A/N: Possibly triggering depictions of violence

"There he is! Men, move forward!"

With a field marshal's roar, a few dozen officers march across abandoned streets, nosily stomping past dark alleys and darkened complexes. Their boots squelch in filthy puddles filled with a sickening concoction of clumpy mud, scum, and a portion of the trail of blood from three blocks away. Conan, who is quietly jogging alongside them, winces. It reminds him of contorted bodies hung high, decorated with black feathers and dappled with a hint of tar. But even more than the unruly sight it evokes, Conan knows that they are never going to catch him if they are this rambunctious about it.

After all, this is Crow they are chasing after. And Crow isn't one to be trifled with.

Making a split decision, Conan darts into the nearest alley and activates his Homing Glasses. When Crow had disguised himself as part of the construction crew, Conan had planted a transmitter on him. The worker he had disguised himself as was so unremarkable that Conan had initially glossed over him, but when the fetid odor of iron wafted into his nose—heavy and foreboding, just like the stone that sank into Conan's stomach—he went with his gut. Now that he is actively tracking Crow's movements, Conan is all too glad he did.

It is after five minutes of deliberation that Conan realizes that Nakamori and his crew are chasing after a lost cause. Crow is resting in a warehouse a few kilometers away from the edge of Beika City, the opposite direction of where the majority of officers are heading. If Conan's senses aren't betraying him, Crow is erasing the last of the remaining evidence from his crime. By the time Nakamori realizes, it will be too late.

Cursing, Conan drops his skateboard on the damp concrete and kicks it to life, swerving around cumbersome garbage bags and discarded bottles and cans. He bypasses obnoxious drunkards and caustic taxi drivers, finally making it in one piece after three minutes on the highest setting the skateboard could endure. As surreptitiously as he can, Conan creeps towards the warehouse, his eyes diligently combing through the front door for any hidden traps.

There aren't any. And Crow's back is towards him, hunched over something that Conan isn't sure he wants to know the identity of.

He readies his tranquilizer, holding it up to one eye.

"Raise your hands where I can see them, Crow."

Crow doesn't hesitate to turn around, revealing two red contacts partially obscured by a top hat, a long, buttoned, black leather mask that curves downwards—a mimicry of a crow's beak—and a feathered black coat that yields to a red shirt and a stark, loose black tie. He looks young. Slim. Most likely Japanese. But Crow is infamous for his uncanny disguises; it isn't far-fetched to believe this is one of them.

Regardless of what he is or is not, Crow obliges, slowly raising both of his gloved hands in the air, palms facing Conan.

"So it's you, Junior Detective," he says, his timbre muffled by his mask. "Why am I not surprised. What gave me away this time?"

"You might want to take a shower once in a while," Conan replies tersely. "Unless a person is mortally wounded, they usually don't smell that strongly of blood."

"Hm. And here I thought I took care of it pretty well, considering the circumstances." Crow hums contemplatively, unaffected by his taunt. "Well, I'll keep that in mind for the next time."

"There won't be a next time," Conan snaps, moving forward. "I've already called Officer Nakamori. He'll be here any minute to lock you away like you deserve. And until then, I've got you cornered."

"Do you?" The sides of Crow's eyes crinkle, as if he is smiling under his mask. "Are you sure about that?"

"The hell you mean by that, of course I'm—"

It's then that Conan notices a glint in the corner of his eye, and he turns. Perched on a beam in the ceiling, right next to the window is a lone crow. It caws once, and then another crow lands in from the broken window. Two becomes four becomes eight, and before Conan's eyes, the entire warehouse becomes infested with black, beady-eyed crows, all of them staring at Conan.

"Now my babies are very charming," Crow says, and Conan jerks back to him, only to find him past him, casually leaning against the only visible exit and entrance, "but I'm afraid they're quite possessive. Terrifying, really. At least, I wouldn't want to get on their bad side. Crows are scavengers. Shed a little blood and they become ruthless. And as you're bleeding right now…"

Conan flinches, his eyes darting down to the scrape he earned on the way there before he glares at Crow, sending all of his hatred for his own weakness back at him.

