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theuntoldoriginsoftheportmafia · 5 months ago

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Part Ⅳ The Port Mafia - Chapter 4.4

✗ Who the hell is Edgar? ✗

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(A/N: This is my favourite chapter, and yet, unfortunatley it is unfinished. It's not super connected to the rest of the plot though so you can read it and the next chapter will still make perfect sense. Pleas don't skip it though, I mean, you can if you want to but, I worked hard on it.)

It takes Ranpo minutes to solve the mystery in each novel. Fukuzawa groans, trying to hide his disappointment.

'I'll just have to try and find something else. And here I thought Poe-san sounded so promising.'

Unbeknownst to Fukuzawa, Ranpo is disappointed too.

'That's a shame. I knew I'd solve it easily, but the writing is really good, and the characters and the setting seem so real! I want to finish these, but it's impossible now that I already know what will happen. It'll just be boring, and I hate being bored.'

Both Ranpo and Fukuzawa sigh.

"No matter, you still have police work. Why don't you go and play with Elise? I'll find someone to pass these on to, maybe Dazai-san will find them an interesting read. They certainly seem dark enough for him." Fukuzawa eyes the novels wearily as he speaks. He hadn't realised exactly how dark the author's work was until he'd skimmed it, but Ranpo read the first parts of each one with joy. Sometimes the boy's tolerance of violence and black and white sense of right and wrong scares him.

Once, Ranpo, still learning to navigate the large Port Mafia headquarters, walked into one of Ozaki-san's torture sessions, not a pretty sight by anyone's standard. Even Poe-san, the writer of these troubling tomes, would flinch at her methods.

The young women being tortured had abandoned the mafia and started up a rival gang using their intel to try and take over the city's trading routes. Their leadership was clumsy at best and in doing so they had nearly brought havoc into the already fragile port city. Some American trillionaire was trying to buy up the gem trading routes, and they approached the women for a deal. If they had succeeded then it would tell foreign organisations that they were free to take chunks out of the city and eventually it would become a mess of warring foreign gangs.

When Fukuzawa realised what Ranpo had seen he attempted to comfort him, to which Ranpo replied with a shrug, "Eh, they deserved it. They were going to bring disorder and chaos back to our city. Why shouldn't they be punished?" And with that he'd taken another sweet from his pocket, popped it in his mouth and walked off, showing no sign of distress.

In the present, Ranpo looks at the books, conflicted. He doesn't know why but he doesn't like the idea of them being given away. "Fukuzawa-san, wait."

The man turns, surprised, "Yes, Ranpo?"

"I'll keep the books." There is something almost defiant in the teenager's voice.

"You will?" Fukuzawa's eyebrows raise of their own accord.

Ranpo turns to look out the window, suddenly embarrassed, though he can't place why. "Ah, well, it would be disrespectful to Poe-san, who spent so much time and effort to write these if I didn't even finish them, no?"

Ranpo isn't sure if that's a lie or not. The statement is objectively true, maybe? But there's no way for Poe-san to ever find out whether he's read the books or not, and an author so great would surely care not for the opinions of one young kid. And Ranpo has never cared much for what people thought before.

Both Ranpo and Fukuzawa are conscious of this sudden change in attitude, but neither put their feelings into words.

"The books weren't expensive, and money is hardly an issue. I won't be offended if you don't like them." Fukuzawa says. He knows how much Ranpo cares about him, and hates for the boy to force himself to like the present.

Ranpo doesn't answer, too busy thinking. 'I can't finish these. What's the point of finishing them? But I can't seem to make myself give them up either. Why? . . . Ugh. But isn't it ruder to let them go to waste sitting on my shelf instead of giving them to someone who can properly enjoy them?'

Ranpo can't decide.

'Since when has he cared for the feelings of strangers? The author will hardly know if he has finished the stories or not, so why? Or perhaps it's something else . . . do these mysteries remind him of his father, maybe? Yes, that must be it.'

