Detective Conan: The Teyvat Syndicate — Chapter 338

Chapter 338: Feeling Happy

Venti tilted his head, his braids swaying slightly. “It’s just that Officer Matsuda mentioned to Natsume earlier that she bears a striking resemblance to the benefactor who saved his life three years ago.”

“And today,” Venti continued, his bright eyes curving into a seemingly innocent smile, “I noticed that the very first person Officer Matsuda locked eyes on when he arrived at the scene was you, Mr. Amuro. He seemed incredibly focused on your presence. It made me wonder if perhaps he knew someone else who shared your likeness…”

Venti paused, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head with an embarrassed, airy laugh. “But now it seems I was just overthinking things. After all, how could there possibly be so many doppelgangers running around in this world?”

“Yes… how could there be so many people who look alike?” Amuro echoed. His voice was soft, almost a murmur, but his deep, unfathomable eyes darkened. A heavy layer of guarded mystery settled over his features, completely masking the turbulent gears turning behind his calm facade.

‘Was Matsuda truly saved by someone who shares Miss Natsume’s face?’Amuro thought, his pulse quickening by a fraction. He was well aware of the horrific Ferris wheel bombing three years ago. He knew Jinpei had narrowly escaped death by sheer luck. Or so he had believed. He never knew there had been outside interference. A third party. And if this savior looked exactly like Natsume… and was presumably male…’Could that person be Cointreau?’A cold knot of unease tightened in Amuro’s chest. Would a ruthless Black Organization executive like Cointreau actually risk his own neck to save a random explosive ordnance disposal officer? It defied all logic. But if it wasn’t Cointreau, who was it? What twisted web connected this mysterious savior, Cointreau, and Natsume?’Tsk.’ Amuro suppressed a grimace. Cointreau’s suffocating presence seemed to bleed into every corner of his life. The man was like a lingering ghost, impossible to shake off.

The mention of the incident three years ago triggered another dormant memory. The serial bomber. The very same bastard who had murdered Kenji Hagiwara and nearly taken Jinpei’s life had resurfaced recently. Yet, before the madman could fully execute his new terror plot, his plans were violently derailed. Shortly after being apprehended, the bomber had been assassinated—sniped from an impossible distance.

When Amuro first received the intelligence report on the sniper’s clean kill, he had racked his brain trying to profile the shooter. Who possessed such terrifying marksmanship, let alone the motive to silence a random bomber? The pieces were finally snapping together. With Matsuda potentially tied to Cointreau, and Natsume having been directly caught up in the recent bombing chaos, Amuro now had a glaringly obvious suspect. The phantom sniper who had executed the bomber was almost certainly Cointreau.

Beside him, Venti cheerfully exchanged a few more pleasantries with Ran. Once they were all thoroughly reassured that Conan hadn’t suffered any lingering injuries, the two groups exchanged their final farewells and parted ways. Amuro played the role of the reliable chauffeur, smoothly handling the city streets to drop off Kogoro, Ran, and Conan at the detective agency. Once the Mouri family was safely deposited, he steered his car back toward his own safehouse.

The apartment was dead silent as Amuro locked the door behind him. He didn’t bother turning on the main lights. Stripping off his jacket, he sank onto the edge of his sofa, letting the heavy silence wash over him as he organized his thoughts. After a few minutes of quiet deliberation, he pulled out his encrypted terminal and initiated a secure video call to Cointreau.

The dialing icon pulsed rhythmically on the glowing screen, casting harsh shadows across Amuro’s face. It rang endlessly. Just as Bourbon’s patience frayed and his thumb hovered over the red button to disconnect, the screen flickered. The connection went through.

Cointreau’s sharp profile materialized on the display. He was still wearing his flawless male disguise. The pale, blue-tinted light of a computer monitor washed over his focused features, highlighting the intense concentration in his eyes. Judging by the angle of the camera, Cointreau had simply propped his terminal against a stack of books on his desk, not even bothering to look directly at the lens as his fingers flew across a keyboard.

Despite the thick layer of caution Bourbon always maintained around the executive, a flicker of genuine disbelief crossed his face. The man was working in the dead of night, alone in his own space, yet he still hadn’t dropped the physical facade. “Isn’t it suffocating to keep that disguise plastered to your face at this hour?” Bourbon asked, his tone laced with dry amusement.

Cointreau didn’t even turn his head. His golden eyes remained glued to the scrolling data on his monitor. “It is fine,” he replied, his voice a smooth, indifferent drawl. “Bordeaux has been quite productive lately. He synthesized an improved material for the prosthetic layers. It breathes much better.”

“Oh?” Bourbon leaned back, swirling an imaginary glass in his hand. “Sounds like the two of you are getting along swimmingly.”

It was a subtle probe. Bordeaux—Alhaitham—was notoriously cold, calculating, and utterly indifferent to office politics. For someone that aloof to willingly assist Cointreau with something as trivial as disguise maintenance spoke volumes., Bourbon hadn’t anticipated Bordeaux’s research and development skills to be quite so terrifyingly efficient. To yield practical results in such a short timeframe was no small feat.

“He couldn’t refuse,” Cointreau stated flatly, offering zero elaboration on whatever use he held over the Sumeru scholar. Finally, Cointreau paused his typing. He shifted his gaze to the terminal, his piercing eyes locking onto Bourbon’s relaxed, smiling visage. “Why are you seeking me out at this hour? I was under the impression you would be avoiding my calls, given our tense exchange a while ago.”

“I just stumbled across some rather fascinating information.” Bourbon dropped the casual act. He sat up straighter, his posture shifting from relaxed to predatory as he scrutinized every micro-expression on Cointreau’s face. “Three years ago, a man bearing a striking resemblance to you risked his own life to save a police officer from a rigged Ferris wheel. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Bourbon was seventy percent certain his deduction was flawless. The genetic traits shared by Natsume and Cointreau were simply too distinct, too ethereal, for some random civilian to coincidentally possess the exact same face.

He had fully expected Cointreau to deflect, deny, or weave a masterful lie. To his absolute shock, the executive didn’t even blink.

“Yes. That was me.” Cointreau confirmed the accusation with the casual indifference of someone discussing the weather. “However, your intelligence is slightly flawed on one detail. I was never in any life-threatening danger.”

Bourbon’s eyes narrowed. “From what I gathered, the situation was critical. The explosive detonated the very second that officer cleared the cabin. I find myself wondering… if it truly was you, why go to such extreme lengths to save a pawn of the law? Could it be that, aside from your dear sister, you have other familial attachments hiding in the woodwork?”

“I said, a situation of that caliber is nothing to me.” Cointreau tilted his head, his ice-cold gaze piercing straight through the digital screen, pinning Bourbon in place. He watched the intelligence agent fish for clues with a dry, almost mocking amusement. Slowly, a single eyebrow arched upward. “Besides,” Cointreau murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous, knowing register. “Knowing that I was the one who pulled that specific police officer from the jaws of death… you should be feeling quite happy right now. Shouldn’t you?”