"If it means that you'll go down, I'll gladly go with you," Conan hisses, training his watch on Crow again. "It'll take me a second to knock you out."

"Yeah, it probably will. But—" He whistles low and sharp, and two of his birds spread their wings, "that won't be today."

Incensed, Conan shoots the first and last dart he has, but with his attention partially focused elsewhere, he misses the target by a margin. He doesn't have time to get his ball dispenser belt ready; the two crows scream as they charge at him, pecking his skin red and swollen. Conan swats at them, but they swerve around him, hampering his field of vision—blocking Crow's silent escape—until it is abundantly clear that Crow is nowhere near the vicinity. Only then do they back away, one of them flying towards Crow's discarded evidence, trapping the plastic bag between its beaks, leaving only an index card behind.

Eight minutes later, Nakamori and his officers come bursting in the warehouse just in time to see Conan slamming his fist into the ground, bitter tears of frustration trailing down his cheeks.

Conan comes back to a tirade that he's too tired to deal with. Where were you, Ran asks, we were so worried, and what do you think you were doing, wandering around this late at night? He ends up muttering an insincere apology before slumping down on a tatami mat and curling into a ball. Not even an hour elapses when exhaustion viciously sinks its claws into his skin, shooting anesthetics into his skull. The call for dinner goes unheard and breakfast almost the same, but Kogoro gives him a good kick in the head and Conan is suddenly awake in the worst way.

He goes to school with a bun-sized knot in his head that barely improves when Ran gives him her rare kisses on his cheek, smoothing his cowlick down. Be safe, she says, and Conan feels a twinge of guilt for brushing her off last night. He smiles brightly at her before he runs past the closing gates, giving her one glance over his shoulder before he catches back up with the rat pack plus one. As always, Haibara seems to stick out from the other Detective Boys like a sore thumb.

He regrets this course of action when they gather around him in the classroom and Mitsuhiko asks, "Did you see the news last night, Conan-kun?"

"I always look at the news," he replies as he plops down into his chair, supporting his cheek with the palm of his hand. "Which part?"

"The most important part, obviously. The assassin-of-the-night—"

"The super cool, super handsome, super charming, and super friendly—"

"The one and only Midnight Crow!"

Ayumi, Mitsuhiko, and Genta cheer, and Conan bangs his head on the desk. After the bruising loss he received last night—again, his mind reminds him helpfully—he doesn't even want to think about that criminal, much less hear his name.

"Listen, you guys—"

"It was Fukushima Kengo, CEO of Xtreme Tactix," Mitsuhiko continues blithely. "There have always been complaints, but no one's ever been able to touch him ever since Ebi Kiyotake was assigned as the new president. And now Midnight Crow defeated him!"

Fed up, Conan interjects, "Do you hear yourself? You're happy that someone died. Yeah, he wasn't a good guy, but do you think he deserved to be—" Paraded around like a donkey, his corpse strung up high by his toes—"Slaughtered like that?"

"But he was more than a bad guy! He stole from his own company! He did really bad things to his employees. And every time he was placed in jail, he bailed his way out. He even gave the news reporters money so they wouldn't tell anyone! Do you really think someone like that deserves to live?"

"He deserved to face the full extent of the law," Conan retorts. "Just like Crow."

They stare at him, astounded, as if they can't believe what they're hearing, as if he's the one saying something wrong. Finally, Ayumi's bottom lip trembles, her hands shaking at her sides.

"You're so heartless," Ayumi sniffs. "Don't you care about his victims? Those women? They tried to tell others about what happened and no one listened to them! No one but Midnight Crow. So how could you say that he deserves to be punished?!"

If Conan was in a better mood, he would have explained about the prospect of life. That once a life was lost, it would never return. Those women may have had scars on their backs, but those scars would always have a chance to heal because they were alive. Circumstances could always improve because they had another day to look forward to. But that man would never have a chance to properly pay for his sins, and it was all because another criminal thought it best if he was dead.

"Two wrongs don't make a right," he says instead. "Simple as that. If Crow wants to bring them to justice, he should do it the right way."