Fukuzawa smiles sympathetically at his adopted son, he can see the conundrum and spares him the difficulty of answering a question requiring him to look inside himself.

"That's fine, Dazai-san can read them anytime. Good day, Ranpo-kun."

And with that, his mask is back on, and he's gone, leaving Ranpo alone with his thoughts.

It's nearly 22:00, Ranpo is normally asleep by 21:00, yet he lies wide awake, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom in his quiet home. Most of the house is perfectly adult, grand, and giving no indication that anyone under 20 resides there, but here, in the only child's bedroom, glow in the dark star stickers cover the walls.

Ever since birth, Ranpo has been unable to sleep in complete darkness, not out of fear, just simple inability. Maybe it's because he's always hated not being able to see everything, not knowing what's going on in his surroundings. Or maybe it's something else entirely.

After a year of sleepless nights, for both Ranpo and his parents, his mother put these stickers up. One would think that after nearly 17 years they would have stopped glowing or peeled off, but somehow they shine just as brightly as the first day they were bought.

Suddenly another light flashes, a more natural one. Lightning.

'Oh. A thunderstorm.' Ranpo notes this apathetically. He loves thunderstorms, but now he's too busy thinking of the books on his shelf, the first new ones he's gotten since his parents died.

He used to love books. Every night his mother and father would sit in his room, one on the foot of the bed and the other in the corner rocking chair, and take turns reading to him. Never mystery novels, those were too easy, but everything else. Fantasy, action, adventure, dystopian, science fiction. Ranpo didn't always understand them but he loved the sounds of his parent's voices and whenever he had a question they would stop and explain patiently while he drank in the new information hungrily. Sometimes, his father would simply sit and tell Ranpo about the case he was working. And those stories were by far the best.

Now he has no time to read, and he knows the endings to all the books anyway. Yet, when his parents were alive he loved to hear the same stories over and over and over again, to hear the way they would read it, the theatrical rise and fall as they did voices for each of the characters, reading it slightly differently each time.

Now the words just sound empty.

A draft swirls through the room.

"Ugh, I must've left the window cracked." Ranpo sighs, voicing his thoughts just to break the silence as he gets up to close it. As he does, another gust blows through, knocking down a stack of blankets.

He freezes.

Among the pile of cloth is a piece he hasn't seen in a long time. A green and white throw woven in a zig-zag pattern, with tasselled ends. He remembers how they tickled when he would brush against his mother as she sat with him.

Feeling suddenly heavy with emotions he picks the fabric up, burying his face in it. Nostalgia washes over him. Having been hidden in the stack of other blankets for so long it still smells like his mother, her minty conditioner, the same kind Ranpo now uses but a little different, mixed with her gentle but distinctive perfume to create a smell that is effortlessly Hirai Tohru.

Thunder shakes the quiet room and Ranpo's cheeks feel wet as if the rain is inside.

"Oh, yeah, the . . ."

With clumsy movements, he closes the window, just before the raindrops soak the wooden floor. But the wetness doesn't stop.

"Am I . . .?"

Ranpo reaches up to his face, feeling the tears with surprise. He hasn't cried in a while.

There's a soft tapping on the door, a gentle rapping. Lenore wants in, to comfort Ranpo in her own bird way.

"It's . . . okay, Len, I'm . . . fine" Ranpo manages, not sure why he's bothering to hide his sobs from a bird.

When the door is cracked the large raven flies in, landing on the shelf, right next to the new nooks. She taps them curiously with her beak.

Hesitantly, Ranpo wraps his mother's blanket around him, sitting himself on the window seat to watch the rain. A memory overtakes him, a comforting quilt of several memories.

His mother sitting on this very same window seat with young Ranpo in her lap, the two of them staring out at the rain together, watching the lighting in fascination, counting to see how far away the winter storm was.

Then again in Spring watching the wildflowers bloom, colourful buds rising up from the weeds.

And in Autumn watching the leaves turn brown and float gracefully to the ground.

