Detective Conan: I'm a Boy, But They Treat Me Like a Big Sister — Chapter 40

Chapter 40: Three Women, One Show

Noon.

The lunch bell had barely finished echoing through the corridors for three minutes before Tōhō Getsukai found his path blocked. The stubbornly persistent, black-haired senpai had returned.

Kasumigaoka Utaha stood near the corner of the stairwell, one hand tucked casually into her uniform pocket, the other gripping her smartphone.

“The rooftop,” she demanded.

“Senpai, I haven’t even eaten yet—”

“The rooftop.”

Repeating it twice meant the negotiation window was firmly nailed shut. Tōhō followed at a leisurely, unhurried pace. A stray draft swept up the stairwell, catching his long silver hair. He casually tucked the fluttering ends behind his ears, maintaining his flawless maiden composure.

Utaha pushed open the heavy metal door to the roof. The early autumn wind immediately rushed in to greet them, carrying a crisp, biting chill. Without missing a beat, she spun around and shoved her phone screen directly into his line of sight.

“The first reader. You promised me.”

“To answer that again, I distinctly remember never agreeing to such a thing.”

“If you didn’t refuse, it means you tacitly agreed.”

What kind of rogue logic was that? Tōhō didn’t bother dwelling on the absurdity of her argument. He simply reached into his own pocket, pulled out his phone, and opened the trial reading chapter saved in his notes. He handed the device over.

“The first three chapters. That should be enough to keep you busy for now.”

Utaha snatched the phone with unreasonable speed. She leaned her back against the rusted chain-link railing and immediately began to read. The autumn breeze whipped her long black hair into a chaotic mess around her shoulders, but her dark eyes remained glued to the screen, completely unfazed by the distraction.

Tōhō stood quietly by her side, letting his gaze drift toward the distant, hazy skyline of the city.

The silence stretched for about four minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her page-turning speed drastically slowing down. It wasn’t because the text was a slog to get through; it was the exact opposite. She was carefully chewing over every single line, dissecting the prose.

Eventually, her slender fingers stopped moving. Her crimson eyes stared dead at the glowing screen, frozen in place for a long, heavy moment.

She handed the phone back with a slow, unusually gentle motion.

“…I hate you.”

Her voice was completely flat. Yet, Tōhō could hear the complex undercurrents beneath the syllables. This wasn’t genuine malice. It was the only coherent phrase a creator could muster when drowning in the churning emotions of witnessing overwhelming talent. A messy cocktail of jealousy, deep admiration, bitter unwillingness, and a very subtle, obvious spark of excitement.

Tōhō offered no comforting platitudes, nor did he feign modesty. Fake humility at a moment like this would only serve as a direct insult to her pride. Instead, he stepped closer, leaning against the railing right beside her, their shoulders almost brushing as they looked out over the afternoon cityscape.

“That bottleneck chapter you were stuck on for three weeks? You finished it in one go that night, and the prose was excellent.”

Another gust of wind swept across the roof, plastering a few stray strands of Utaha’s dark hair across her cheek and lips. She didn’t move to brush them away.

Turning slightly, Tōhō raised a hand. His fingertips gently caught the loose strands, sweeping them away from her lips and naturally tucking them behind her ear. The movement was fluid, intimate, and entirely unhesitating.

The older girl’s breath hitched softly in her throat.

“What you’ve always lacked isn’t talent, Kasumigaoka-san. It’s simply an environment where you can let that talent loose with absolute peace of mind.” He gracefully withdrew his hand, letting it drop back to his side. “So, come find me the next time you hit a wall. Lap pillows are free of charge, but you’ll have to bring your own ingredients for the midnight snack.”

“…Do you think you’re being humorous?”

“Just stating the facts. I had to pay for last time’s ingredients out of my own pocket, after all.”

Utaha snapped her head away, staring stubbornly at the concrete deck. The tips of her ears were burning a bright, furious red, and a faint pink flush had even crept down the side of her neck.

She didn’t utter a single word of refutation.

[Ding! Host has successfully guided Kasumigaoka Utaha to complete the emotional loop. Trust value greatly increased! Reward issued: ‘Speed Reading Mastery’ — reading speed increased by 300%.]

Excellent. He had managed to fleece another reward out of the system.

Tōhō was just parting his lips to say something to lighten the heavy atmosphere when the harsh squeal of rusty metal hinges echoed from behind them.

The rooftop door swung open.

The first thing to breach the threshold was a pair of signature golden twin-tails. Eriri stood in the doorway, a plastic convenience store bag dangling from her wrist. Her sharp blue eyes instantly locked onto Tōhō, then darted to his hand—the one that had just been hovering intimately near Utaha’s ear.

Even though he had already pulled away, the lingering proximity painted a very clear picture.

“…” Eriri’s lips pressed into a dangerously thin line.

A second later, the door was pushed open a bit wider. Isshiki Iroha poked half her head out from behind the blonde artist, clutching a plastic folder to her chest. A standard, perfectly practiced Student Council smile was plastered across her face.