"But…"

"No buts." Conan presses his forehead and covers it with his arms until he feels a light tap on his shoulder. Glancing up, he sees why: the Detective Boys are crestfallen, and Ayumi has more than a few crocodile tears descending down her rosy red cheeks. Once again, Conan has to remind himself that in the end, no matter how ambitious they are, the Detective Boys are children. They don't understand the world to be this gritty, convoluted, nebulous force like Haibara and Conan do; they perceive the world in defined tones of black and white, good and bad. Intelligence sparks their mind, but innocence clouds their eyes. To them, Conan words are nothing more than draconian, cruel, and unrelenting rebukes.

He sighs.

"Fine," he relents, and Mitsuhiko perks up. "At the very least, I'll hear what he has to say."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he promises, and they sober up, hugging and squeezing him as if he just earned them free tickets to Miracle Land.

During class, behind the teacher's back, Conan surfs the web for the latest articles about Crow, and for the most part, the results have all been overwhelmingly positive. Midnight Crow strikes again! The headline reads. After a case gone awry, Midnight Crow has unabashedly answered the plea of plaintiff and sexual abuse victim Nakahara Sachiko […with] Fukushima Kengo's death. Police are still scouring for his whereabouts—

On September 24th at 10:45 PM, in the middle of Arakawa, Tokyo, Midnight Crow suddenly appeared in front of a group of unassuming citizens, performing the most dastardly and breathtaking magic show Japan has ever seen—

Sightings of charismatic serial killer Midnight Crow have been reported in Nara approximately two hours before Aoki Laureate novelist Saotome Fu's death, leaving many to wonder if there may have been a connection...the incident has been dropped after police discovered—

Conan seethes as he snaps his cell phone shut. He knows he's not wrong, but hearing their praises and glimpsing through photos of exuberant and awestruck citizens has him wondering if he's missing something. How is it that several hundred thousand people are blinded by Crow enough to not only excuse his actions, but to encourage them? No matter how much a person dresses up a pig, a pig is still a pig. That is, unless they are so entangled with the superficial adornment they forget the pig altogether.

Conan is absolutely convinced that no matter what happens, he won't do the same.

For an impatient man, two weeks feel like two years, but Conan's endurance is richly rewarded when he spots another announcement featuring Midnight Crow on television. Another letter, another riddle, but Conan hasn't been tracking Crow's movements for nothing. He knows his motives inside and out; it doesn't take him much to piece the person, time, and location together.

This time the victim is a political animal: Hagemitsu Eishii, current elect of the House of Representatives. A shrewd man, possessing a calculating eye and a smile to match, but he didn't have a speck of dirt on his record. Helping locals with the recent earthquake crises, offering hefty donations to public schools, giving speeches at the University of Osaka, all of these were premeditated acts, but none in the least disingenuous. Midnight Crow is taking a huge risk to target someone like him…

If there's anything Conan knows by now, though, it is that Crow is oddly selective. He still stands firm about what he said before—two wrongs don't make a right—but it's also true that Crow has an unusual amount of sympathy for others. That doesn't change the truth, and that doesn't make his actions excusable, but it does make Conan think twice about Hagemitsu.

After reaching into Kogoro's desk, pulling out a paper and pen, and scribbling a sloppy note for Ran, he grabs his skateboard and backpack. In about eight minutes he's in front of Professor Agasa's house, pushing the front gate wide open and slamming it back shut with a kick. Hastiness sweeps his mannerisms off its feet, and Conan can't afford to feel bad when he has less than fifteen hours to drive to Osaka and find Hagemitsu, and much less time to coordinate with the police. If he saw, Hattori probably figured out the riddle himself, but he always was really cagey when it came to dealing with Crow. If Conan wants Hattori's help, he'll have to ask him himself.

Luckily, in the span of eight hours, Conan is able to get everything he needs and then some, leaving a barrage of police officers—and snipers—surrounded around Hagemitsu before he sets off to find out why Hagemitsu was being targeted. In hindsight, perhaps that should been the first stop, but Crow never made things easy for Conan and Conan wanted to save a life before anything else. If it meant that there wouldn't be another sacrifice, Conan would gladly give up another chance for Crow's arrest.