In all the seasons watching the small animals, the rabbits and the squirrels and the birds, pass by the window. Patiently she'd nod and smile and answer as he pointed out each one and asked its name, and when he got too sleepy she'd start pointing them out until he drifted off.

"M-mum." Ranpo whispers, voice cracked from the tears.

He hates crying and being sad and how his throat and stomach hurt from sobbing and how his vision gets all blurry.

Maybe he's going crazy, but he can hear his mother's voice.

"The best part of any story isn't the end, it's how you get to the end. Sometimes it's nice to read the same thing over and over again, to live in the story and with the characters, simply because it's warm and familiar and because it makes you happy. It doesn't matter that you already know how it ends, all that matters is the journey of reading it. That is something that never gets old. You can soak up the turns of phrase and details, and fall, for a time, into another world. To me, that's one of the most beautiful things a human can experience."

This is what his mother had told him as he fell asleep the night before her death. He'd had a fever that day and everything felt fuzzy around the edges. He hated being ill even then, hated the stuffy nose, and itchy scratchy throat, and the feeling of being weighed down. But when his parents read to him all of it seemed to go away as he was pulled into the novel and suddenly he was as good as new inside of the fictional world.

When morning came his mother made him stay in bed instead of coming with her and his father into the city. Even his favourite cartoon couldn't entertain him, he was so eager for their return with the promised sweets and new books.

Now in his dark room, Ranpo can hear his own voice, a younger version weeping tears of longing.

With his fever broken, but still in bed, he was bored and resorted to pacing the longest corridor in the house. He kept pacing, repeating his path exactly every time, waiting for his parent's return, with a determination that many adults lack.

Eventually, he knew it had been too long, his parents had never left him for such a great length of time, and knowing this his pacing intensified until he was running back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And then, out of breath, he was out of the door desperate to find them with no idea how. All alone he stood on the hill overlooking the city, cold air stinging his tear damp cheeks, the scream stinging his throat.

And he knew like he knew every other thing he figured out so easily. He knew his longing was pointless and so it turned to grief, the feeling more vast than the city sprawling out beneath him.

The memory feels suffocating, the sobs so frequent Ranpo can hardly breathe through his burning lungs and chest. He doesn't want to think of this. Why can't he stop? He just wants it to stop! How can he make it stop?

He does the first thing he can think of, grabbing the first book in reach. He's tempted to throw it, but his respect for books is ingrained too deep, so he opens it to the first page and begins to read.

It's one of Poe-san's novels.

It starts just how Ranpo remembers it from earlier today, but the strangest feeling comes over him. A feeling of relaxation. Now that he doesn't have to worry about how it ends he's free to notice the little things. The way the character is described with certain details so purposefully left out or included is very careful, a story crafted with love and care. It reminds him of the way his father used to tell stories and suddenly his tears don't hurt so much.

With each drop that falls his father's voice becomes clearer, his own internal monologue taking on Hirai Kogorou's voice until it's his father reading him the book.

The sun begins to rise just as Ranpo closes the book. He finds himself disappointed that the novel, which looked so long at first glance, is over already. He looks out the window, sees the colourful sky, and realises with a start that he spent all night reading.

'I thought I would be bored but I wasn't! I wasn't bored at all! That was great! Mum was right, the middle is much better than the end! I should read another one.'

As Ranpo finishes the thought a yawn overtakes him. He huffs. It also becomes clear that his head is throbbing.

'All that crying really tired me out, at this rate I won't be able to keep my eyes open. I think if I look at another page, I might faint. Argh, and there's still work . . .'

"Wait, sleep deprivation counts as an illness right?" Ranpo asks the room.

Lemore caws back, seeming to nod her head in confirmation.

"Great! I'll just call in sick."

Dragging himself up from the comfy position, Ranpo retrieves his phone from its charger and dials Fukuzawa.

"Yes, Ranpo?" Fukuzawa sounds barely awake.

