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Tokyo suburbs, a certain villa.
"There's some feeling between you and it, isn't there? They say one night as husband and wife earns a hundred days of grace. We've been together for more than just one day. Thick as thieves, deep as the sea. Can you really bring yourself to destroy your own happiness with your own hands, just because the Organization told you to?"
With his "little brother" under direct threat, Steven didn't dare act rashly. He put on a pitiful expression and tried to play the feelings card, while silently cursing Vermouth for being a cold-blooded bitch. She'd gone way too far.
That was a lifetime of happiness she was aiming at.
After fusing Wolf Bro's card and unlocking all sorts of combat skills, he still wasn't sure whether "Iron Crotch Technique" was among them.
Hell no.
Even if it was, it wouldn't stop a bullet.
Steven stared at Vermouth in silence, ready to gamble the dignity of the rest of his life on one thing: that her gun wasn't loaded.
But members of the Black Organization were all ruthless to the bone. The odds didn't look good. He needed another way out.
Luckily, when he killed Jo Murakami and let those two girls go, he'd already anticipated Gin losing his temper. At least he wasn't panicking.
"Feelings?" Vermouth let out a cold laugh, her thumb resting on the safety of her pistol. "Don't flatter yourself. What you've got sticking out down there isn't anything special. If I were willing to spread my legs, the men lining up for me would stretch from Tokyo to New York."
Way too small-minded.
With Vermouth's looks in the Detective Conan world, if she ever decided to sacrifice herself for 'art' for free, the men groveling at her feet could circle the globe three times holding hands.
"You're really going to pull the trigger?" Steven asked cautiously.
"You think I'm joking?" Vermouth's eyes were icy. "Break the Organization's rules, and there's only one ending. Death."
Inside the Winery, there was no room for feelings. Only endless killing.
"In that case," Steven said calmly, shifting gears, "can you answer one question before you shoot?"
He wasn't worried about dying. With his system's full-revive cheat, one shot wouldn't kill him. What he feared was the pain, and worse, that his little brother might get hit without being fatal, failing to trigger the passive skill.
"Go on," Vermouth said, brushing back her hair, clearly enjoying being in control. "No promises I'll answer."
Most of the time when they went head-to-head, Steven had the upper hand, riding her like a wild horse.
"When I found Jo Murakami, he was already prepared. I suspect there's a mole inside the Organization, or maybe Gin deliberately set me up."
If it was just a guess, he might as well go big.
Gin had already resorted to a honey trap. Steven wouldn't rule out the possibility that Jo Murakami's death was part of a scheme.
"Whether there's a mole or not isn't my concern," Vermouth replied flatly. "There's a separate intelligence department for that. My job is simple: carry out orders and eliminate people who shouldn't be alive."
"But Gin wouldn't set you up. There's nothing in it for him."
"I've answered your question. Now it's time to say goodbye to that troublesome thing of yours."
Her expression turned frosty, like a machine built only to kill. Her finger slowly curled, about to squeeze the trigger.
"Wait. There's one secret I forgot to tell you."
Seeing his little brother about to meet its doom, Steven played his last trick.
"Oh?" Vermouth raised an eyebrow, interest piqued. Her finger eased off the trigger. "What secret?"
"I forgot to mention," Steven said, "I know a move called 'Empty-Handed Blade Snatching.'"
Without warning, he flipped up the blanket and flung it straight at her.
Then he rolled off the bed, moving faster than he ever had in his life.
Before Vermouth could react, Steven used his strength advantage to pin her down and wrench the gun from her hand.
In a split second, the roles reversed.
The whole thing was messy, but Steven didn't care.
Low tricks or high-level techniques, as long as they worked, they were good moves.
"Now I'm the one in charge," Steven said coldly, pressing the gun to Vermouth's head. "How do you want to die?"
To be precise, there had never been any real feelings between them. Living under the same roof was nothing more than mutual convenience.
"Honey," Vermouth purred, her voice sweet and soft, "can you really bring yourself to kill me?"
Enough already.
The moment Steven heard that syrupy tone, goosebumps rippled over his skin.
Under normal circumstances, he really wouldn't have been able to do it.
But he knew better than anyone that lust was a blade hanging over your head. In a situation like this, mercy would get him killed.
When it was time to be ruthless, there could be no hesitation.
"Today you dared to point a gun at my little brother. Tomorrow you'd dare to point it at my head," Steven said grimly. "Compared to your bed, I'd rather stay alive."
"And even if I can't bear it," he added coolly, flicking off the safety, "worst case, I'll give you one last round while you're still warm."
"You sick pervert," Vermouth snapped. "You're disgusting."
...
Tokyo outskirts, a private villa.
"Before you pull the trigger, you'd better think it through. It only takes a split second to fire, but what you get in return is endless pursuit by the Organization. Is it really worth it?"
Vermouth tilted her head, glaring viciously as she calmly laid out the consequences, her words sharp and threatening.
She was, after all, an elite executive of the Organization. Her nerves were leagues above ordinary people.
Beg for mercy?
Something that cheap and undignified wasn't even an option. Even when she was at a disadvantage, she still had to project strength.
"You think I grew up scared? I blow up the Metropolitan Police building whenever I feel like it. I kill FBI agents when I feel like it. Even Japan and the U.S. can't do a damn thing to me. And you think a little Black Organization scares me?"
"Out of respect for the few days we've spent together, I won't let you be lonely down there. I'll send the rest of the Organization to join you soon. A group should stay together, after all."
Before transmigrating, Steven had been an invisible college student. No rich dad, no background to rely on, swallowing plenty of humiliation.
But now things were different.
He had a powerful system backing him. He could do whatever he wanted.
And the enemy was the detestable little island nation. If he didn't vent a bit, he'd be letting down his real identity.
Wipe out the Black Organization, and he'd become the underworld king of Japan. With that foundation, he could gradually overturn the country's political structure, follow the system's arrangements, and become a proper, qualified outlaw.
Bang!
Steven pulled the trigger.
The next second, he froze.
What came out of the gun wasn't a bullet, but a stream of cold boiled water, splashing Vermouth right in the face.
…You've got to be kidding.
After all that buildup, it was a prank?
"Heh. I didn't expect you to be this heartless. You actually shot me. Forget about ever practicing couple yoga with me again."
Before Steven could even process what happened, Vermouth wiped the water from her face, disappointment written all over her expression.
"I've shot you more than once already. What's one more time?"
"That's not the point. Explain what the hell this is."
A true acting powerhouse. Her performance was flawless.
Steven finally snapped out of it. This was very likely a test.
In the Detective Conan storyline, anyone who violated the Organization's rules really did get erased without mercy.
And Vermouth's earlier reaction hadn't shown the slightest hint of acting. That was why Steven hadn't dared to hold back.
He should've trusted his instincts and gambled that there were no bullets in the gun. But when it came to the survival of his little brother, the risk was way too high unless he was absolutely certain.
Now that it was done, he had to find a way to fix it.
If he failed this yakuza-style test…
The Organization's benefits were just too tempting. Steven wasn't ready to give them up yet.
"....."