“Kasumigaoka-senpai, about the invitation for the Cultural Festival discussion—”

The words died in her throat as she processed the scene on the roof. The flawless silver-haired beauty leaning against the railing. The dark-haired senpai standing right beside him, her face flushed and turned away. The ambiguously tight space between them.

Iroha’s professional smile froze, cracked for a fraction of a second, and then bloomed again with an even brighter, far more dangerous curve.

Three girls. One rooftop.

Eriri fired the opening salvo.

“So, Student Dongfang. Are you providing private lap pillow services to senpais now?”

Iroha immediately flanked her, piling on. “Lap pillows? What lap pillows? Senpai, you offer that kind of service?”

Utaha instantly recovered her icy mask, using her natural seniority to look down her nose at the two chirping underclassmen. The silent scent of gunpowder flooded the space, turning the crisp autumn air distinctly sour.

“You two certainly arrived at a coincidental time,” Utaha noted coolly.

“Coincidental my foot. I followed you for three floors,” Eriri shot back, not bothering to hide her stalking.

Tōhō watched the brewing carnage with a heart as calm as a stagnant pond. A shuraba? He had handled plenty of these battlefields before.

Moving with unhurried grace, he unzipped his schoolbag and pulled out three sandwiches, each neatly wrapped in clear plastic. He had prepared a few extra portions that morning, originally planning to feed his targets at staggered intervals throughout the day. He certainly hadn’t expected them to all conveniently gather in the exact same spot.

He handed the egg salad sandwich to Eriri.

He passed the ham and cheese to Iroha.

He offered the smoked salmon to Utaha.

The three girls reached out and accepted the food in near-perfect synchronization. Then, driven by some unspoken herd mentality, they simultaneously took a bite.

A second later, their jaws stopped chewing. Three pairs of eyes snapped toward him, filled with bizarre, complicated expressions.

Taking full advantage of the three-second window where their mouths were stuffed, Tōhō ruthlessly switched into work mode.

“Eriri, you’ll be handling the main visual poster for the Cultural Festival.”

The blonde’s eyes widened. She tried to spit out a fiery refusal, but the egg salad trapped in her cheeks prevented her from swallowing in time.

“Isshiki, coordination is your specialty. I’m leaving the scheduling conflicts between the various clubs entirely in your hands.”

Iroha blinked rapidly, her head bobbing in a subconscious nod before she could stop herself.

“Kasumigaoka-senpai, for the special guest of the literature discussion panel, it absolutely has to be you.”

Utaha’s chewing paused. A sharp flicker of alertness—What exactly are you plotting?—flashed through her crimson eyes.

Yet, not a single one of them voiced an objection.

Because in that exact moment, a collective realization hit them. Just three seconds ago, they had been aggressively probing each other’s defenses, secretly competing, suffocating the rooftop in invisible gunpowder. And while they were busy bickering, this person had effortlessly dismantled their hostility and distributed a massive workload.

Eriri finally managed to choke down her bite. She glared daggers at Tōhō. “Did you calculate that today would turn out exactly like this?”

“I simply made a few extra sandwiches,” he replied smoothly.

“Liar.”

Iroha raised her plastic folder, using it to shield the lower half of her face so only her sparkling, calculating eyes remained visible.

“Senpai, this little habit of yours… carrying around three portions of custom-made meals. How should I put this… you have a bit of a scumbag constitution, don’t you?”

“Thank you for the compliment, but I am a big sister.”

Utaha didn’t bother joining the verbal sparring. She simply took her time finishing the smoked salmon, neatly folded the leftover plastic wrap into a tiny square, and slipped it into her pocket.

She shot Tōhō one last, deeply complicated look.

“We will discuss the Cultural Festival later.” Utaha gathered the long dark hair that the wind had whipped into a frenzy, turned on her heel, and marched toward the rooftop exit. She didn’t even slow down as she approached the two younger girls blocking the path.

“You two underclassmen. Submit the first drafts for the poster and the scheduling coordination to the Student Council before next Monday. I will be reviewing them.”

The third-year’s oppressive aura was fully unleashed. Eriri and Iroha subconsciously shrank back, stepping aside to clear her path.

The heavy metal door clicked shut, leaving only three people standing on the concrete deck.

Eriri and Iroha exchanged a brief, loaded glance before their eyes snapped back to Tōhō in unison.

“…So what exactly is this nonsense about a lap pillow?” Eriri demanded, crossing her arms.

“A work-related injury,” Tōhō answered, his serene expression never slipping for a fraction of a second.

“What kind of job gives you lap pillow injuries?!”

Iroha leaned in, sliding a verbal knife right between the blonde’s ribs in a hushed, teasing tone. “Sounds like a very popular line of work.”

“Isshiki, shut up!”

Tōhō simply stood there, watching the two young girls immediately devolve into bickering. The corners of his mouth curved upward into a faint, thoroughly amused smile.