'Oh, right, it's still early for him. Oops.'

"Fukuzawa-san, I'm not feeling well, so I can't come in today."

Ranpo's voice is still gravelly from the sobbing fit and now slurred while sleep overtakes his body.

Fukuzawa is immediately concerned., not questioning the early call-in time, "Not feeling well? Do you have a fever?"

Ranpo rolls his eyes, appreciating the concern but not wanting to extend the conversation any further, the crackly quality of voices coming through phone speakers is only exacerbating his headache. "No. It's just a small cold. I'll be in by tomorrow."

"Alright . . . but don't push yourself if you aren't feeling better by tomorrow. Come in when you feel absolutely healthy again."

Ranpo has to smile at the leader's concern. "Yup."

With that he hangs up, falling into bed, disappearing into dreams.

He dreams of fictitious worlds, beating hearts, wine cellars, black cats and his father with him, a face to go with the voice, the two solving the mysteries side by side. He hasn't dreamt his father's face so clearly in a long time.

He wakes up in tears again, a softer kind of crying this time, the tears gentle displays of his happiness. It's dark out again, and thankfully Ranpo is still tired.

'There is hope yet for my sleep schedule. It's not quite my normal bedtime though, I'll wait an hour. But what to do until then . . .'

He sighs shakily, thinking of all the emotions he's felt in the small span of 24 hours. He can't deny that these books have, beyond a doubt, moved him.

'I know! I'll write a praising letter to Poe-san!' Ranpo smiles at the thought. He adores praise, so it must be the perfect gift.

Lenore circles the room, grabbing paper and pencil and dropping them on Ranpo's desk. He thanks the bird with a treat from the glass jar.

Then he begins to write.

"Dear Poe-san,

I really liked all of your novels, even though the mysteries were somewhat predictable and took me barely a minute to solve, (it's hardly unexpected since I am the Greatest Detective in the World) I still had an amazing time reading. Your characters are so well written, I'd like to live in a world like that. The simple, chronological world of a novel where everything that happens has a reason behind it that makes sense.

Maybe if I lived in a novel my parents would still be here with me, or maybe their deaths were all part of some greater plot that I have yet to deduce.

Anyway, I've never finished reading a book since they passed. I always figure out the ending long before the story is over and I never saw the point of reading further after that, so I have a bunch of barely-read books on my shelf. Because of you, I'm going to read all of them!

Getting praise is one of my favourite things in the world, so I thought I'd write this letter to you. I hope you like it."

Ranpo could end the letter there but something deep inside of him makes him continue.

"Reading your novels reminded me of when my parents used to read to me when I was younger and to be honest it made me cry. A lot. Reading your work made me feel as if my mother and father were right beside me. So congratulations, Poe-san, you're now one of the few people who can make me cry. That's a real achievement, be proud of yourself, and keep writing books so I can read them!

~ The Greatest Detective in the World"

Ranpo folds the letter into an envelope happily, unaware that some of his comments could come off quite offensively. He also pays no mind to the fact that the letter is written in Japanese, a language which it is unlikely that Poe speaks, but who knows? Maybe things will work out anyway.

'In the morning I'll ask one of the goons to find his address.'

Still smiling, Ranpo falls back into bed.

In the morning Fukuzawa greets him, fretting until Ranpo shakes him off. He's not sure why, but he doesn't want Fukuzawa to know what happened. This feels too personal. And he's eager to send his letter so he hurries past, brushing him off.

Fukuzawa tries not to take it personally.

'Ranpo must still be grumpy. I'm sure some sweets will cheer him up.'

The lower floors of the Port Mafia are both darker and lighter than the upper floors. They hold less pure evil but are also farther from the sun. Ranpo's mask, a white Greek theatre mask with its mouth twisted into an uncomfortable-looking smile, seems to glow in the dimly lit corridor.

