked, his voice warm, soft, and entirely unbothered.
“Does it not look good?”
Shinichi opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
It looked good.
It looked too good.
So devastatingly good that, for a fleeting, terrifying microsecond, the straight-laced detective genuinely questioned his own sexual orientation.
But that wasn’t the point.
“You’re a guy.”
“So guys can’t wear skirts?”
“It’s not that they can’t, but—”
“I look so good doing it,” Tōhō interrupted smoothly, brushing a stray silver strand behind his ear.
“If I don’t wear a skirt, it’s a tragic loss for the aesthetic experience of all mankind.”
He delivered the line without a single twitch of his expression.
The movement was so fluid, so devoid of theatricality, because he genuinely believed it.
Shinichi choked on his next breath.
His pride-and-joy logical chains were entirely useless against this person.
What did it matter if the evidence was solid?
What did it matter if the deduction was flawless?
You deduce he’s a man—then what?
Then you realize the information is worthless because absolutely nobody cares.
Including the suspect himself.
“Exactly, Shinichi!” Sonoko planted her hands firmly on her hips, jutting her chin out.
“Sister Tōhō looks gorgeous in anything.
Is it any of your business?”
“Right.” Ran nodded in fervent agreement, pulling Tōhō’s arm even tighter against her side.
“As long as Sister Tōhō is happy, that’s all that matters.”
Shinichi: “…”
Three against one.
And two of them were defectors from his own camp.
Watching Shinichi’s face crumple in frustration, Tōhō felt a wave of deep, serene calm wash over his heart.
Thinking back to when Eri Kisaki had first adopted him as a child, this Great Detective’s mother, Yukiko Kudo, used to bully him mercilessly.
The retired Hollywood actress would practically get stars in her eyes the second she spotted his delicate, doll-like little face.
She would scoop him up, smother his cheeks in kisses, squish his face, and aggressively force him into pigtails and frilly little dresses for impromptu photoshoots.
“Oh my god, Eri, this child is just too cute!
Can I borrow him to raise for a couple of days?”
He had only been six years old at the time.
Resist?
How could he resist?
Auntie Yukiko possessed a grip of terrifying, ridiculous strength.
When she flashed that dazzling smile and crushed you against her chest, breaking free was a physical impossibility.
Later, he got smart.
The next time Yukiko came over, he preemptively laid a smooth, invisible sheet of transparent plastic wrap across the hardwood floor of the Kudo family hallway.
Yukiko stepped right onto it in her designer high heels.
She slipped, her feet flying out from under her, and landed flat on her back with a heavy thud.
Naturally, the one who ended up getting screamed at was Shinichi.
Because six-year-old Tōhō Getsukai was sitting quietly on the living room sofa, his silver hair neatly tied with the silk ribbons Yukiko had just forced onto him, blinking his massive, innocent eyes at the commotion.
Yukiko had looked at Tōhō’s flawless angelic face, and then glared at her own son.
Shinichi was punished by standing facing the wall for two solid hours.
Because of this, Shinichi’s feelings toward Tōhō had always been a tangled, complicated mess.
He acknowledged that the guy was brilliant and unfairly attractive, but that respect was buried under a deep, suffocating sense of helplessness that had haunted him since childhood.
You could never win against this person.
It wasn’t a matter of lacking the ability; it was a matter of the rules.
Tōhō Getsukai existed in a position classified strictly as outside the rules.
“By the way, Shinichi.” Tōhō let his gaze sweep slowly up and down the detective’s frame.
“Have you grown taller again recently?”
Shinichi instinctively puffed out his chest, his posture straightening.
“Yeah.
174 centimeters.”
The corners of his mouth twitched upward, carrying a hint of subtle, hard-won pride.
After all, when standing in front of Tōhō Getsukai, height was one of the very few arenas where he could actually claim an advantage.
Tōhō silently drove a metaphorical dagger into the boy’s heart.
Enjoy your last few days of being 1.7 meters tall, brother.
Once you shrink into a literal elementary school student, don’t even think about bringing up the topic of height ever again for the rest of your life.
“That’s great.” Tōhō nodded, his expression so heartbreakingly sincere it belonged on a movie poster.
“Enjoy it while you can.”
Shinichi blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.
I’m complimenting you.”
Shinichi frowned.
Something felt wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint the evidence.
The Great Detective’s finely tuned intuition screamed that a trap was hidden inside that sentence, but the logical chain refused to connect.
He had no choice but to let it slide.
“Are you guys shopping?” Shinichi asked, his eyes scanning the colorful array of paper bags dangling from the trio’s hands.
He desperately needed to steer the conversation back to safe, normal territory.
“You bought quite a lot of stuff.”
“Yeah, it’s for the beach training camp this weekend!” Sonoko cheerfully shook the bags, the cardboard handles rustling.
Shinichi’s gaze shifted to Ran, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face.
“Beach training camp?
Ran, you didn’t tell me about this before—”
“We didn’t invite you.” Ran’s tone was perfectly natural, softened only by a tiny, polite hint of apology.
“It’s a girls-only activity.”
Shinichi froze.
“Girls?”
He slowly turned his head to look at Tōhō.
Tōhō offered him a slow, deliberate wink.
Shinichi swallowed the furious retort that had just reached the tip of his tongue.
Forget it.
Nobody here is going to listen to logic anyway.
“Um…
Ran.” Shinichi shifted his weight, taking a half-step forward and shoving his hands into his pockets.
He tried to project an aura of casual, effortless cool.
“Before the weekend, do you want to go together—”
“Shinichi.”
Tōhō spoke up.
The voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed a surgical precision, slicing neatly into the exact gap of Shinichi’s sentence.
“Are you busy right now?”
Shinichi blinked, entirely derailed.
“No, why?”
Tōhō tilted his head.
He looked at Sonoko.
He looked at Ran.
Then, he smiled.
It was a devastatingly gentle smile—the absolute gold standard of a caring, affectionate older sister looking down at her slightly incompetent younger brother.
It was a smile composed of thirty percent pity, thirty percent deep affection, and forty percent your destiny as a pack mule begins right now.
“Help us carry the bags.”
Sonoko caught on instantly.
Without missing a beat, she shoved her two heaviest shopping bags directly into Shinichi’s chest.
“Come on, come on, Shinichi!
You’re the strongest one here!”
“Wait, hold on, when did I ever agree to—”
“Shinichi.”
Ran turned to face him.
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t raise her voice.
She simply looked at him.
Quietly.
With just the faintest, softest hint of a plea in her large eyes.
Shinichi Kudo’s expression instantly petrified.
It’s over.
In this vast, chaotic world, he possessed the willpower to refuse absolutely anyone.
Anyone except Ran Mouri.
The high school Great Detective.
The brilliant mind who had unraveled countless impossible locked-room murders.
The man who wouldn’t even flinch while staring down a blood-soaked serial killer.
He silently reached out and took the shopping bags.
But two weren’t enough.
Tōhō smiled brightly and looped his own bags over Shinichi’s wrists.
Three massive shopping bags, topped precariously with a heavy shoebox.
Shinichi’s arms were fully loaded, the thin corded handles already pressing deep, angry red marks into his skin.
[Akarin’s Note:
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