"Kurokawa-sensei, this is the contract our publishing house has carefully prepared after much discussion. Please have a look."
The editor handed over the document with both hands.
Kurokawa Haruki reached out, his well-shaped fingers gently pressing one edge of the paper. After a quick scan, he naturally passed it to the woman beside him, who took it without a word.
Eri Kisaki was always efficient.
With her elegant features composed, she silently began reviewing the contract.
Asamiya Nanae, the editor across from them, simply smiled and waited. She was confident in what her publishing house had to offer.
After thoroughly reading it, Eri nodded in approval.
"The terms are surprisingly generous," she said. "It's rare to see such clean and straightforward business contracts nowadays."
She glanced up at Asamiya. "Honestly, this is the kind of deal you'd expect only a top-selling author to receive—not a rising popular novelist."
Asamiya Nanae gave a knowing smile. "Our publishing house has great confidence in Kurokawa-sensei's potential. This contract reflects extensive discussion between our editor-in-chief and the president. They were both deeply impressed by his previous works."
Of course, that was far from the truth.
Though the real reasons remained murky, for some reason, Kurokawa Haruki seemed to be someone they needed to win over.
He set down his coffee cup with a soft clink, smiling gently.
"It's my honor."
For a moment, Asamiya was distracted.
The young man before her was simply too striking. His black hair shimmered under the café light, his face calm and refined, exuding a quiet grace. His voice was clear, soothing—wrapped in a tranquil aura.
Anyone meeting him for the first time would surely think: what a serene and gentle man.
"Ahem… So, Kurokawa-sensei, are you satisfied with the terms? Or is there anything you'd like me to relay to the higher-ups?"
"No, this is more than enough. I'm quite satisfied."
"Then… shall we finalize it?"
"Please pass me a pen."
"Of course."
Asamiya promptly offered a fountain pen with both hands.
Under her guidance, and with Eri watching closely, Kurokawa Haruki signed his name—officially entrusting the agency rights for his new work to the publishing house.
Asamiya rose quickly to report back, having completed her task.
Only Kurokawa and Eri remained at the table.
"Congratulations, Haruki," Eri said warmly, her mature features soft with pride. "That's a great contract."
"Yes. And thank you for coming with me today, Aunt Eri."
"For something this important, of course I had to. I'd only worry if I didn't come."
She glanced at her wristwatch. It was nearly time.
"Well, I should get going. If anything comes up, call me, alright?"
"Will do. Do you have to work late again?"
"Yes, I've got a case going to court soon… but it shouldn't be too late."
"Alright. Drive safe."
"Mm. See you later."
Eri quickly gathered her things and left.
After watching her drive off in her Mini Cooper, Kurokawa didn't linger. He stepped onto the street, raising a hand to hail a cab.
"To Mihua Second Apartment, please."
"Got it."
Clack.
The door shut, and the taxi pulled away.
March's spring breeze was still a touch cool.
Inside the moving vehicle, the radio played the latest track from pop idol Yoko Okino. Outside the window, the world rolled by—familiar and vivid.
Middle-aged office workers hurried across commercial streets. Couples clung to each other at crosswalks. The moment the light turned green, impatient car horns pierced the air.
Everything was ordinary. Everything was real.
A world that breathed.
Kurokawa Haruki had been in this world for over a year now. And he had fully adapted.
He'd searched for signs—anything to hint that this world was fictional—but found none.
Life, after all, was made of flesh, breath, and pulse.
He understood that when you slit someone's veins, it wouldn't be ink that poured out.
And if you ran in one direction endlessly, you wouldn't slam into a painted canvas.
Everything here was solid. Tangible. Believable.
Too real to doubt anymore.
His real name was Kurokawa Haruki.
Before suddenly and inexplicably arriving in this world—a world both strangely familiar and alien—he had lived a relatively smooth, twenty-something years of life.
He had, of course, watched Detective Conan.
But ever since he awoke here one day, not only did he possess an established identity in the national registry, but his familiar body and consciousness also carried over new memories and relationships… things that should have taken years to form.
"Guest, are you in a hurry?"
The taxi driver's calm voice broke the silence. He'd noticed the young man frequently checking his watch.
"No, not in a rush," Haruki replied. "But could you please switch to the news channel?"
"Sure."
The driver nodded and changed the station.
The time was 2:18 p.m.
The radio was playing a rerun of the day's earlier news. Haruki listened, gaze fixed on his wristwatch. When the second hand struck 2:21:30, a familiar voice rang out from the speaker.
"According to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police in Beika District, criminal suspect Nishikawa Shigehiko suffered a sudden heart attack during an arrest operation at 8 p.m. on March 16th. He died en route to the hospital."
"Inspector Megure reported that Nishikawa was involved in multiple violent crimes, including snatch thefts, extortion of women, and illegal debt collection..."
The female announcer's voice was crisp and professional. But to Haruki, her words felt distant—muffled, like they were coming from underwater.
He silently cross-checked the broadcast against his own memories.
A slow smile formed on his lips.
"Not a single error."
He leaned back in satisfaction.
"A scoundrel died... truly satisfying."
The middle-aged taxi driver, probably well past his disillusionment years, chuckled in agreement. "Feels good hearing that kind of news."
Haruki shared a glance with him and nodded.
"Yes. It does."