On one of these lower floors is a small cubicle belonging to a man by the name of Sakaguchi-san. He has a precious sort of gift, not very much use in active combat but still a nice asset to have. Discourse on Decadence it's called. An information extraction ability, making Sakaguchi-san the best out of all the analysts working under Ranpo, or rather pretending to.

Sakaguchi-san is a spy. Ranpo knows this, but it just makes him all the more useful, he has information not only from the Port Mafia but also the Special Operations Division for Unusual Powers and its international network. Sakaguchi-san will surely know the address of Edgar Allan Poe since the author has been involved in an ability user case.

Ranpo opens the door, knowing Sakaguchi-san will be inside. Sakaguchi-san is always inside. He looks up with tired eyes, not bothering to flinch at the mask, he's too exhausted.

"Ah, Clairvoyant-san. What can I help you with?"

"I need you to find someone for me."

With the help of a young ability using back alley hacker Sakaguchi-san met a few months back, finding someone will be no trouble.

—

The letter arrives at Mr. Poe's home exactly 3 days later.

He wouldn't have even bothered to check but on his way back inside from some errands his racoon, Karl, the physical manifestation of his ability, notices the peculiar black envelope with its blood red wax seal sticking out from his mailslot. The fuzzy mammal pulls the envelope from the slot with his mouth, and scampers up his master's shoulders to finish the delivery.

"Oh! Why, thank you Karl."

'What could this be? I never receive mail. Mr. Fitzgerald maybe? No, he would never bother with something like this, and he has my number.'

Thoroughly mystified, Mr. Poe takes the letter into his study, opening it carefully with a tarnished, antique letter opener.

He looks at the note, it's written in swoopy characters. He recognises them as Kanji.

'Something from Japan? Is it from Gelhart Security Services? Couldn't they just send a message through Mr. Fitzgerald. No, they would have written in English anyways. Oh! Oh, what if someone else found out . . .'

He refers to Francis Fitzgerald, older than Poe but still a young man at only 22 and a half who hopes to establish an organisation for ability users he calls The Guild. He approached Poe after finding out about his ability from an anonymous source.

Poe was worried, terrified. He's kept his secret so well for so long, dictating his novels to an unaware typist just to avoid any mishaps.

Mr. Fitzgerald told him the anonymous informant had seemed friendly, and that they had said not to have told anyone else of Poe's ability. It seemed they were trying to help out. Mr. Fitzgerald couldn't, even with all his resources, track down the informant but no one else had approached Poe so it was assumed they were telling the truth.

Shaking his head to clear away the anxious thoughts he begins to read.

Languages have always come easily to him, and he's been diligently studying Japanese ever since Mr. Fitzgerald offered him a Guild adjacent position, hoping that when The Guild is fully established, Poe would join. The position involves heading up a security service that the billionaire recently bought. The service is located in Yokohama, Japan and was originally funded by the German government but went underground when the subsidy ended, which was unfortunately shortly after Mr. Fitzgerald bought it. The man was warned that there must be something wrong for the company to sell for that cheap but he was optimistic, a fault he's still learning to overcome. Not liking the idea of owning a company responsible for illegal activities Mr. Fitzgerald paid Poe to go and straighten them out.

Why did he pick Poe? The author has no idea.

"It's alright if they pillage the occasional gang warehouse now and then, but having armed robbers on my payroll is not a very nice look. If they operate in the criminal world let them at least do so with more subtlety. Don't you agree? And think, this will be an excellent chance to experience a culture so different from the West." is what Mr. Fitzgerald had said.

Now Poe is thankful he'd started learning the small country's language. He can understand every word but even still he reads it through thrice just to be sure he has it right.

'P-predictable! He solved it in MINUTES!? N-no. No way. This "Detective" must be lying. T-that's not possible . . .' Poe's thoughts turn desperate. He is the greatest mystery novel writer. He is. His work is NOT predictable.! No one can take this, certainly not some random stranger who writes as if he isn't over the age of 13. This has to be some joke, it has to be. His mysteries have to be interesting and engaging. He has to be the best, nothing less is acceptable, nothing less would make his father acknowledge him. 'he couldn't have . . .'

