The bench under the tree. The usual spot.
On his way back, Steve Smith had picked up a newspaper. He sat down and began to leaf through it. Since he was certain this was the world of Detective Conan, and he had nothing but time, he figured he should pin down the current timeline.
The news was the best place to start.
In the past week's papers, there was not a single mention of Jimmy Wood. Given how much that high-school detective used to love the limelight, his absence meant he had likely already been fed the poison and shrunk.
There was, however, a front-page report on Richard Moore from two days ago:
"The Clash of Fiction and Reality: Mystery Novelist Samuel Wright Passes Away; Detective Richard Moore Deciphers the Deathbed Code!"
So, we're in the early stages? Steve thought.
He wasn't sure if this world followed the anime timeline or the manga. If it was the manga, Anita Hailey might have already debuted. If it was the anime, it would be a while yet. He was somewhat curious about that little scientist...
Steve considered the facts. Given how secretive "The Organization" was, they likely didn't have much of a public profile. That meant their members wouldn't be on any public bounty lists. And a researcher like Sherry? Just a shut-in scientist. In his eyes—the eyes of a former professional "Cleaner"—she was practically worthless.
A "Cleaner," or bounty hunter, specialized in tracking down the worst of the worst and handing them over to the authorities. To operate legally, one needed a license from the International Investigation Bureau.
In his previous life, his homeland had been far too safe for such a career to flourish. But he had pursued it anyway.
Years ago, seven children had come together; the oldest was ten, the youngest six. They were students at a tactical martial arts academy. Most kids ended up there because they were "unmanageable" or because their families had fallen apart. Nobody sent their kids to a cage-fighting school for "culture."
Those seven children had all lost their parents to accidents or tragedies. With no one left to raise them, they were dumped into the academy. They bonded instantly.
One day, one of the older boys found out about "Cleaners." The idea set their young hearts on fire. Nobody wanted to be mediocre. Perhaps they just needed a reason to survive—a goal they barely understood but were willing to bleed for.
Ten years later, those seven left the country, carrying a decade of blood, sweat, and combat skills that far surpassed their peers. At that moment, they felt untouchable. Reality, however, was colder. Even with the right connections, not everyone had the talent to master firearms or the stomach for the kill.
Of the seven, only three passed the final evaluation. Within a year, two more quit. Steve was the only one who remained.
Why did he keep going? He didn't really know. Maybe because it had become his entire identity. Maybe it was the haunted, vacant looks of his friends who had given up. Or maybe it was the intoxicating, aimless freedom of the life itself.
It wasn't a good job. His old friends were now high-end bodyguards or fitness coaches; they didn't make as much money, but they were safe and stable. Steve had stuck it out for three years. He had made a fortune, but he had paid for it with his life. He didn't regret it. The view from the edge—freedom, madness, and the unknown—was lethally beautiful.
Steve shifted his gaze from the paper to the asylum's perimeter wall.
The scenery out there is so much better than this...
You six liars, he thought with a ghost of a smile. I don't want to miss the view in this life either. After all, you all said I was the most talented one when you left. Stay jealous.
As he looked down to return to his paper, a massive flood of foreign memories rushed into his mind, accompanied by a sense of longing and sudden peace.
It was the memory of the original Steve Smith.
A marriage of convenience between parents who felt nothing for each other. Within five years, the relationship had turned to ice. For the sake of corporate interests, they never divorced, maintaining a sham marriage while completely ignoring their only son.
The memories were cold. An empty house. School plays where his parents never showed up. A cycle of achieving perfect grades just to earn a single word of praise before they walked away again...
There was no grand tragedy, just a boy who had grown up so introverted and isolated that he had no friends, no love, no goals, and no hobbies. Eventually, he simply broke.
Finally, a feeling of envy followed by a deep sense of release washed over Steve, and the memories cut off three days ago.
Steve understood. The original consciousness had finally faded away.
He felt a slight pang of sympathy, but it was fleeting. Personality being what it was, even experiencing those memories felt like watching a movie. He could see the tragedy, but he didn't feel the pain. It just proved that the doctors were lying when they said "I understand how you feel." No one truly understood.
Steve shook off the thoughts. His plan had to change.
He had stayed in the hospital because of the original host's depression. He'd been worried the kid would regain control and do something permanent while Steve was "asleep." Inside the hospital, under 24-hour surveillance, he was safe from the original host's suicidal urges.
But if the original host was gone, there was no point in playing along with these people.
How to get out? Either the doctor declares you cured, or your family picks you up.
The first path was a dead end. Dr. Miller was far too thorough. Between the "time distortion" and the "hallucinations," the doctor would find a reason to keep him here for years.
The second path was the only way. If his parents demanded his release and he acted firm, they could force the issue. He hadn't committed a crime, and he wasn't a threat to society. The hospital couldn't hold him legally if his guardians insisted on his discharge.
Trying to sneak out would be stupid. If he ran, they'd just label him as "deteriorating" and throw him into a high-security isolation ward once they caught him.
Steve flipped a page of the newspaper, deciding he would call his "father" tomorrow.
"Mr. Smith? Are you looking for something specific?" a young nurse asked, leaning in with a professional smile.
The boy had been flipping through the same pages and staring into space. That went into the "abnormal behavior" log for the doctor to review.
Steve saw right through her. "I'm just daydreaming."
"I see. Noted," she said, nodding. Patient exhibits signs of dissociation/absent-mindedness. Logged.
Steve was speechless. He glanced over at an old man leaning against the railing, staring at the sky. He'd heard the man had been here for eleven years. He likely wasn't leaving for another two.
Once you enter the asylum, the sea is deep, and health is a distant shore... terrifying, Steve thought.
He ate, exercised, sat in the sun, and took his meds. The day passed like a dream for anyone who wanted a lazy, "slacker" lifestyle. However, for a modern person, the lack of a phone or internet was a special kind of hell.
The next day, Steve went to Dr. Miller's office to make a phone call.
The home phone went unanswered, as usual. He dialed his father's mobile.
Ring... Ring...
The call was picked up on the third ring. The voice was steady and deep. "Hello? Who is this?"
"Father, it's me. Steve."
There was a pause. "How is your recovery?"
"Fine. I want to be discharged." Steve cut straight to the point.
From the memories, he knew his parents were workaholics. They were happy to throw money at his problems—his allowance was huge—but they had no time for him. They had dropped him off at the psych ward in the morning and were back at their desks by the afternoon.
A family obsessed with profit. If they weren't making money, they weren't breathing.
Well, Steve thought, you live your way, I'll live mine.
"I'm leaving for France tomorrow," the man said coldly. "I won't be back for at least two weeks. We'll talk when I return. You're fine where you are. The doctors and nurses are more professional than the maids at home."
Beside him, Dr. Miller frowned. Translated, the father's message was: Son, we're too busy for you. You have food and care in the bin, so stay there. It was an incredibly cold thing to say to a sick child.
Steve wasn't surprised. "What about Mother? Is she back?"
"I have no idea where she is," the man replied.
Steve continued, "Then find someone to get me out. It's boring in here."
"I've already handled your leave of absence from Metropolitan University," the voice said. "There's no reason for you to be out."
Steve said calmly, "If I get bored, I might start calling you every single day just to check in."
The line went silent for a full second. "I'll see if anyone is available to pick you up."
"It should be a relative," Steve added.
"Understood. Wait for news."
"How long?"
"Three days."
"Fine."
The line went dead.
Steve looked up, meeting Dr. Miller's pensive gaze. The doctor was staring at him with the intensity of a man trying to solve a complex puzzle.
"Mr. Smith," Miller said slowly, "does your family have a history of... mental illness?"