"How did he do that?!"
Gin's grip on his phone tightened. The talent he thought he'd merely discovered turned out to be far more dangerous—and far more fascinating—than expected.
"Interesting..."
"By the way, may I ask something? When the target was crushed to death, he landed on his chest, right?"
The noise from the scene had already stirred the nearby residents. Lights flickered on in windows, and a few curious neighbors stepped out, startled by the crash.
But up on the rooftop, above the street and away from the chaos, only the wind answered. Eitan's voice, however, came through the phone loud and clear.
"No... he landed on his back," Vodka replied instinctively—he had seen it clearly. Yasuo had been hit before he could stand.
At that moment, the calm voice on the phone shifted tone, suddenly sharp and annoyed:
"Tch."
Drip… drip… drip…
The sound of water from the bathroom gradually faded into silence.
A moment later, Eitan stepped out, dressed in a dark yukata, a towel draped around his neck as he dried his wet hair. He picked up his flip phone and unlocked it.
"Tomorrow evening at seven. Come to the bar."
Another anonymous message.
He glanced at it without much reaction, then deleted it and walked to the window.
Gin calling him in for another meeting was predictable.
But this time… Gin no longer held any real leverage over him. And whether the man still had backup plans, Eitan didn't particularly care.
In Eitan's mind, the Organization was surprisingly easy to handle.
As long as one completed their assignments, and didn't damage—or get caught damaging—the Organization's interests, everything else was negotiable.
Gin, for example, could dispose of members on a whim, yet he tolerated agents like Vermouth and Bourbon with ambiguous motives, and even allowed the unpredictable chaos of Chianti to exist in his ranks.
Why?
Because they were useful—and he couldn't pin anything on them.
But if Gin began to value him highly and started sending him out regularly for cleanup jobs or political hits…
That would be more troublesome.
"So… the next step is to raise my public status—quickly."
Just like Pisco, whose high standing in society kept him from being summoned too often. Even when the Organization needed him, his 'assignments' were rare and scattered.
Being just a mystery novelist wasn't enough.
"But if I were to become a well-known, active Detective..."
He looked down at the windowsill, deep in thought.
The Organization had no shortage of executioners.
But a Detective—one who could openly access information, participate in investigations, and even infiltrate other factions without suspicion—was far more valuable.
Becoming a Detective was something Eitan had considered from the beginning.
The Death Note was a terrifyingly powerful tool.
But if he relied solely on criminals pulled from the Organization's intranet to fill its pages, it wouldn't take long before someone noticed a pattern.
A public identity as a Detective gave him a perfect cover. He could interact with criminals, gather intelligence, and even recruit talent—without ever appearing suspicious.
Take, for example, the assassin known as The Jackal—a sniper with a fixation on shooting his targets through the right eye. Or Kevin Yoshino, a former US Marine sniper, or Maya Tachibana, a cold and elegant killer who favored steel wire strangulation.
Eitan might never need to use these people directly.
But having access to them—and to their identities—could open up countless possibilities.
After all, even with the Death Note, some tasks were impossible.
If he wrote that a random person with no combat background would headshot someone from 600 yards away using a sniper rifle, the result would simply be a cause-of-death rejection—and likely a heart attack for both.
But if that same task was given to a trained killer?
Different story entirely.
And because they were already criminals or assassins, no one would question a trail of mysterious deaths behind them.
"…"
The thought amused him.
Eitan set down the towel, his damp hair falling over his eyes. He sat at his desk and powered on the computer.
He typed into the search engine:
"Lupin III"
And hit enter.
The blank page loaded slowly—his internet connection was still frustratingly sluggish.
But then, finally, results appeared.
Lupin III, internationally wanted phantom thief. A descendant of Arsène Lupin. Known for countless global heists and currently on the joint wanted list of over thirty countries...
Found him.
The screen's pale glow illuminated Eitan's face.
He scanned the search results quickly.
The wanted poster looked oddly cartoonish, almost monkey-like.
"Lupin III," a character from a popular 1970s series. Despite being outdated, he had several crossover movies with Detective Conan... If his data existed online, it meant the two universes had likely merged.
There are a lot of powerful figures in Lupin III…
Eitan let his thoughts drift.
Before transmigrating, he'd never been a hitman. Never fired a gun. He knew a bit of self-defense, but compared to the living monsters in this world, it was nothing more than basic sparring.
Therefore, once he fell into a critical situation, he seemed utterly helpless—at a decisive moment, writing a name in the Death Note clearly wasn't faster than pulling a trigger.
Eitan had considered many things.
