In the latter half of July, the atmosphere at the construction site was blazing hot and full of noise and motion.
The site was remarkably tolerant of Edogawa Ranpo. The older workers often gave him chances to rest, taking on the more grueling physical labor for him, and because most of them had little formal education—understanding neither deduction nor concealment—even when Ranpo poked holes straight through their secrets, at most they would sigh in amazement and say that kids these days were frighteningly clever.
All of this was inseparable from Asou Akiya's advance arrangements with the construction site.
The workers themselves were puzzled as well. Why was the site owner so generous? Milk was handed out every morning, lunch was noticeably better than before, and in the evenings the use of water and electricity was deliberately extended, even allowing them to wander around the surrounding area after work.
Ranpo slurped down his lunchtime soba noodles. Because it was a hot broth, sweat soaked through his work jacket, beads of perspiration still rolling steadily down his forehead. His feet pressed against gravelly dirt as he lifted his bowl and deliberately moved away from the sweaty, foul-smelling adults at the site. Yet the moment he caught snippets of their conversation, he hurried back over, launching into animated commentary.
"It's really simple," he declared. "The boss here owes the Port Mafia a tiny favor! The Port Mafia doesn't even care, but he's desperate to pay it off with money as soon as possible!"
The dark-skinned, muscular workers burst into laughter, saying they had never even heard of the Port Mafia. Besides, their superiors were major bosses and large construction companies—how could they possibly be using something as petty as repaying favors?
"Could it be that your family's involved with the mafia?" one worker who often looked after Ranpo asked casually.
"No!" Ranpo replied proudly. "My father is a detective, and my mother is a housewife!"
Compared to his earlier joking, this identity sparked genuine envy among the workers. It was the kind of position their own children might only reach if their ancestors' graves smoked with miraculous fortune. "A detective," they said with admiration. "That's a highly respected profession."
Even as Yokohama faced unprecedented warlord-like fragmentation, criminals roaming freely across the city, detectives from the National Police Agency and Yokohama's municipal police were still doing everything in their power to protect civilians, solve murders, and stabilize public morale. Turn on the television, and any Japanese citizen could see the news reporting which cold cases the police had just cracked.
Hearing this, Ranpo lit up with excitement, his brows dancing. "The most amazing one is my mother! My father can't beat her—he loses to her in both decryption and deduction! My mother often tells me detective stories. She says that compared to carefully plotted murders, random killings test judgment the most. The more chaotic society becomes, the more madmen appear, and that's when great detectives are needed to protect the world and point out those truly heinous criminals…"
He assumed the adults would resonate with his words, that he could steer the conversation away from dull family chatter.
Instead, it was like chickens talking to ducks.
An awkward silence fell.
Looking at the workers—faces worn smooth by life, eyes dulled with ignorance, expressions vacant and unfocused—Ranpo's voice gradually shrank. He bit down on his lower lip, an unnamed sourness crashing into his heart.
He felt excluded.
He felt rejected.
He felt the cold indifference of the adult world pressing down on him.
[What is this supposed to be?]
[Why does no one understand me? Why does no one want to talk to me?]
[Aren't you all treating me like a child? If you're adults, then listen to what a child has to say!]
[Uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable…]
Ranpo flung away the bowl that still held leftover broth and dashed out from beneath the sunshade, ignoring the voices calling after him.
That afternoon, he drifted back again—homeless once more.
Two weeks passed.
Within that short span of time, Randou wrote three poems praising his homeland and its soldiers. Through Miss Catherine, who had connections among the French community, he ensured that the poems were published as promised in the nation's major newspapers.
Inside a renowned French restaurant in Yokohama—
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, lavish and dazzling. The décor favored pale tones: light gold wallpaper, a restrained yet elegant atmosphere that encouraged quiet conversation.
"Mr. Randou, I misunderstood you before," Catherine said apologetically, lifting her wineglass in the private dining room. "I've realized that not only have I failed to repay your life-saving kindness, I owe you even more than I thought. There is an elder in my family who shares a close friendship with André Gide. Because of the government's stance, he was furious yet dared not speak, forced to watch helplessly as his friend became a political sacrifice. This time, at last, we were able to support Mr. Gide discreetly, without drawing attention."
