Vodka: Big Bro, You…
The izakaya glowed amber, every lamp a tiny hearth against the night. Grilled-meat smoke curled like incense, beer foam hissed, and somewhere a skewer kissed the fire with a sigh.
Sharon's sapphire eyes shimmered: half hope, half dread. She was waiting for the one answer that could break her.
"I don't know," Shuichi said without hesitation, shaking his head.
"Hey!" Sharon's lashes flew up. "Aren't guys supposed to swear they'd save the girl?"
A laugh escaped her first: bright, self-mocking, relieved. If he'd parroted the script, she'd never have known what was real. But this blunt "I don't know" was pure Shuichi, and it lodged somewhere behind her ribs like a warm coal.
"The question's pointless anyway," he went on, meeting her gaze. "I shielded you in that car because my body moved before my brain caught up. What-ifs don't rewrite the past."
Sharon pouted, theatrical. "Then lie to me. Say the pretty words I want to hear. Is that so hard?"
"Didn't you tell me to save the fairy-tale lines for Eri?" He smirked. "Make up your mind, woman."
"Because I'm a woman, dummy." A blush rose on porcelain cheeks. "Men are supposed to sweet-talk us. It's in the contract."
"Last I checked, a certain someone called me an 'immature brat' inside a buried Rolls-Royce." Shuichi's grin turned wicked. "Whether the brat's still 'little'… guess we'd need a closer inspection—"
Sharon leaned in, voice velvet and venom. "Pants off, right here, and we'll measure—"
Witch. Absolute witch.
Shuichi coughed, ears scarlet. He ducked, suddenly fascinated by chicken fat dripping onto coals.
Sharon watched him, the sour weight of the pharmaceutical plant forgotten. "Hey, kid: when are you free? Big Sis wants to—"
The noren snapped open like a gunshot.
"Drinking in a dump like this, Vermouth?"
Shuichi's spine locked. Skewer frozen mid-flip, flames licking his knuckles.
Two black suits. One lean, silver hair spilling beneath a fedora, eyes sharp enough to shave steel. One bulldog-broad, sunglasses at night, shoulders filling the doorway like a threat.
Gin. Vodka. Out hunting before sunset.
Sharon spun, smile gone, guard up. "What are you two doing here?"
Gin ignored her, slid onto a stool with the grace of a guillotine. Vodka loomed behind like a loaded cannon.
"We eat too," Gin said, voice winter at absolute zero. "Curious what hole our dear Vermouth crawls into for fun."
His gaze sliced across the menu. "Charcoal-seared veal. Medium rare."
"Chicken skewers, pork-katsu bowl, and a bottle of vo—" Vodka began.
"You're driving," Gin cut in. To Shuichi: "Gin. Neat."
Kogoro scurried over, palms sweating. "Uh, we don't stock gin, sir. Beer, sake, shochu, plum wine: any of those work?"
"Two beers," Vodka chirped, earnest as a puppy. "Beer doesn't count, right, Big Bro?"
Gin's silence = consent.
"Coming right up." Shuichi flicked Kogoro a look: play dumb, stay alive.
Kogoro mouthed back: They look like yakuza! Shuichi answered with the tiniest nod.
Treat them like any customer. One wrong glance and Gin would smell the fear. Shuichi could take a bullet; he refused to let Eri, Kogoro, or Yukiko bleed for him.
Sharon went quiet too: sipping beer, picking at takoyaki, every motion screaming don't notice the kid.
Gin's eyes prowled: corners, ceiling, the shadow under the fridge. Searching for cameras, wires, anything that didn't belong.
Kogoro's hands shook so hard foam sloshed over the rims. "Sorry, sorry—"
"Place run by children?" Gin's voice could freeze sake. "New joint?"
"My dad owned it for decades," Kogoro babbled. "After he passed, my friends and I kept the lights on."
Gin's gaze scraped across scarred tabletops, filed the info away, moved on.
Shuichi plated fast: veal for Gin, rice bowl for Vodka. But his eyes kept darting to the silver-haired reaper, and muscle memory betrayed him.
The skewer he slid in front of Vodka?
Sharon's special: ghost-pepper, three-alarm, incinerate-your-ancestors sauce.
"Starving!" Vodka attacked the pork, gave a thumbs-up. "Good stuff, Big Bro!"
One monster bite of chicken later—
Vodka seized his beer, chugged like a firehose, slammed the glass down, and shot to his feet.
"KID! What IS this?! My mouth's a volcano! You trying to KILL me?!"
Shuichi blanched. "Wrong plate: my bad. I'll remake—"
"No need." Gin plucked the cursed skewer, bit clean through the molten core.
Vodka wheezed, tongue lolling. "Big Bro, it's not food, it's chemical warfare—"
He froze.
Gin chewed. Swallowed. Zero flinch. Face carved from permafrost.
Vodka's jaw hit the floor.
"Big Bro… you…"
(End of Chapter)
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