Conan: What alias? That's my struggle!

Lin Ye's destination was the black market.

After all, he couldn't just leave all that stolen money at home.

He was nothing like Director Zhao Dehan. When the car entered the street where the black market was located, most of the streetlights were broken, with only a few barely glowing in the depths of the alley. Lin Ye parked the car in front of a scrap metal recycling station, turned off the engine, and took money from the passenger seat, stuffing it into a black plastic bag.

He then got out of the car, walked to the iron gate of the recycling station, knocked three times, paused, and then knocked twice more. The dark organization was very familiar with these black markets.

The small window on the iron gate opened, revealing a pair of yellow eyes.

"Who?"

He was somewhat wary.

"Selling iron."

Lin Ye gave the code.

The door opened.

Lin Ye squeezed in sideways, and the iron gate closed behind him.

The yard was piled with scrap iron and old machinery, and the moonlight shone on the rusty metal, reflecting a cold white light.

A bald man walked ahead, wearing greasy work clothes, holding a flashlight in his hand, the beam of light swaying back and forth on the ground.

He led Lin Ye across the courtyard and into a basement. The basement lights were low-wattage incandescent bulbs, casting a dim, yellowish glow over the entire space.

The shelves on the wall were filled with all sorts of things—watches, jewelry, camera lenses, and some electronic products that Lin Ye couldn't name.

The bald man stopped in front of a metal table, turned around, and looked at the black plastic bag in Lin Ye's hand.

"How many?"

"One hundred million."

The bald man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

He took the plastic bag, opened it, took out a bundle of banknotes, looked at it under the light, took out another bundle, looked at it, then put it back and zipped it up.

Gold or dollars?

The bald man didn't ask where the money came from.

"Gold. Small strips, easy to carry."

Lin Ye responded skillfully.

He comes here often as a Madeira, so he's a regular customer. He doesn't need Gin's face; in fact, if he did, he might be treated like a stranger and overcharged.

"Um."

The bald man turned and walked to the corner, opened a safe, and took out several small gold bars, placing them on the table. The gold bars were small, each about the length of an adult's finger, and engraved with a number and purity. He took out an electronic scale and weighed them one by one.

He weighed the items and wrote down the numbers on a piece of paper. Lin Ye leaned against the wall, watching him convert 100 million yen into gold, a process that took about ten minutes.

The bald man put the weighed gold bars into a canvas bag and handed it to Lin Ye.

"Count them."

He was also concise and to the point.

Lin Ye took the bag, didn't count it, and turned to leave. The sound of the iron gate closing behind him echoed in the alley for a moment before disappearing.

He put the canvas bag on the passenger seat, started the car, and drove home.

The parking lot downstairs was empty, except for his car and a small bread truck belonging to someone else. Lin Ye parked his car in his own space, turned off the engine, and got out with his canvas bag. He didn't go upstairs, but walked to the garage door—the separate garage he rented along with his apartment.

The roller shutter door is dark gray.

A thick layer of dust had settled on it. Lin Ye took out his key, unlocked the door, lifted the roller shutter, crawled inside, and then pulled the door down again.

There were no lights in the garage, only the light from a cell phone screen. He turned on his flashlight, and the beam swept around the garage—the walls were concrete, the floor was concrete, and in the corner were several cardboard boxes labeled "Books" and "Clothes," left behind by his predecessor when he moved, which he had never opened.

But none of that matters.

Lin Ye walked to the innermost wall, squatted down, and ran his fingers along the surface. The cement felt rough, and he could feel the tiny particles brushing against his skin with his fingertips.

He touched the third row of brick joints, where the cement was slightly smoother than in other places; you couldn't feel it unless you touched it carefully.

"This is it." Lin Ye pressed his thumb, and the wall made a slight click.

A square, palm-sized keypad popped out of the wall, featuring ten numeric keys. Lin Ye entered a six-digit code, and the small screen on the keypad flashed green. Then, the entire wall began to retract inwards and slide to the side, revealing a metal wall with various firearms hanging from it.

The flashlight beam shone on the wall, reflecting a cold, metallic sheen. Pistols, rifles, shotguns, and dozens of magazines and two boxes of ammunition hung on the wall.

The firearms were neatly arranged, as if waiting to be used.

Lin Ye put the flashlight in his mouth, took out the small gold bars from the canvas bag, and stuffed them one by one into the hidden compartment on the side of the wall.

The hidden compartment wasn't large, just enough to hold the gold bars. Once the door was closed, there was no trace of it from the outside.

He stood in front of the wall of guns, looked at it for a while, and then reached out and took down the Desert Eagle hanging on the far right.

The gun was heavy, feeling weighty in his hand, like a piece of iron forged into that shape. He ejected the magazine, checked it, and found it was full. He pushed the magazine back in, pulled the slide, and a bullet bounced out, landing on the ground with a crisp sound.

"A gun with a full magazine is prone to problems." Lin Ye tucked the Desert Eagle into his waistband. His shirt was pulled down, covering the grip of the gun, so it wasn't visible from the outside.

He cleaned the floor, closed the walls, took the canvas bag out of the garage, pulled down the roller shutter door, locked it, went upstairs, and turned on the lights.

In an instant, the lights were on.

"What a tiring and exhausting day." Lin Ye tossed the canvas bag into the entryway and went into the bathroom. When he turned on the tap, the hot water came on a little slower than usual. He stood under the showerhead and let the hot water wash over him from head to toe, washing away the sweat and the sticky residue from the prosthetic glue.

After showering, it was time to sleep and rest. The pillows in the guest room were soft, and the blankets were light. He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately.

There were no dreams. Nothing at all.

The next morning, Lin Ye was awakened by the sunlight streaming through the window. Sunlight streamed in through the gaps in the curtains, falling directly on his face, warm and carrying the fresh scent unique to the morning. He reached for his phone on the bedside table and glanced at the time—eight o'clock in the morning. Then he checked the date.

Sunday.

"What the hell?"

Lin Ye stared at the screen for three seconds, then sat up. Yesterday was Tuesday. He remembered it clearly; the deal at Tropical Paradise was on Tuesday. He knocked Shinichi Kudo's head off, took the money from the vodka, exchanged it for gold bars, went home, took a shower, brushed his teeth, and went to sleep.

Yesterday was Tuesday.

Today should be Wednesday.

This is common sense, but the phone says Sunday.

"Um?"

Lin Ye refreshed the screen; the date hadn't changed.

He glanced at it again.

It's still Sunday.