Catherine's opinion of Randou rose sharply; she no longer treated him with a joking, casual attitude.
He was not the idle talker she had imagined, all words and no action, but a poet of genuine vision and talent. Randou helped André Gide and his companions in the way he knew best—through his poetry. Just a few short lines, charged with intense emotion, tore through the barriers in people's hearts, drawing attention to the so-called traitorous soldiers who had been forced into exile.
Randou had never drunk alcohol with outsiders before. He lifted the glass, inhaled the scent of the wine, and took only a small sip—just enough to convey his thanks.
He did not think the young woman needed to feel excessively grateful toward him.
Saving a life was a matter best written off cleanly, settled in a single stroke.
Seeing Randou's reserved attitude, Catherine pressed the service bell. A senior waiter in a tailcoat approached, carrying a gift box with both hands. He bowed and placed it before Catherine, who opened it herself and turned it toward Randou to display her present.
For the French, it was only courteous to open a gift on the spot.
Inside the box lay a pair of gloves bearing the mark of a French luxury brand. They were not exorbitantly priced, yet they were far finer than the ones Randou owned.
Randou refused coolly. "There's no need."
All of his personal belongings had been prepared by Akiya. How could he possibly wear a gift from someone else?
"Not even gloves?" Catherine asked, troubled. "I noticed you're dressed warmly—I originally wanted to give you a scarf, but I was afraid you might misunderstand, so I changed it to black gloves that gentlemen usually like. It seems your relationship with your boyfriend is quite good."
Randou disliked such comparisons. He retorted sharply, "You could go find a fifth boyfriend."
"An excellent suggestion!" Catherine laughed, covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking with mirth.
Abandoning the idea of gifting the gloves, Catherine instead handed him a consumption card from the French restaurant. "Please, you must accept this. A person as noble and elegant as you would grace the restaurant simply by being here."
Randou set aside the fine wine and asked for warm water instead. Having been fed goji berry and angelica broth for so long, he still preferred hot water above all else.
"No need."
In the same unhurried, gentle tone he always used, he gave his reply.
"This restaurant was invested in by my boyfriend so that I wouldn't have trouble finding a place to eat."
"..."
Catherine felt a deep, piercing envy rise within her.
Japanese men… were they really this attentive, this meticulous?
After finishing the meal, Randou departed, venturing deeper into other parts of Yokohama, immersing himself in the different facets of this country.
Catherine sat there in a daze for a while, propping her chin on her hand. "Randou is a Japanese name. Even now, I still don't know Monsieur Randou's French name, do I?" Her mind moved quickly as she repeated the sound of "Randou" to herself. "It sounds a bit like 'Rimbaud,' but that surname isn't particularly rare in France. I remember there being a top-tier ability user under the protection of the French government whose name also seemed to be 'Rimbaud'… but someone that powerful wouldn't come to Japan, would they?"
The French had always regarded the British as their greatest rivals, and at the same time, they looked down on the British as well.
After all, modern English had absorbed a great deal of French.
Among the French upper classes, speaking English was something that could earn one disdain.
Given that, it was only natural that Catherine could not connect Monsieur Randou with domestic ability users—let alone the very top-tier ones. When she couldn't make sense of it, she let it go. Catherine admired herself in solitude for a moment, then returned the card and the gift to the waiter, paid the tip, and said with a bright smile to the waiter of Japanese descent, "I'll be coming again."
As for her fifth boyfriend—she had decided to try a local, thoroughly Japanese man this time!
Thus began Catherine's Japanese romance-hunting journey. She adjusted her strategy, making use of information online and big-data filtering to identify the types of girlfriends Japanese men preferred. Upon discovering that they favored gentle, sweet, and relatively conservative types, she lowered her gaze to her French-style dress and her impressively endowed chest. There was nothing to be done—the aesthetic simply didn't match.
"Forget it. I'll stick to the French-girl style. I'm a noble lady, after all."
