Conan: When Shinjiu and Maolilan swap bodies

A familiar voice came from the other end of the phone, its languid tone carrying a hint of allure, like a fragrance lingering in the night.

"What is it?" Gin's tone was as indifferent as ever, revealing no emotion whatsoever.

"Can't I call you if there's nothing wrong?" A soft laugh came from the other end, tinged with a mischievous tone. "Want a drink?"

Gin's brow twitched slightly.

"Are you very free?"

"Busy," Vermouth said lazily, her tone betraying no truth. "Just came from the Metropolitan Police Department."

Gin's fingers stopped on the steering wheel.

Metropolitan Police Department?

Did she go to check the autopsy report?

The master's orders?

The night outside the window was deep, and the dim light of the streetlights shone in from the side, casting distinct shadows on his face.

Where should we go for a drink?

"old place."

The phone hangs up.

Gin lit a cigarette, and the smoke slowly billowed in the enclosed car, blurring the night view outside the window.

"Big brother?" Vodka waited for ages, but his older brother still hadn't given him the address. He turned his head in confusion. "Are we going?"

Gin didn't rush to answer.

He leaned back in his seat, slowly smoking, his gaze fixed on the scenery outside the car window.

Snowflakes continued to fall, one by one, silently adhering to the glass and quickly melting into watermarks.

For some reason, Vodka felt inexplicably nervous.

The cigarette burned down to the butt. Gin's gaze finally shifted and landed on him.

"Vodka, how long have you been with the organization?"

Vodka's heart skipped a beat.

Asking this kind of question suddenly... he had a bad feeling.

"Seven years... no, eight years." He quickly did the math in his head. "I've been in the organization for eight years, and I've followed you for seven."

Seven years...

Gin stubbed out the cigarette butt in the ashtray, his tone revealing no emotion.

The carriage was quiet for a few seconds.

The heater hummed, and the snow on the car windows melted into water, sliding down in streaks.

"Seven years." Gin turned his gaze back to the window. "That's not a short time."

Vodka didn't know how to respond, so he just hummed in response.

"These past seven years," Gin's voice remained calm, "what have you thought of the organization?"

Vodka paused for a moment.

How is the organization?

This is a huge problem. So huge that he didn't know where to begin.

"It's... pretty big," he managed to say, "pretty impressive."

Gin's lips seemed to twitch slightly, but it was hard to tell whether it was a smile or something else.

"Rum is dead."

Vodka's heart skipped a beat again.

“I know,” he said cautiously. “Brother, you mean…”

He didn't dare finish his sentence. "Take over Rum's position?" Such words shouldn't be spoken lightly.

Gin didn't answer. He just stared at the falling snow outside the window, as if he were thinking about something, or as if he wasn't thinking about anything at all.

"Champagne is dead too."

Vodka paused in his breathing.

he knows.

Although it was kept secret for the sake of stability and not many people knew about it, he was with Gin and naturally found out as well.

"Big brother..." he asked tentatively, "Has something happened?"

Gin did not answer his question.

"If," he finally spoke, his voice still flat and devoid of any emotion, "something happens to the organization, what do you plan to do?"

Vodka's heart clenched suddenly.

What does that mean?

What does it mean when it says something happened to the organization?

Rum and Champagne are dead, isn't that enough to call it a disaster? Why is Big Brother suddenly asking this?

"I..." He opened his mouth, his mind a jumbled mess, "Of course I'll follow you, elder brother."

Gin turned his head and looked at him.

Those eyes looked exceptionally deep in the dimly lit carriage, as if they could see through every thought in a person's heart.

“What if,” he said, emphasizing each word, “I’m no longer in the organization?”

Vodka's mind went blank.

No longer in the organization?

What do you mean?

Is the eldest brother resigning? Or... or is someone trying to harm him?

"Then I'll go too!" he blurted out. "Wherever my brother goes, I'll go!"

Only after the words were out did he realize what he had said. If anyone else in the organization had heard them, he would have been dead eight times over.