But what Conan doesn't account for is: Crow knows him as well. Conan always knew that Crow had a begrudging respect for him—he has stated on several occasions that Conan is more than a capable detective, one that was worthy of chasing after him—but he didn't realize how deep that respect went until he receives a frantic phone call from Hattori about crows flooding the stadium and gunshots and failure. And as always, Crow leaves behind a single index card with his signature and a brief address of where he left all of the evidence of Hagemitsu's corruption.

All Conan had needed was five minutes. Just five minutes, and he could have figured out how Hagemitsu was connected to the string of embezzlement charges, how Zhuge Lin was connected to his mysterious disappearance, just five minutes and he would have been there and back just in time to protect Hagemitsu and capture Crow, but he had been stopped at the most conveniently inconvenient time and now—

He feels a sharp gaze prickle the back of his head, and despite his self-depreciating frustration, he straightens. Glances in a puddle of water to assess his watcher. Nothing greets him but flickering lights and buzzing cables and he walks slowly, casually, sliding his hands in his pockets. The sidewalk is empty, but there's a flutter of wings and an inhuman scream and that has him looking up.

A single crow is staring at him, its beady eyes peering down at him. Maybe it's because of all of his experiences with Crow's birds, but he feels awry. He takes one hand out of his pocket, prepared to do something, but the crow flies up and Conan feels a tug at his chest and suddenly he's running like someone who lost his mind. He isn't even sure if this bird belongs to Crow, but if there is even a thousandth of a chance it was, he couldn't let it slip away.

The crow leads him to Ogimachi Park and sits daintily on a faraway headlight. On his part, Conan feels absolutely ridiculous for taking this seriously until he seeks him out.

It doesn't take him long.

There he is: his legs dangling on the edge of a skyscraper, Crow sits there, staring at the moon. He is barely a dot from where Conan is standing, but Conan recognizes him as easily as he does Gin and Vodka, and he's moving before he can even think twice. All of his meetings with Crow have been like shooting stars: circumstantial, rare, and fleeting, ending just as quickly as it began. Conan wouldn't let this chance go to waste.

The entire building is sleeping, making it easy for Conan to maneuver around security. It takes him an extra fifteen minutes to puff his way up the back stairs, but it proves to be worth it when he reaches the very top and sees his unprotected back. His rifles are a good distance away from him, but Conan isn't under any illusion that Crow is vulnerable.

Without turning around, Crow greets him with, "You didn't bring anyone with you."

A definitive statement. As Conan thought, he has been watching him for a while.

He closes the door behind him, leaning against it.

"I probably should have."

"Yes, you should have. But you didn't." Crow slightly inclines his head. "Why?"

"I have some questions I want to ask you. They'd get in the way."

"Is that so." Crow pats the spot besides him. "Well then. An interrogation works best when you can see the other person, right?"

"I'm fine right here."

"Hm. I don't think you actually want that. You're trying not to show it, but I can hear your breathing. You're exhausted, and you'd like nothing more than to rest. If it'll make you comfortable, I'll shed some more of my weapons too. It's the least I can do for you."

Conan bristles, but he lets his unsettlingly accurate assessment slide. "I can still arrest you, Crow."

"You came here with no officers, no skateboard, and no freakish soccer balls. You're defenseless, Great Detective; you have a lot more to lose than I do right now. I don't even have to lift a finger if I wanted to kill you; you should know better than anyone else that's true."

"…"

"But you came because you wanted me to answer your questions. You're curious about me, you trust me enough, and I like that. So I'm indulging you because I want to learn more about you too."

Finally, he looks back at Conan, and Conan immediately notices something different—his eyes. They aren't red like they have always been; they're a deep, warm azure. They're molten enough that Conan immediately knows that they're truly his eyes. It's an inconsequential detail that Conan could never find his identity with that alone, but it's a gift for him, for whatever reason.

In the end, it is what makes Conan capitulate and approach him, crouching six feet away. There is a long, black, metal pole in back of Crow, and Conan's suspicions are peaked, but Crow grabs it, pressing a button. Immediately the pole extends and fans out, and Conan realizes that this was how Crow was able to get away so quickly. Of course he had a glider at hand.

