Detective Conan: I'm a Boy, But They Treat Me Like a Big Sister — Chapter 38

Chapter 38: The Lap Pillow and the Masterpiece

At exactly 9:00 PM, the quiet corridor of the girls’ dormitory C-building echoed with light footsteps. Tōhō Getsukai came to a halt in front of Room 403.

He carried a thermal insulated bag in his hand, the subtle warmth seeping through the fabric. Inside rested freshly made plum rice balls, sweet tamagoyaki, and a delicate little box of strawberry daifuku.

As a flawlessly thoughtful older sister figure, Tōhō understood the grim reality of the situation. A creator who had been burning the midnight oil for three consecutive weeks, surviving purely on caffeine and sheer spite, was highly likely to possess a stomach currently issuing a violent ultimatum. She needed his cooking to save her from herself.

He knocked on the door.

Three seconds later, the lock clicked, and the heavy door opened just a crack.

Kasumigaoka Utaha stood in the narrow gap, her long, ink-black hair cascading in a messy tangle over her shoulders. She wore a loose, gray knitted loungewear top with a dangerously wide neckline, leaving the elegant lines of her collarbones completely exposed to the chilly hallway air. On her lower half, a pair of simple black shorts clung to her hips, revealing a long stretch of striking, snow-white legs.

This senior obviously possessed zero concept of ‘needing to watch one’s attire when a male visitor arrives.’

Or rather, her sleep-deprived brain had entirely bypassed his actual gender, filing him away under the category of a harmless, reliable maiden.

“You actually came,” she murmured, her voice slightly hoarse.

“We already made plans. Why wouldn’t I?”

Utaha pulled the door open the rest of the way and stepped aside, offering him a silent invitation.

The moment Tōhō stepped across the threshold, his gaze swept the room.

Good grief.

The single dormitory room wasn’t particularly large, but the sheer density of chaotic information scattered across it rivaled a university thesis defense. Three towering stacks of reference books teetered precariously on the edge of the desk, while crumpled manuscript papers carpeted the floor like fallen snow. Lined up like a firing squad beside her monitor were four empty canned coffees. The tab on the fifth had already been popped.

And right next to the keyboard lay a freshly torn pack of stomach medicine.

Expression perfectly flat, Tōhō walked straight past her, reached over the desk, and picked up the fifth can of coffee.

“Give it back.”

“No.”

“That’s mine.”

Tōhō calmly slipped the chilled aluminum can into his jacket pocket, simultaneously setting the insulated bag down on the only remaining six inches of empty space on her desk.

“You’re already popping stomach medicine and you’re still chugging black coffee,” he said, his tone perfectly even. “Are you planning to sacrifice your stomach lining as raw creative material?”

Utaha crossed her arms, leaning her weight against the edge of the desk. Her crimson eyes narrowed, flashing with a stubborn, exhausted defiance. “Creation requires caffeine.”

“Creation requires a functioning digestive tract. Without a stomach, you won’t even have the energy to press down on a keyboard.” Tōhō unzipped the thermal bag, letting the trapped heat escape. “Eat first.”

The moment the tart, savory aroma of the warm plum rice balls wafted into the air, Utaha’s stomach let out a loud, incredibly uncooperative growl that echoed through the quiet room.

Silence stretched between them.

Utaha sharply turned her face away, the tips of her ears burning a brilliant shade of red. “…You didn’t hear anything.”

“Mm. I didn’t hear a thing.” Tōhō pulled out a neatly wrapped rice ball and held it out to her. “I suppose this is for the air to eat, then.”

She shot him a withering glare, but her hands betrayed her. She snatched the rice ball and took a bite.

After chewing exactly twice, a long, trembling sigh escaped her lips. Her tense shoulders dropped.

Just how long had she been starving herself?

Tōhō didn’t press the issue. He pulled up the spare chair, sat down opposite her, and began casually straightening out the chaotic mess of scattered manuscripts.

“Where are you stuck?”

Utaha demolished the rest of the rice ball in three quick bites, wiped her fingers carefully with a tissue, and pulled a thick stack of paper from beneath a reference book. She slid it across the desk.

“Chapter six. The heroine faces a critical choice after discovering the hero’s true identity. Stay, or leave.” Utaha tapped a manicured fingernail against a specific paragraph. “I’ve written seven different versions of her internal monologue. They’re all wrong.”

Tōhō looked down at the pages.

Across all seven drafts, massive blocks of text had been brutally crossed out with a red pen. In several places, the frantic scratches were so aggressive that the ballpoint had actually punctured the paper. Three weeks of pure, unadulterated creative agony were etched into those torn fibers.

He skimmed through the drafts rapidly, his brain’s high-level literary appreciation skill automatically engaging, dissecting the prose layer by layer.

“Your problem isn’t the internal monologue itself,” Tōhō said, setting the papers down. “You are trying to deduce an emotional decision using cold, rational logic.”

Utaha stopped moving, listening quietly.

“The heroine choosing to stay isn’t because she sat down, analyzed the pros and cons, and weighed the statistical risks against the rewards.” Tōhō tapped the third version of the draft. “Look right here. You wrote that she recalled seventeen specific details of her time with the hero, tallied them up, and concluded, ‘I should stay.’ This isn’t a romance novel, Senior. This is a reading comprehension exam.”

“…Then what should it be?”

