Silence fell across the scene.
Takashi Matsuo stood frozen, his mind blank. The carefully constructed defense in his head had fallen apart, and he couldn't think of a single word to say in rebuttal. Before he could recover, a sudden flurry of movement came from the group of journalists nearby.
The live camera turned with urgency and zoomed in on Hayashi Yoshiki's impeccably composed face.
"Mr. Hayashi! Is what you said really true?"
"You just looked at the scene once—how did you deduce the murder method so quickly?"
"Do you have any evidence to support your theory?"
"Why are you placing suspicion on Mr. Matsuo?"
"Will you take responsibility for your claims?"
The questions came like a barrage of bullets—rapid, sharp, relentless.
Hayashi Yoshiki instinctively took a step back, but Eri Kisaki quickly placed a protective hand in front of him.
Still, the press didn't relent, microphones pushed forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity and the scent of scandal.
After a brief pause, Yoshiki answered calmly:
"I believe there is evidence."
He continued, with the same clarity and grace he had shown on television:
"Let me explain why I suspect Mr. Matsuo. First, to shoot accurately from the seventh floor down to the fourth floor, the perpetrator would need considerable shooting skill."
"Coincidentally, on-air, Ms. Nagai mentioned that Mr. Matsuo is a firearms enthusiast, with skills allegedly comparable to a professional."
"Second, it was strange that Director Suwa—being the producer—wasn't backstage but instead in the mixing room. Mr. Matsuo claimed they had a meeting planned... which conveniently explains why he needed to confirm the director's location midway through the broadcast."
"Third, Mr. Matsuo left the set exactly during the 4-minute VCR segment, the only time that such a crime could be executed."
"Individually, these are just suspicions—but together, they form a compelling picture."
The reporters exchanged looks, visibly hanging on his every word.
"Now about the evidence," Yoshiki went on, his tone unwavering. "If this theory holds, then the murder method Mr. Matsuo used was sloppy. In my opinion, full of loopholes."
"Out of the four minutes available, at least two were spent executing the act—leaving no time to fully suppress the smell of gunpowder, change clothes, or hide the weapon thoroughly. Maybe he used plastic sheets to block residue, maybe he didn't. Either way, it's insufficient."
"Also, the reason Suwa leaned out the window must have been triggered by a phone call—perhaps a fabricated reason, something as simple as 'there's a UFO outside.' We can verify this by checking Suwa's call history."
"Oh, and the stairwell on the seventh floor is cluttered with equipment crates. It's likely the murder weapon is hidden there."
Inspector Megure, who had been listening silently, turned abruptly and barked, "Search the stairwell on the seventh floor immediately!"
Police officers rushed into action.
But before they could return, Takashi Matsuo's strength gave out. He slumped down, his face colorless, eyes dimmed.
"There's no need," he muttered hoarsely. "I confess."
The journalists around him fell into stunned silence.
"It's all Suwa's fault," Matsuo mumbled, his words spilling out like a broken dam. "He worked with the publishing company to bring you, Hayashi-san. I thought you were just some novelist... I didn't think you'd be capable of seeing through everything."
Yoshiki tilted his head slightly. His voice remained kind, almost regretful.
"Every method leaves a trace, Mr. Matsuo. Whether written in blood or silence—it's always there."
Matsuo said nothing more. There was no longer any point.
Inspector Megure signaled the officers, who took Matsuo away. Then the inspector turned to Hayashi Yoshiki, a proud grin blooming beneath his signature hat.
"Goodness gracious, you're something else, Hayashi-kun. To solve a murder this fast—are you sure you're just a novelist?"
Yoshiki responded modestly.
"It just happened to come to mind. I hope it was useful to the investigation."
"More than useful! Hah! Well, I'll need you to come back to the station later to give a full statement—"
"Inspector Megure," Kisaki Eri interrupted with a graceful smile, "could we leave that for tomorrow? We were planning to celebrate tonight."
The inspector nodded with respect.
"Of course, of course. Tomorrow it is. After all, it's us bothering you."
He was in a rare good mood. Honestly, with Shinichi Kudo missing and a case this complex, he had feared the worst. But somehow, the quiet, elegant novelist had wrapped everything up even faster than his usual go-to teen detective.
Megure chuckled as he climbed into the police car. But then, his phone rang.
He picked up—and immediately paled.
"What did you say!? A murder at Dorobiga Paradise!?"
"Alright, I'm on my way!"
The sirens blared again, and the car raced off into the night.
—
Meanwhile, Hayashi Yoshiki and Kisaki Eri had finally escaped the barrage of reporters. They reached the parking lot of Nichiren TV and climbed into Eri's signature Mini Cooper.
She glanced at him once they were seated.
"Are you alright, Little Tree?"
"Why ask that all of a sudden, Aunt Eri?"
"…Because you've been through a lot today," she admitted. Her tone was soft, affectionate, with a trace of motherly concern.
Yoshiki didn't respond. He merely looked out the window, watching the lights of Tokyo flicker across the polished hood of the car.
Eri looked at him again and changed her tone, smiling.
"Well, I'm glad you're still as calm as ever. Let's go. What do you feel like eating?"
"How about yakitori?"
"So the salad earlier wasn't enough, huh? Alright. Yakitori it is."
The Mini Cooper rolled slowly out of the parking lot and into the glowing streets.
Outside, the city sparkled—neon signs blinking through tree-lined roads, people laughing in the distance, traffic humming like an orchestra of life. It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
Eri glanced at him once more.
"You know… I'd like you and Xiaolan to meet properly. Formally. You're cousins, after all."
Yoshiki's gaze stayed fixed on the street ahead.
"Alright," he said with a faint smile. "I'd like that."
"Then it's decided."
And the car disappeared into the city lights.