Poe starts to hyperventilate, spiralling into his mind, his head getting foggy.

'Calm yourself, calm yourself, calm yourself. Edgar Allan Poe! Calm yourself at once!'

He breathes deeply, concentrating as hard as he can on steadying his breath and with each inhale and exhale he shoves the inadequacy down into a mental box. He imagines it as an ornately decorated treasure chest, beautiful but filled with evil. He may resent the box and all that fills it, but it does the job.

When he reviews the letter once more, with a semi-clear mind it really is very sweet, assuming any of it is true.

'My books . . . made this boy cry?' Poe doesn't know what to do with this information, he never thought anyone would find his gory tales emotionally stirring. 'He still enjoyed my books, despite their claims of its predictability . . . is that perhaps what really matters? No. I must find out what happened!

But still . . . he gave such praise. I have never received a letter like this one. What was the point? To insult me and then give me the highest compliment, saying that I changed him so deeply, is this boy mentally unstable? What happened to his parents? What's with the "Greatest detective in the World" thing? He says my books led him back into his love of reading and he did seem quite eager. He said he wants me to write more books, for him to read! ' Poe feels a warmth spreading in his chest at the encouragement. There is something cute, he thinks, about being referred to with the Japanese honorific. And then there's the biggest question of all: 'S-should I . . . write back?'

Poe feels foolish as he types World's Greatest Detective, Japan into the search bar on his computer.

A slew of Japanese news articles come up, all about a man called The Clairvoyant. At first, it looks promising until Poe notices the dates.

'No, this isn't right. This man would be much too old to have written a letter in such a carefree, childish style.' Poe thinks as he looks at one of the few pictures taken of Hirai Kogorou. He frowns. He needs to know who has outwitted him.

So he does the only thing he can: write back. Determined to hide his confusion and desperation behind politeness he begins the letter by thanking the detective for his praise and then starts questioning him.

'It's unlikely that I'll get an answer especially since the man didn't even include his name and the return address was a fake, but I have to try. Maybe if I question his intelligence enough he'll take the bait and write me back? Hopefully . . . Ah, this is quite pathetic, but what else can I do?'

With shaky hands, he puts his message onto paper.

"Dear "Greatest Detective in the World",

I want to start this letter by asking you to forgive any errors I may make, I only started studying Japanese a few months ago, so if I seem to be struggling to get my point across or if any of my phrasing doesn't make sense or seem as elegant as it is in my published works, that is why.

To begin I will say that I was quite shocked when I received your letter as getting mail is a rare event for me, particularly in this new digital age, so thank you for surprising me.

Now, as to the contents of your writing, those were a surprise as well. I thank you for your compliments, but some of your other comments confused me.

Most who read my novels are sufficiently stumped by them, as is my reputation. I am the author whose carefully thought through prose keeps readers unaware, basking, lost and confused in its beauty until the very last page. So, forgive me if I find it hard to believe that you have so easily cracked the code to these mysteries.

Who on earth are you? How old are you, because, if you're just a kid, then please stop joking around. Nobody finds you funny.

What reason do you have for claiming the title of "World's Greatest Detective"? Isn't that a title that others should give you, not yourself (there are no news articles about you)? What have you done to earn it? What makes you think you're so smart?

But of course, I don't mean to be rude, not at all. All good authors must learn from and enjoy the opinions and feedback from fans and critics alike. What exactly makes you feel my mysteries are predictable? How did you work them out? I'd like to know.

~ Sincerely, E.A. Poe

P.S. I feel rude addressing you as Detective-san, so If you don't mind. I would like to know your name, even if just your surname or whatever you'd like me to call you by."

Satisfied with this he seals the blood-red envelope with black wax seal of the Poe family crest.

A few days later Ranpo receives the letter. He opens it growing amused as he reads the contents. He can see the desperation in Poe's handwriting. Cruel satisfaction rises inside of him at having bested one of America's genius writers. He isn't known in the mafia as The Clairvoyant for no reason.