“A moment.” Tōhō leaned back, pondering the psychology of the scene. “When people make truly life-altering decisions, they rarely rely on their brains. They rely on the visceral reaction of the body—the instinct that precedes conscious thought.”

Utaha stared at him. For a long, breathless moment, the room was entirely silent.

Then, she suddenly spun around and lunged at her computer. Her fingers slammed onto the mechanical keyboard, a frantic, rhythmic clatter filling the air as she began to type at blinding speed.

“…Senior?”

“Don’t speak.”

Understood.

Tōhō stood up, quietly unpacking the remaining tamagoyaki and strawberry daifuku, arranging them neatly on a small plate. He rummaged through her mini-fridge, retrieved a bottle of room-temperature mineral water, and set it within arm’s reach of her keyboard.

When Kasumigaoka Utaha typed, she completely transcended reality, entering a world entirely her own. Her posture straightened into a rigid line, her long black hair hanging like a curtain on either side of her chair. The staccato rhythm of her fingertips striking the keys was relentless, fast, and terrifyingly precise.

Tōhō sat quietly off to the side, acting as the perfect silent caretaker. Every thirty minutes, he would gently push a piece of tamagoyaki or a daifuku against her fingertips. Utaha would blindly take the food and eat it without ever breaking her gaze from the glowing monitor.

This level of manic focus was genuinely terrifying. It was no wonder she had managed to publish four successful works while still in high school.

Time bled away, minute by minute.

1:17 AM.

The frantic clattering abruptly ceased.

Utaha’s fingers hovered over the keys for a second longer. Then, she stretched her arms high above her head, her spine popping softly, before heavily slumping back into her chair.

“Finished.”

Her voice was a fragile whisper, carrying the bone-deep exhaustion that only hits when extreme mental tension suddenly evaporates.

Just as Tōhō opened his mouth to suggest she get some real sleep, a warm, sudden weight dropped onto his thigh.

Utaha had collapsed sideways out of her chair, her head landing squarely on his lap. Her dark hair spilled over his school uniform trousers like spilled ink. She closed her eyes, her long eyelashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks—a byproduct of staring at a glaring screen for four hours straight.

“…Senior?”

“Five minutes,” Utaha mumbled, her words slurring together as she nuzzled deeper into his leg. “Just five minutes. Your lap is infinitely more comfortable than my body pillow.”

“I appreciate the compliment, but I am a boy.”

“I know. So don’t move. This lap pillow is excellent.”

How did that logic chain even function?

Tōhō looked down at the notoriously sharp-tongued, arrogant senior currently using him as furniture. Bathed in the soft glow of the desk lamp, her sleeping face—stripped of all its usual biting sarcasm and haughty defenses—looked unexpectedly soft. Almost well-behaved.

He didn’t push her away. Instead, he raised a hand, gently brushing a few stray strands of hair that had stuck to the corner of her mouth.

His fingertips lightly pressed against her temples. A faint, invisible ripple of Hamon Breathing pulsed outward at an extremely low frequency, sinking into her skin. The gentle energy immediately began soothing the throbbing migraine brought on by continuous, high-intensity brain usage.

Utaha’s furrowed brow instantly smoothed out. Her breathing deepened, shifting into a steady, rhythmic cadence.

Looking down from this angle, he had a perfect view of her long, delicate eyelashes and the elegant curve of her nose. And, thanks to her shifting sideways, the wide neckline of her loungewear had slipped further down her shoulder, exposing a generous expanse of pale, flawless skin.

Hmm. The scenery really was quite nice.

Five minutes passed. She showed absolutely no sign of getting up.

Ten minutes passed. Her breathing remained completely even.

…She was dead to the world.

Tōhō looked at the quiet, beautiful girl resting on his lap and let out a quiet, helpless sigh.

Whatever happened to the promised five minutes, Kasumigaoka-san?

Suddenly, a crisp, mechanical chime echoed in his mind.

`[Ding! Congratulations to the host for completing a deep, intimate interaction with Kasumigaoka Utaha. Emotional fluctuation value has exceeded the threshold! Rewards are being distributed…]`

`[Reward obtained: The complete literary work “No Longer Human”. This work does not exist in this worldline. The host may use it freely.]`

Tōhō froze, his breath catching in his throat.

No Longer Human. Osamu Dazai’s magnum opus.

The man who penned the infamous line, “Mine has been a life of much shame,” had used this entire novel to ruthlessly dissect the suffocating hypocrisy of human society and the agonizing isolation of individual existence.

The entire text flooded into his mind, materializing word for word. The prose was so crystal clear that he could perfectly recall every single punctuation mark.

The sheer gravity of this book was on a completely different stratosphere compared to Farewell My Concubine. If releasing Farewell My Concubine was akin to tossing a heavy stone into the literary pond, then publishing No Longer Human would be the equivalent of dropping a depth charge into the water.

Once this saw the light of day, his path as a shameless literary plagiarist would officially upgrade from a dirt road to a high-speed expressway.

Tōhō lowered his eyes, his gaze falling back onto Utaha’s peaceful, sleeping profile.

If this proud, literature-obsessed senior had any idea that the person whose lap she was currently drooling on held a masterpiece capable of permanently rewriting the modern literary landscape… she would probably spring up and try to physically extract the manuscript from his brain.

But for now… let her sleep.