Conan: When Shinjiu and Maolilan swap bodies

"Has the weather gotten colder lately...?"

"Look at the snow outside the window, it looks like it'll continue to snow tonight..."

"The heating isn't quite enough either..."

Several voices rang out intermittently, like a few rusty machines being forced to start running again.

As the conversation began, the lounge was once again filled with sound.

"The spot where I parked today was particularly narrow..."

"My car needs servicing too..."

"My wife said I've gained weight yesterday..."

The crowd was like a swarm of startled flies, frantically flapping their wings and making noise, but none of them dared to stop.

Qingze leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his posture as languid as if he were watching a poor performance.

His gaze slowly swept across the entire lounge from the shadow of the hood.

Those faces, some unfamiliar and some familiar, flashed past his eyes one by one.

Those faces huddled together, whispering, occasionally glancing up before quickly looking down again.

Some of them had blood on their hands; they were true daredevils who had risked their lives on the edge of a knife.

Some people are simply desperate, forced into a corner by life, and take this job without really understanding what's going on.

Some people have worked here for over a decade, from their youth to middle age, and have come to regard this place as their home.

They huddled together, feeling uneasy, fearful, and lost.

Like a group of trapped beasts driven into a cage, they instinctively huddle together for warmth, trying to pry some information out of each other to give themselves a pitiful sense of security.

But they knew nothing.

I don't know what will happen next, I don't know what those "big shots" are fighting over, and I don't know when that dark cloud will fall.

Qingze lowered his eyes and stared at the time on his wrist.

After an unknown amount of time, the door was pushed open again.

A short, stout figure walked in, a greasy smile on his face. He was wearing a suit, his tie askew, and he was carrying a bottle of Japanese whiskey.

"Oh, everyone's here."

His voice was loud, breaking through the taut plastic sheeting in the lounge. Several people breathed a sigh of relief and gave perfunctory replies.

Riwei didn't care, strolled over to the bar, and smashed the bottle on the counter.

"Get me a cup!"

A few minutes later, the door was pushed open again.

Sauternes walked in; he was tall and thin, wore glasses, and looked like a high school teacher. He nodded to Riwei, said nothing, and walked straight through the lounge towards the conference room. His steps were quick, as if he were in a hurry.

Next up is Mescal.

As soon as he entered, the temperature in the lounge seemed to drop a few degrees.

He was a man of few words, with a blank expression on his face, but his eyes gave off an unsettling feeling.

He stood at the doorway, glanced around, his gaze lingering for a second on the whispering group before looking away. He said nothing, didn't head towards the bar, and simply followed Gui Fu's footsteps.

Tokay and Miranda came in together.

Tokay was a woman in her forties, wearing a well-tailored suit, her high heels clicking crisply on the floor.

Miranda followed behind her, younger than her, like a follower.

As the two passed the bar, Tokay paused, his gaze falling on the bottle of wine in the bottle.

"Drink this?" Her voice carried a hint of sarcasm. "You really have a lot of free time."

Riwei grinned and raised his glass to her: "Want some?"

Tokay ignored him and continued walking towards the conference room.

Several more people appeared one after another; some stayed in the lobby, while others went straight to the lounge.

The buzzing in the lounge subsided somewhat. Those without code names exchanged furtive glances, trying to guess the identities and code names of the newcomers.

Qingze sat in the dimly lit corner, concealing his aura, matching each code name with a face.

The door was pushed open once again.

It was Graba that came.

Head of the US branch.

He was tall, dressed in a well-tailored dark overcoat, his hair meticulously combed. Standing in the doorway, his gaze swept across the entire lounge like a king surveying his domain.

His eyes held an undisguised arrogance that seemed to seep from his very bones.

"Lord Graba." Someone stood up at the bar and asked in a low voice.

Graba ignored him.

He went straight to the bar, sat down next to the Japanese whisky, and ordered a glass of single whisky.

Her movements were elegant and her posture composed, as if the cautious gazes around her were merely a natural backdrop.

"Are you done with things in America?" Riwei leaned closer, his tone slightly probing.

Graba took the glass, took a sip, and put it down.

“I’m always busy,” he said, his tone as calm as if he were talking about the weather, “but I still have to come back.”

Riwei chuckled dryly and didn't reply.

Graba didn't seem to care. He just sat there, holding his glass of wine, his gaze fixed on a certain point in front of him, lost in thought.

The buzzing in the lounge resumed, quieter and more cautious than before.

Less than five minutes later, the door opened again.

Potter walked in.

He was wearing a dark gray trench coat and carrying a small duffel bag. His eyes immediately fell on Graba by the bar.

Graba also raised his eyes.

