"Thank you for your hard work, Yoshiki-kun."
Yoko stood in front of the signing table, wearing large sunglasses, a bucket hat, and a neutral-toned hoodie, yet somehow still radiant. Her hair was pulled up into a loose ponytail, and despite the long day she herself had endured on set, her voice carried a kind of sincere concern.
The staff member managing the line started to approach her—ready to explain the session was ending—until he noticed Hayashi Yoshiki raise his hand slightly, signaling that it was fine.
"Yoko-san," he said with a tired but genuine smile. "You made it just in time."
"Of course I did!" she said with mock indignation. "You promised to sign mine personally."
She placed a first edition of The Earl of Darkness on the table. Its protective sleeve was still pristine, and tucked inside was a folded pamphlet from one of her concert appearances—probably a keepsake she'd meant to gift him.
"This copy is special," she added in a quieter tone, so only he could hear. "It's the one I read every night during shooting breaks."
Yoshiki looked at the cover, opened the book, and began signing.
To Yoko-san, who lights up the stage and the page alike.
He handed the book back to her, and their fingers briefly brushed. He didn't make a show of it, nor did he try to read into the moment, but the way Yoko blushed slightly behind her sunglasses was enough of an answer.
From a distance, Haibara Ai watched the scene.
Yoko's bright, friendly presence and Hayashi Yoshiki's polite attentiveness formed a picture that was difficult to interrupt. Something about seeing the two of them interact triggered a strange twinge in Ai's chest—not quite jealousy, but more like a quiet observation of a world that still felt foreign to her.
So normal, she thought.
So casual, so warm.
Hayashi Yoshiki was someone who kept secrets—deep, dangerous ones—and yet here he was, smiling at an idol as if everything about him was safe.
But Ai hadn't forgotten what she saw earlier: Vodka, Cohen, Chianti at the signing event.
They came here... in public. Just for this?
No.
That was impossible.
The Organization didn't waste time like that. They didn't "support" anyone out of goodwill. Which meant...
They came to deliver a message.
And yet Yoshiki hadn't flinched. He hadn't missed a beat. Even as they stood right in front of him.
What was going on?
Conan's Silence
Meanwhile, Conan walked a few paces behind the Detective Boys, clutching his signed book and deep in thought.
Ai had acted strange.
And now that he thought back, she seemed especially tense when the black car pulled away... He didn't see who was inside, but he had a terrible hunch. He glanced at Ai, then at Hayashi Yoshiki—still casually chatting with Okino Yoko.
Don't tell me they were here too?
He couldn't prove it.
Not yet.
But something about the way Ai avoided his eyes confirmed what he feared: the Organization was closer than ever. And Cointreau—Hayashi Yoshiki—might still be walking a very thin line.
As the final guests filtered out of the signing venue and the staff began to pack up the banners and tables, Hayashi Yoshiki gently stretched his sore fingers.
"That was a marathon," he muttered, rotating his wrist.
Editor Asamiya approached with a bottle of hot tea.
"You were amazing today, Hayashi-sensei," she said. "We broke every attendance record we projected. You're officially our bestselling author this quarter."
"Then I expect the celebratory dinner to be extravagant."
"Already planning it."
Okino Yoko lingered near the side, waiting for the crowds to thin.
When she finally walked up beside him again, she looked almost shy.
"Are you free for a late dinner?" she asked.
Hayashi Yoshiki raised a brow.
"You're the one who just finished filming and still ran here. Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"Let's call it mutual concern, then."
Far away, in a quiet parking garage, Gin sat in the driver's seat of a black car. A half-smoked cigarette burned low between his fingers as he reviewed the photos that Vodka had forwarded.
Cointreau—posing as a public darling, shaking hands, taking pictures, laughing.
He's playing a dangerous game.
And Gin wasn't sure anymore if he wanted to stop him… or just see how far the man would fall before he burned.
He flicked the cigarette out the window and drove off into the snowy Tokyo night.