Conan smiled—half innocent, half lethal. With a quiet click , he aimed the tranquilizer watch at the inspector’s neck.
The crowd gasped. The culprit bolted. And a soccer ball, propelled by boosted sneakers, flew true.
“One truth prevails.”
“The victim didn’t slip,” he said, eyes sharp behind oversized glasses. “The puddle’s too clean. Someone moved the body after the storm started.”
In the rain-slicked streets of Beika, a small figure in a blue jacket knelt beside a chalk outline. Conan Edogawa adjusted his bow tie, voice modulator ready.
As the man slumped, Conan’s voice echoed through the hidden speaker, deep and unwavering: “The killer is the one holding a dry umbrella. Because no one walks through rain without getting wet—unless they never left the car.”
Another case closed. Another secret kept. The boy who was once Shinichi Kudo vanished again into the shadows—waiting for the cure, the closure, and the Black Organization’s next move.
The lead inspector scoffed. “A kid playing detective?”