"A gift from a friend," he says, closing it and resting it gently on the ground. "Probably the best gift they could give to me. It's saved my life more times than I can count."

"Funny you're so appreciative of life when you take so many," Conan mutters, and Crow chuckles.

"You sure don't hold back. Believe it or not, I'm appreciative of all life, even those I take. What is lost won't ever come back."

Conan has a million questions floating around in his head, and if he had the time and wherewithal to entertain them all, he would. He has no idea what Crow is thinking either, luring him out to a place like this, treating him as if being defenseless makes him powerless. They both know that isn't the truth; the bird that has been cleaning its toes hasn't left Crow's side once. But even if that wasn't the case, he promised those kids he would at least listen. And Conan knows as well as Crow that they can read each other horribly well. His act only worked on those who didn't know better.

He decides to cut to the chase, same as he always has.

"Then if you value life so much, why do you do this? What is your goal?"

Crow is silent for a long time, and Conan stares at him, waiting expectantly. Finally, Crow sighs.

"I'm searching for something."

An allusive answer, but a truthful one.

"Something?"

"Happiness. Sadness. Anger. Any emotion, really." Crow takes a deep breath in and tilts his head back, the knot in his throat bobbing up and down. "Haven't you ever wondered how people are so adaptable? No matter the situation, they seem to right themselves back on their feet. And yet they're always aiming for greater heights. Even when they're satisfied, they aren't really satisfied. No one is. That insatiable thirst, I have it too. That's why I continue to look."

It's a criminal's plea to hope for sanity inside of insanity. But there are too many pieces missing, and Conan can't see the bigger picture. He can't see a picture at all. The words make sense, but it falls apart when juxtaposed with his actions, with his crimes. It's a motive, but it isn't his motive. They aren't even hints; they're nothing more than the shallow underbelly of what he's supposed to represent.

Nevertheless, Conan responds with, "Look for that in yourself. Don't take the lives of others for your own selfish desires."

"If I could, I would," Crow says quietly. "But I can't feel anything. Haven't been able to for a long time now. That's why I depend on others to feel for me."

The sides of his eyes crinkle as he regards Conan.

"You should be thanking me, Junior Detective. I get rid of all the bad guys for you."

"That call isn't yours to make, Crow."

"…Maybe not. But I still will, until I find what I'm searching for."

Irritated, Conan glares at Crow, and for a moment, their gazes firmly lock. Conan isn't sure what he looks like, but Crow's eyes are gleaming, twinkling as brightly as the stars above them, almost as if he's amused by what he finds. He stares and stares until Conan falters, feeling a jab of discomfort and vulnerability. He looks away to find five police cars parked around the entrance fifty stories below. It took them long enough, he thinks faintly, still off-kilter, they should have been here at least four minutes ago. Crow follows his gaze.

"A silent alarm, huh. Not bad, Junior Detective." Nonplussed, Crow stands to his feet. The crow that is a few feet away flies to his side, landing on his shoulder. "I suppose it was foolish of me to expect a simple heart-to-heart chat. Did you record this conversation as well?"

"Does it matter?"

Crow stretches, his shoulder blades popping noisily.

"So no then. I'm pleased you'd do at least that much for me."

"Don't think it's for your sake," Conan retorts, standing up as well. "Nothing you've told me explains anything. Relaying false information to lead us astray would be playing right into your hands."

"It wasn't a lie." Crow bends over, collecting all of his rifles with a swipe of his hand and unlocking the glider with the other. "I wouldn't ever lie to you."

"That wasn't the whole truth."

"Very astute of you to notice." His eyes peer deep into Conan's own, and again, Conan has that sense that Crow is somehow able to read his mind. It feels incredibly uncomfortable, and if he wasn't trying to bide time, he would have disengaged by now. "But who willingly bears their soul for others to see? If you want to know the truth, you'll have to try a little harder than that."

Before he has a chance to escape, Conan reaches out and grabs the end of Crow's coat.

"Tell me this. What did you want from me?"

"I wanted to see if you have what I need." He unclasps Conan's hand more gently than Conan thought possible for him. But he doesn't let it deter him.

"And?"