Catherine looked eighteen or nineteen on the surface, but in reality she was already in her twenties. The fact that she had managed to fool Monsieur Randou's eyes filled her with pride—this was all thanks to the expensive beauty products she invested in every year!
On the streets of Yokohama, Catherine wandered and paused, looking around as she went, drawing the attention of quite a few men. Her gaze, however, held no interest at all in men who were already settled with families and careers.
Then, suddenly, she saw him—a little Japanese darling.
Black hair, emerald-green eyes, and an adorably clueless expression that made one want to scream!
Catherine clutched her chest. Her heart skipped—no, leapt. No! Her hunting range was men aged sixteen and above, up to twenty-five! This kind of little boy was far beyond her target demographic!
And yet she couldn't help it—those vivid green eyes were simply irresistible, astonishingly pure. Even among the French, it was rare to see green eyes this beautiful.
She comforted herself by thinking that a boy like this, no matter how poor, would never sell his body. But under Catherine's blazing, almost maternal ( ? ) gaze, the little darling she had instantly crowned as her favorite in Japan ran straight toward another woman—an utterly vulgar one.
She used the word "vulgar" so harshly not without reason. The stranger was draped head to toe in luxury brands, her looks merely average, the skin at the corners of her eyes slightly slack. She was clearly a woman who had long lacked the nourishment of a man, someone busy with work and company affairs—a Japanese female president with a shallow family background, at most only two generations removed from sudden wealth.
Accompanied by a clear, fledgling-bird-like voice, the black-haired youth grabbed the woman's hand and spoke with pure, guileless sincerity.
"Big sister, I don't want to work hard anymore."
It was as if a knife had been driven straight into Catherine's heart, blood spurting everywhere.
Wrong!
This is wrong!
Big sister is richer than her, younger than her, prettier than her—come find big sister instead, aaaaaah——!!!
On the sidewalk by the street, no one noticed a calico cat trailing not far behind Edogawa Ranpo. Upon witnessing this scene, it froze in place, staring in utter shock at the overly enthusiastic boy and the completely flustered middle-aged woman.
The calico cat's whiskers trembled. It lifted a paw to cover its face, unable to bear watching any further.
… Old friend.
Your son has gone down a crooked path.
At the same time, inside a business vehicle, Asou Akiya was busy recording data by hand. Hearing the commotion outside the window, he lifted his head wearily to look—and immediately saw what was happening directly across from him.
For a moment, Akiya didn't quite process it; his nerves were sluggish, still stuck on his work channel.
Wait—?!
Wasn't that "R-card" brick-hauling Ranpo?!
"Stop the car—! I have a personal matter to deal with!" Asou Akiya shouted, instantly ordering the Port Mafia-assigned driver to pull over. He abandoned the combat-type members assigned to protect him, shoved the door open, and hurried toward the black-haired boy who was about to be taken away by a middle-aged woman.
His protective instinct toward a child erupted in full force.
That attitude was exactly like an enraged old father discovering that his son was about to walk a road of no return.
Edogawa Ranpo waved enthusiastically at the approaching Akiya, beaming with delight. "Uncle! I did what you said—I went to find a rich lady!"
Asou Akiya grabbed him in one swift motion and hauled him behind his own back, then bent forward to apologize to the middle-aged woman. "I'm very sorry. I apologize on his behalf. It was just a joke between me and the child—I didn't expect him to take it seriously."
From behind Akiya, Edogawa Ranpo kept chattering, "It's not a joke! Big sister will support me!"
Akiya spun around in an instant, his expression terrifying, dark clouds gathering over his face.
"Say that one more time, and I'll spank you."
"..."
Ranpo's eyes darted around before he fell silent, though the muttering in his heart didn't stop.
Compared to ordinary fearless, troublesome kids, his "good sense" lay in his ability to tell whether something was said in jest or in earnest. His instinct to seek advantage and avoid harm kicked in, and he chose the option labeled "stay alive."
Uncle really does look like he wants to beat me… just like when Father gets angry…
But why?
Wasn't this the method Uncle told me about?