The queue outside the venue stretched across the plaza, winding like a parade. Police cordons had to be temporarily set up to keep the peace, and fans continued arriving with bags stuffed with memorabilia and books clutched to their chests.
Inside, Hayashi Yoshiki's smile had begun to stiffen.
His hand, trained in neat calligraphy and fast writing, had been moving without pause for nearly an hour. Still, he maintained a composed expression, occasionally raising his head to nod or make small talk with fans.
"Please keep warm on the way home."
"Thank you. I'll treasure this forever!"
"Don't be. Thank you for coming."
Each exchange was small, but his charm radiated in every moment. And that, more than the signature, seemed to be what the crowd had come for.
Several meters outside, the air was thick with snow and tension.
Tequila let out a low grunt, arms crossed as he glared ahead. He didn't really get the appeal of writing books or reading them—but he understood power. And this was power: the kind that drew thousands, that bent crowds to one man's charisma.
"Is this guy really one of us?" he muttered.
Chianti gave a twisted smirk, bubblegum popping between her teeth.
"You look like you're ready to kill someone just from standing in line."
"Don't tempt me," he muttered, glancing down at the man he'd manhandled earlier, who was now watching from a safe distance, trembling.
Cohen, unusually anxious, shifted from one foot to another, his gaze locked onto the building entrance. The longer he waited, the more he itched to see Cointreau's new manuscript—not because he cared about literature, but because it meant something when a man like that wrote a story.
Chianti narrowed her eyes at the crowd.
"If any of these dumb girls knew what he did in his free time…"
"They'd probably fall harder," Vodka added absently. "You know how people get when they think they've found a tortured genius."
"That ain't tortured. That's lethal."
At the very back of the line, the Junior Detective Team was beginning to realize just how long the wait would be.
Ayumi stood on tiptoes, trying to peer forward, but the queue snaked around the plaza and out of sight.
"Maybe we can sneak forward a little?" Genta whispered hopefully.
"Don't you dare," Ai replied without looking up.
Her voice carried such calm finality that the large boy instantly shut up.
Mitsuhiko wiped his fogged-up glasses, glancing at Ai, then at Ayumi, then back at the endless line.
"We should at least calculate the rate of movement. If he signs one book every 30 seconds—"
"You'll have time to recite the periodic table before we get inside," Conan sighed.
He kept his tone casual, but his eyes were focused sharply on the venue.
Hayashi Yoshiki's popularity was understandable. He was smart, charismatic, mysteriously well-connected… and dangerous.
Conan couldn't shake the feeling that Yoshiki's growing public image was a shield—a façade growing thicker with every book signing, every fan interaction. The more famous he became, the harder it would be to touch him.
"He's gaining influence," Conan muttered under his breath. "And hiding right in plain sight."
Behind the table, Hayashi Yoshiki briefly excused himself to sip warm tea brought by a staffer. The slight pause in signing created a ripple through the room as murmurs ran through the crowd.
"Did you see how he held the pen? Like a calligrapher!"
"I want to name my kid Yoshiki…"
He could hear it all.
And with every admiring voice, every flash of a camera, every trembling fan—Hayashi Yoshiki felt his own shadow thickening.
They don't know a thing about me.
They weren't supposed to know.
His eyes scanned the room—past the staff, the fans, the decorations—and landed on a tall figure dressed in black at the far side of the security cordon.
His stare met Hayashi's with a cold stillness.
Hayashi simply smiled… and nodded.
Cohen grunted in return.
Nearby, Chianti stuck out her tongue and made a gun gesture with her fingers.
Hayashi's eyes narrowed in amusement, but he turned back to the next person in line without comment.
From her place in the waiting line, Haibara Ai looked on in silence.
Even from this distance, even behind the makeup of popularity, she could feel it:
He's hiding something again.
He always smiled like that—like nothing could touch him. But the deeper his smiles became, the more she felt the walls he was building.
She gripped her book tighter.
I want to understand you... but I also want to stay away.
And yet, there she was—standing in line, ready to step closer once again.