He doesn't answer, and the police storm in just in time to watch Crow step backwards and fall off of the skyscraper. They dash to the edge, but Crow is already a good distance away, a flock of birds trailing after him. One officer checks Conan for injuries, but the others rush after him.

And Conan? Three hours later, he ends up returning to Beika harboring more questions than answers.

News of Hagemitsu's gruesome death—a single shot through the left eye and meticulously picked apart by a flock of ravenous birds—and the dirt he hid away is splayed on television no more than twenty-two hours later, and this time the response is very mixed. There are those who applaud what Crow is doing, calling him Japan's one and only muckraker, and there are those who are skeptical. Government affairs should be handled by the government, one official comments. This criminal has gone way out of hand, says another. He needs to be dealt with as soon as possible. All thoughts that Conan has had for the last five months, but only now do others begin to take Crow seriously.

Conan wants to laugh himself to scorn, but he can't bring himself to.

Instead, he spends his spare time compiling a list of all of Crow's victims, probing around for similarities. But a good percentage of the string of murders are for other people. People who had had unsolved cases, people who had been wrongly convicted, people who had called him by the hotline he broadcasted so long ago. It was random, nothing that Conan could narrow down and declare without a shadow of a doubt that this was his motive. And why such horrific deaths for no reason? Crow didn't seem the sadistic type, neither has he ever received compensation for his kills.

Before he knew it, another week rolls around and Crow is sending out another notice—Walker Jessica, a foreigner this time—and this time it isn't only the local police and Nakamori on the move. He picks out men in dark suits hovering in the background of one live shot, and Conan has a feeling he knows exactly who they are.

They're the type of people who will shoot first and inquire later. They're the type of people that will guide Crow straight to his grave with his arms bound and his eyes blinded and if that happens, Conan will never know the truth. He's not afraid to admit that he wants to put him behind bars, no questions asked, but he has always been chasing after Crow all this time, he can't just—

He needs to go, if only to see with his own eyes.

As soon as Haibara returns back to the professor's, he asks her to make an excuse for him. She's unsurprised.

"You're going after Midnight Crow again," she states. "Better not, it's much more fuss than it's worth."

He pauses. "What do you mean?"

"Like you asked, I researched all of the victims' connections." She waves him over, and he plants down his backpack and meets her on the couch, leaning over her shoulder. She glances back at him once, but doesn't give any other indication she's bothered by the proximity. "There isn't a similarity among them, but there is a similarity among their acquaintances. Look." Haibara highlights the first victim, who stretched between two days, and then the second, and then the third, and then the fifth. Almost immediately Conan spots the pattern.

"Fibonacci's sequence."

"Right. And these people are tangentially related to this man." She brings up a picture of a tanned, mustached, middle aged Japanese man donning a black jacket and a black hat. Something about his mannerisms feels familiar, but he can't put a finger on it until Haibara gives a name.

"Snake. That's his codename."

Snake. Not an alcohol, but still suspicious.

"Do you think—?"

"I don't know. But it's better to be safe than sorry. If someone like him gets wind that you're alive…"

"He won't, I'll make sure of that. But I can't let that guy get killed before I find out from him, either." A chilling thought occurs to Conan, and he stops and questions himself, how many people has Crow killed? Last week made the thirty-third…

Abruptly, Conan straightens.

"I'll be safe," he hurriedly reassures her, "and I won't let them find anything about you. So do me a favor and take care of things here." He runs to the front and grabs his backpack, yelling, "And if you find anything about Walker, let me know as soon as you can!"

Grabbing his skateboard that was resting on the side of the gate, Conan steps on and kicks it on the highest setting, taking all of the shortcuts he can think of to the nearest train station. Chiyoda is the destination this time; it takes eighteen stops and two bus transfers to get there. He calculates the time in his head and comes to a shaky conclusion that should he try and economize, it'll take almost three hours to get there. And if they're involved, he reasons with himself, Inspector Megure and Officer Nakamori no longer have jurisdiction over Midnight Crow's cases anymore. He can't depend on them for help this time.