Their eyes met in mid-air, and the atmosphere in the lounge instantly felt oppressive.

Chapter 607 Conflict of Interests

Potter's lips curled into a perfectly timed smile. He walked over and sat down one seat away from Graba, ordering the same whiskey.

“Mr. Potter,” said Riwei, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement, “how things are going in Western Europe lately?”

Porter took the glass, swirled it, and watched the liquid swirl against the glass.

"It's alright," he said casually, "it's just a bit cold."

“Cold?” Graba suddenly spoke, without looking at him. “How cold can Western Europe be? Colder than North America?”

Potter chuckled.

The laughter was short and soft, yet exceptionally clear in the quiet lounge.

"Coldness isn't determined by the temperature. It's determined by the heart."

Graba's fingers paused on the rim of the glass for a second, then he smiled too.

“Human nature?” He repeated the word, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Porter, when did you start studying this?”

“I’ve been researching it,” Porter said. “After all these years, I have to learn something.”

Their words clashed, subtly revealing hidden tensions, yet both seemed to have the other in complete control.

Qingze was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the tense atmosphere made the originally noisy crowd quiet down again.

The door was pushed open again, and Gin walked in.

The hem of his black trench coat fluttered slightly with each step, and his long silver hair peeked out from under his hat brim, gleaming with a cold metallic sheen in the dim light.

He stood at the door, his gaze immediately sweeping to the corner, across the entire lounge, past the figures, and landing precisely on the seat against the wall.

Qingze leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his hood covering most of his face.

Noticing that gaze, he slightly raised his chin, and from the shadow of his hat brim, his scarlet eyes met it, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly.

Gin withdrew his gaze and walked inside expressionlessly.

Vodka followed behind him, carrying a black briefcase, his steps steady. Cohen brought up the rear, silent and taciturn, like a shadow.

As the three walked through the lounge, those without code names automatically made way for them, even lowering their breathing.

“Gin,” Potter spoke first, his tone carrying just the right amount of familiarity. “Long time no see.”

Gin turned his head, his gaze falling on Potter, and gave a blank "hmm" without any emotion.

Gin didn't stop. He continued walking, reaching the conference room door, and glanced at his watch.

The meeting room was dimly lit, with a dozen or so black single sofas leaning against the wall, facing the open space in the center.

The sofa was made of genuine leather, and you would sink slightly when you sat on it, giving it a kind of old-fashioned, expensive feel. The overhead lighting was dimmed, with only a few spotlights shining down from different angles, dividing each face into distinct sections of light and shadow.

Suntory sat in the innermost seat, still holding the document in his hand, reading it line by line by the dim light.

Meskar sat beside him, his gaze fixed on the open space in the center, as if waiting for something.

Tokay sat elegantly with his legs crossed, Miranda still standing behind him. Riviera was sprawled on the sofa, the empty bottle of wine casually placed at his feet.

Graba sat in the very center, where the best view was in the entire room. He leaned back on the sofa, one hand resting on the armrest, his fingers tapping lightly, as if counting the time.

Potter sat opposite him, also leaning back on the sofa with his legs crossed. He watched Graba's tapping fingers, a faint smile playing on his lips.

There was an invisible thread taut between them.

Gin did not sit down.

He stood at the very edge, his back against the wall, his hat brim pulled low, obscuring his expression.

Vodka and Cohen stood beside him like two silent statues.

"What time is it?" Riwei yawned.

"Two minutes to go." Suntory said without looking up.

The meeting room fell silent.

The only sounds were suppressed breathing and the occasional rustling of fabric.

At the last minute, Qingze walked in.

He leaned against the door, his hands in his pockets, his hood still pulled up over his head, covering most of his face.

His scarlet eyes swept across everyone present from the shadow of his hat brim.

It's exactly twelve o'clock.

The open space in the center suddenly lit up.

Light streamed from beneath the floor, intertwining and converging to gradually outline a blurry human figure. The outline grew clearer, eventually settling into a dark silhouette sitting in a high-backed chair.

I can't see the face clearly.

Only a vague outline and a crow perched on his shoulder could be seen.

"Gentlemen."

Mechanical voices rang out from all directions, indistinguishable in gender and devoid of any emotion. But as soon as those voices appeared, the air in the conference room seemed to freeze.

Everyone lowered their heads.

"BOSS".

A dozen voices rang out simultaneously, though they were of varying quality, they all carried the same reverence.

The dark figure slightly raised its hand.

The shadowy figure's gaze slowly swept over everyone present. Those eyes, hidden in the shadows, seemed to pierce through all pretense and see into people's hearts.

"Where is Vermouth?" the mechanical voice asked.