But he did say it.

And he doesn't regret it.

Gin looked at him.

That gaze lingered for a long time.

It took Vodka a long time to realize he had said something wrong.

Then Gin looked away and turned back to the window.

"Let's drive," he said, giving an address.

Vodka paused for a second, then started the car.

The low hum of the engine echoed through the quiet alleyway. Headlights pierced the snow as the car slowly drove into the night.

Gin leaned back in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed on the rapidly receding street scene outside the window.

Vodka glanced at him, then quickly looked away.

He didn't know why his older brother suddenly asked those questions, nor did he know what those questions meant.

But he knew one thing—

No matter what happens, just follow your older brother.

Gin remained seated in the passenger seat, took a Beretta from its holster, and began wiping it.

The fingers moved slowly and steadily, like some kind of habitual ritual. The gun gleamed with a cold metallic luster in the dimly lit carriage, reflecting the streetlights flashing past the window.

The brim of his hat was pulled low, covering most of his face and his eyes.

Leave the organization.

These four words sound very simple. It's like saying "I quit" and walking away.

But he knew what that meant.

This means leaving the organization's logistics—every bullet is one less, every broken gun is one less, and those specially made equipment that can't be bought from outside will never be delivered to him again.

This means leaving the organization's medical resources—if you're injured, you have to bear it yourself; if you're shot, you can only go to small clinics that don't dare to leave their real names and let unqualified doctors operate on your wounds.

If you're lucky, you'll survive. If you're unlucky, you might die in some stinking ditch and nobody will even know.

It means leaving the organization's protection—those arrest warrants, those long-suppressed grievances, will come crashing down like an avalanche. The police will pursue him, the FBI will pursue him, and those he has offended will pursue him.

The whole world will become his enemy.

He will hide, like a lone wolf driven from its pack, foraging alone in the wilderness, licking his wounds alone, and waiting alone for that bullet that may come from nowhere.

But he had no choice.

We've reached this point.

Unless Koniak is killed, the fate of this great ship sinking cannot be changed.

But he couldn't kill Koniak.

That person was one step ahead of him.

No, it's every single step.

Koniak had been plotting for years, his hatred seeping into his bones.

Champagne and Rum's deaths were just the surface; behind the scenes, heaven knows how much more he had done.

This is why Koniak was so confident in letting him go.

He was confident that even if he told the boss, it wouldn't pose any threat.

Gin's thumb slowly rubbed against the gun barrel, feeling the familiar texture.

And there's Vermouth.

She invited him for drinks. At a time like this, at this critical juncture.

Koniak's attitude was clear—he wanted to overturn the table and burn the ship.

But what about Vermouth?

That mystical woman never put herself in the open. She always stood on the edge of the shadows, making it impossible for anyone to see where she was looking or what she was thinking.

But it's impossible that she didn't notice anything.

That Ran Mouri is closely related to these two people.

If Koniak had an accomplice in this scheme, it would undoubtedly be Vermouth.

Chapter 598 You Will Need Me

The snow stopped sometime ago.

The Porsche stopped a hundred meters away, and Gin got out of the car and walked across the snow-covered path.

Vodka remained in the car and did not follow.

The boots crunched softly on the snow, the sound particularly clear in the quiet night.

He pushed open the door and went inside.

A warm breeze wafted from the entryway, and the crackling sound of burning firewood from the fireplace could be faintly heard.

Vermouth nestled in the sofa in front of the fireplace, a glass of red wine in her hand.

She changed out of her outdoor clothes and into a deep red silk nightgown, her long hair loosely draped over her shoulders. The firelight from the fireplace danced on her face, making her already alluring features appear even more enigmatic.

"You're here?" She glanced up at him, her tone languid, and pointed to the sofa next to her. "Sit down."

Gin took off his hat, crossed his legs and put them on the coffee table, leaned back in his chair, and said coldly, "Speak. What do you want?"