Conan: What alias? That's my struggle!

The transaction took place behind a warehouse in the western section of Tropical Paradise.

There are no amusement rides, no food stalls, and even tourists rarely come this way. The ground is concrete, with clumps of withered yellow grass growing in the cracks.

Some rusty iron barrels were piled up against the wall. The sunlight couldn't reach this area; the entire alley was shrouded in the shadow of the buildings, and there was a damp, musty smell in the air.

"This is the place for the transaction."

Vodka arrived ten minutes early, standing in the middle of the alley, still holding the pink penguin plush toy in his arms.

"Yeah, mission accomplished." Lin Ye leaned against the wall, his trench coat collar turned up, his silver-white hair gleaming coldly in the shadows. He had nothing in his hands, but the baseball bat was tucked into the inside pocket of his trench coat, its wooden handle pressed against his ribs, rising and falling gently with his breath.

Masao Murakami arrived right on time.

He came alone, without any bodyguards.

He was sixty-three years old, with gray hair, wearing a gray jacket and carrying a black travel bag. His steps were quick but unsteady, the soles of his shoes making a rapid, jerky sound on the concrete, like a drum being struck too fast. He stopped in front of the vodka, letting out a tense breath.

"Here."

Then he put the travel bag on the ground.

"The money is here."

Murakami's voice was a little strained, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"Where's the film?"

He was still most concerned about the evidence against him, unaware that he was about to be silenced.

Vodka didn't speak, but turned to look at Lin Ye. Lin Ye walked out from behind the wall, his shoes making a soft sound on the concrete, but it was remarkably clear in the empty alley.

Murakami's pupils contracted sharply when he saw his face. He recognized the face, or rather, he recognized the person that face represented.

That was a nightmare for many wealthy people in Japan.

"Is the amount correct?"

Lin Ye's voice was very low, in Gin's emotionless tone. He didn't look at Murakami, but at the travel bag on the ground.

It was as if he were looking at something he already owned.

"Two hundred million," Murakami said, his voice even more strained than before. "That's double what you asked for. The extra hundred million is for my life."

He was clearly afraid of being silenced.

Lin Ye glanced at him. Murakami's face appeared exceptionally pale in the shadows, with fine beads of sweat on his forehead and his nostrils twitching slightly. The guy was very nervous; his hands hung at his sides, his fingers slightly curled as if he were grasping at something, but there was nothing in his hands.

"You're quite smart."

Lin Ye bent down and unzipped the travel bag.

Inside the bag were neatly stacked bundles of banknotes, each sealed with transparent plastic sheeting bearing the image of Fukuzawa Yukichi.

He picked up a bundle, flicked it with his finger, and it made a crisp sound. Genuine banknotes.

"Luckily you didn't try anything funny." Lin Ye picked up another bundle, flicked it, and made the same sound. He put the banknotes back, zipped up his zipper, and stood up.

Vodka.

"exist."

"Put it away."

Vodka stepped forward, bent down, and picked up the travel bag. His movements were so natural, as if he were picking up a shopping bag after shopping at a supermarket. The penguin plush toy was tucked under his arm, its pink fur brushing against his black trench coat, picking up a few tiny fibers.

Murakami watched as Vodka carried the travel bag away, his Adam's apple bobbing again. "Where's the film?"

Lin Ye pulled a thin, white envelope from the inside pocket of his trench coat, blank of any writing. He held the envelope by one corner and waved it in front of Murakami. Murakami reached out to take it, but Lin Ye withdrew his hand. Murakami's hand froze in mid-air, his fingers slightly open, like a claw that had failed to catch its prey.

"Here's the negative," Lin Ye said, "but you have to answer one question first."

Murakami's eyes flickered.

"What's the problem?"

He pretended to be calm.

Why are you afraid of me?

Lin Ye continued to ask questions, his gaze as sharp as Qin Jiu's.

"Forehead……"

Murakami's lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes were looking to the upper left, a typical reaction when someone is fabricating a lie. Lin Ye noticed, but he didn't ask. He didn't need the answer; he only needed to confirm one thing—Murakami Masao wouldn't leave this alley alive.

Lin Ye tossed the envelope to Murakami. It flipped in the air and landed softly in Murakami's hand. Murakami quickly tore open the seal, pulled out the negatives, and held them up to the sliver of light filtering in from the wall. Thirty-six sheets, not one missing.

"Thank you, thank you! Thank you!" A relaxed expression appeared on his face, his shoulders slumped, and his breathing became smoother.

"The deal's done," Murakami said, tucking the negatives into the inside pocket of his jacket and patting them down as if to make sure they wouldn't fall out. "Can I go now?"

Lin Ye didn't answer. He glanced at Vodka. Vodka had already put down his travel bag and pulled his right hand out of his trench coat pocket. In his hand was a black pistol with a long silencer attached to the muzzle.

Murakami saw the gun. His face lost all color in an instant, turning into a grayish-white, plaster-like substance.

"No! You can't do this!"

His lips were trembling, his teeth were chattering, and he was making a faint gurgling sound. He wanted to say something, but something seemed to be stuck in his throat.

It only produced some muffled breathy sounds.

"We can do whatever we want!"

Vodka pulled the trigger.

The next moment, a dark red flower burst open on Murakami's chest.

"Ahhh!" His body leaned back, his back hit the wall, and then he slowly, slowly slid down, like a bag of cement that had been overturned.

When this person died, his eyes were still open, his pupils were dilated, his mouth was open, and his tongue was pressed against his teeth, as if he had been frozen in a comic book panel.

Well, this is just a comic book world. Vodka put the gun back in his trench coat pocket, bent down to pick up his travel bag, and stood behind Lin Ye.

"Boss, shall we go?"

He asked the question.

Lin Ye did not answer. He shifted his gaze from the corpse in the village to the direction of the alley entrance. There was a wall there, and next to it were several rusty iron barrels.

Behind the metal bucket, there was a small patch of dark blue fabric.

The hem of the garment was trembling slightly.

"What a clumsy follower."

He could see the hem of the coat, and so could Vodka. Vodka reached back into his trench coat pocket and gripped the gun handle, but Lin Ye held his arm down.

"wait for me."

Lin Ye's words were concise and to the point.

He strode towards the alley entrance, his shoes making a soft sound on the concrete, but it was remarkably clear in the empty alley.

Lin Ye didn't deliberately lighten his pace, nor did he deliberately increase it—but he was very clear that he was stepping on the steps of fate and the entire history of the world.