Supernatural abilities did exist in the Conan world; the most direct evidence was the witchcraft of Koizumi Akako…
However, learning magic was still somewhat impractical.
What caught Eitan's interest more was another character from "Kaitou Kid," just like Koizumi Akako—the world-renowned illusionist, Gunnar von Goldberg II.
Publicly, he was a famous performer. But behind the scenes, he worked as an assassin known as "Spider," hired by a mysterious Organization. He had attempted to assassinate Kaitou Kid multiple times. His illusions, which bordered on the supernatural, seemed to be achieved using advanced technology.
As these thoughts ran through his mind, Eitan searched the internet for information about the man. Being a world-famous illusionist, there were plenty of details and photos available online.
Eitan took out the Death Note, copied the man's name onto a blank page, and wrote a cause of death:
Gunna von Goldberg II
Tokyo time, March 19th, 00:14:31 – make an international call to 0081-xxx-xxx-xxx. After the call connects, follow all instructions from the other end of the phone.
Tokyo time, April 12th – encountered robbers outdoors and was shot dead.
In the original storyline, Saguru Hakuba once mentioned that "Gunnar von Goldberg II" was just a pseudonym, and even his nationality was faked. So Eitan wrote it down with a "let's see what happens" mindset.
He waited until 00:15—but his phone remained silent.
As expected, it was just a pseudonym…
Eitan wasn't disappointed.
He only regretted that he couldn't use the Shinigami Eyes yet—if he had them, he could've seen the real name directly from the photo.
He'd have to find another way—
—----
Cocktail Bar
When he returned, nothing had changed.
The bartender was still the same, and the only two customers seated at the counter were dressed in black as always.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
Eitan approached and sat next to Gin at the bar.
The bartender slid a drink menu toward him.
As Eitan picked it up, Gin's cold voice cut through the quiet: "Did you clean up the mess?"
"Are you talking about that dump truck?" Eitan smiled faintly.
Behind his silver-rimmed glasses, his eyes narrowed slightly, pleased with himself, and he responded in a calm voice: "That was purely an accident. Has nothing to do with me. I'll take a Mojito."
"Hmph."
Gin let out a cold snort.
Eitan's response was clear—he hadn't left any evidence behind.
He was likely quite proud of the "accidental" crime…
Indeed, it was an ingenious way to kill.
Even if someone reviewed the surveillance footage dozens of times, they'd find no human trace. If it hadn't happened right under Gin's nose—and with that eerie countdown—he wouldn't have believed it was a premeditated murder.
Still, despite how intriguing it was, Gin couldn't be bothered to think too deeply about it.
After all, this method had too many limitations.
It relied on timing, location—and even then, the target's reaction could alter the outcome entirely.
"Speaking of which."
The bartender placed a crystal-clear cocktail on the bar, garnished with mint leaves and lime. Eitan took it, spinning the straw thoughtfully as he said:
"On the way here, I saw a car accident."
"People these days drive like idiots," Vodka chuckled, his tone laced with amusement.
Just then, Gin's phone rang. Without checking the caller ID, he answered with his usual coldness: "It's me."
The next second, his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed, voice turning sharp: "What happened?"
Vodka immediately put down his glass and looked over.
Whatever was said on the other end darkened Gin's mood. After a pause, he hung up.
"What is it, Big Bro?" Vodka asked quickly.
Gin didn't answer right away. His eyes slid toward Eitan, cold and piercing.
"You've got guts."
"Something wrong?" Eitan asked lightly.
"The Organization member tailing you just died," Gin said flatly. "Killed in a very familiar kind of accident."
Ah, that?
Vodka looked stunned, halfway ready to leap up and slam the bar—until he noticed Gin's voice remained calm.
"People never know whether death or misfortune comes first," Eitan said, smiling faintly. "Don't look so grim—it was just an accident."
Gin continued to glare at him, murderous intent simmering beneath his gaze.
After a long pause—
"You don't lay hands on Organization members without my permission. If it happens again…" His voice dropped, razor-sharp. "Be careful."
Eitan smiled, unfazed.
The killing intent slowly faded from Gin's eyes. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a click.
Silence settled over the bar.
Feeling the tension in the air, Vodka didn't dare move too quickly. He picked up his glass carefully, drinking with slow, cautious sips.
Moments later, Eitan stood up and walked toward the restroom.
Vodka waited until he disappeared, then turned to Gin. "Big Bro?"
"Check your computer."
"Oh…"
Vodka wasn't just a chauffeur—he actually had solid IT skills and often carried a portable laptop on missions.
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