As it turns out, Conan's concerns are justified: when he reaches the Natural Museum of Art, he recognizes Kazami amidst a group of similarly dressed men and women. They spread out methodically, flashlights in one hand and a cartridge in the other. Those on the lowest end of the totem pole quarter off the area entirely in bright yellow jackets, trapping everyone inside the building in with a barricade of unmarked vehicles and keeping everyone else out. Traffic is redirected, but there is an obstinate crowd of people waiting to see if Midnight Crow will appear on the front-lines. Conan uses them as a diversion to slip past.

With an auspicious concatenation of Haibara's punctual updates and Crow's lingering birds, for the first time, Conan finds him just in time. Like a good sharpshooter, Crow's rifle is positioned in the perfect spot: a seat on the left on the farthest balcony—a blind spot for many, but an optimal spot for a sniper. It is hidden away, but considerably lit. As he draws near, Conan tries to make his feet light, but Crow still stiffens. He waits another beat before he continues to assemble his rifle together.

"You seem to have a knack for finding me," he notes, making the final touches to his set-up. "I don't think the smell of blood gave me away this time."

"Very funny," Conan deadpans. He unlocks the cover for his watch, his hand hovering over his wrist as he slowly creeps closer. "You've been slacking off. Your pets haven't been very subtle at all."

"On the contrary." Crow sits down on the checkered marble floor and nonchalantly checks his pocket watch. "You're just hypersensitive to them. That's why no one else notices them until it's too late. Which is noteworthy, I must admit. As expected from the Heisei Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't need your flattery." Conan strides forward until he's standing right in front of him, tranquilizer drawn. "What I do need is your information. Who is Snake?"

"Ah…" The sides of Crow's red eyes crinkle. "You've gotten that far, huh. So you already know why I'm here, then."

"I do."

"But I still don't see why it's any of your concern."

"Then here's something for you," Conan snaps impatiently. "Did you know that the secret police is after you? After last week, they've authorized the use of deadly force against you. And if you're captured alive by them, I won't be able to help."

"So you're saying that if I'm not captured, you'll help me?"

"I'm not going to aid in your crimes," Conan corrects, "but if it's outing a person from a corrupt organization, I have no problems doing that. If you promise to turn yourself in, I'll do everything I can."

"Mm, that does sound appealing. It would be nice to work with you, but…" His eyes lower, and Conan tries something else.

"Then what if I gave you what you needed?"

Crow piques up, interested.

"If you gave me that, I suppose I wouldn't mind conceding this once."

This once is better than never, so Conan nods.

"Then what can I give? As long as it's not against the law and it's something I can do, I'll give it to you."

Crow checks his pocket watch again, and then he slowly exhales.

"Close your eyes." Conan gives him a piercing look, suspecting the worst, and Crow adds, "If you want to give me what I need, you'll close your eyes."

Reluctantly, Conan obeys. He hears Crow shuffle closer until he can smell the leather on Crow's jacket and the underlying scent of copper and jasmine and roses—an unexpected combination—and then he hears a long rrrp, as if Crow is zipping something closed. He cracks open an eye, but Crow slams a hand over his face, and he's strong enough that try as Conan might, he can't pry his hand off. Regretting ever giving a limb, Conan begins to panic until Crow murmurs low. Hearing the soothing words in his ear takes Conan aback, and he stops struggling for a moment.

Content, Crow whispers a word of gratitude before there's warm breath fanning over Conan's cheeks and chapped lips on his—

And at that moment, everything seems to click together. Why Crow said what he did that night, why he was looking for something in Conan, and what he was looking for. Why the crows, which were always inclined to rip others to their unfortunate death, would only peck him red and swollen. Why he always found one of them following him around.

By the time Conan regains his senses, Crow has already pulled away, his mask firmly back in place, his eyes unreadable. Besides another glance at Conan, he ignores him entirely, dismantling his rifles wordlessly and packing his smoke bombs away.

Two minutes later, the secret police tracks Crow to his hideout. There aren't any traces he was ever there except for the tingle on Conan's lips and the piece of paper that mysteriously appeared in his pocket. There isn't anything that even indicates its Crow's in the first place, and Conan would have thought it garbage that he accidentally picked up if he hadn't turned it over.

On the back is a strand of a feather and a single word, his first and only hint:

Pandora.