He's smiling as he scrawls his letter.

"Dear Poe-san,

I'd like for you to call me The Greatest Detective in the World or The World's Greatest Detective, either is fine.

Your Japanese is very good, you must be studying really hard. That's probably the one thing you're better at than me. I've picked up some Korean and a tiny bit of Chinese since my job involves international clients but I'm miserable at learning languages.

I did indeed solve the mysteries in your books, but you shouldn't feel bad because I am The World's Greatest Detective. I can't tell you much about myself, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Don't bother searching me up online again, you still won't find anything.

For your second question: While I did initially crown myself with this title, the police I aid, all agree with me, as well as my colleagues and subordinates. I solve criminal cases and deduce all sorts of information in seconds. That's how I solved your novel.

But I will tell you this,"

Ranpo proceeds to list exactly how he figured the mystery out, his smile growing as he does.

"So that's how I did it. I hope you're satisfied!

Write something else for me, okay. Something actually hard to solve.

~ The Greatest Detective in the World"

When Poe receives the reply he had been pacing with anticipation for, he doesn't bother with the formality of a letter opener, tearing the envelope open with his hands and retrieving the letter. Karl nibbles curiously at the scraps of envelope.

He ignores the put-down about languages, growing more confused as he reads the detective's reply.

He's learnt a few things but none of them are helpful in identifying this mysterious man.

1) He is work involves clients, some of them from other countries (across Asia at least)

2) He works with the police. ('Is he some sort of agent of Interpol? That would explain how he'd found my address, particularly since I was recently involved in a criminal case recently. I think there was even a new article about it.')

3) He has people working under him, but also people at his level so he must be at least somewhat high ranked, even if not at the highest rank.

4) He is very very very observant and very very very smart.

5) Outwitting him is probably hopeless.

'How did he know I'd searched him up? Well, I guess it's a fair assumption, that is what most people would do.'

So Poe writes back. This time he has a plan, a plan of vengeance, a plan to ensure that he and he alone is the best. In this letter, he sends a fragment of his new novel under the guise that he wants to see if Ranpo can truly deduce the ending without the entire text, a way to ensure no cheating.

The truth is that the fragment is infused with his ability, Black Cat in the Rue Morgue. His ability allows him to transport anyone into his novels, all they have to do is read a single word. He can even transport them into a book that wasn't written by him, so long as it's one they're currently reading. They can only get out until they solve the conflict of the story, usually a crime or other mystery, seeing as that's Poe's favourite genre, and explain the answer aloud, but this book is different.

This story isn't a mystery, there's no crime to solve. Poe plans for the man who's defeated his novels to die in this story, transported in by a page from the novel he's crafted for this specific purpose, never to return to the outside world. Thus sealing his position as the greatest mystery author.

As Poe sticks his letter in the public post box (he has to use it because the post carriers don't bother checking his house anymore), he hesitates.

'Should I really go through with this? I've never committed murder on someone who I have every reason to believe is completely innocent, maybe even an officer of the law, before? Is this the right thing? And if by some miracle, he doesn't die he could reveal the fact that I have an ability . . . oh! What to do, what to do, what to do?! . . . It will all be fine. What could possibly go wrong? I must go through with this if I am to be the best, and I MUST be the best. There is no other way. Unless I become the best, my father will never acknowledge me.'

Poe slips the envelope in. He is the best and he will stay the best, His father will eventually have to accept him. And when he does he'll come to visit his son whom he abandoned before his first birthday . . . and that's when Poe will kill him. Maybe slit his throat right there, maybe trap him in a novel to starve, or get mauled by beasts. Either way, it will be a pain equivalent to what Poe and his mother experienced.

His mother, his poor mother. She could barely get out of bed after her husband left and eventually, she succumbed to pneumonia, it wasn't exactly a quick death. Poe was only two years of age at the time. He shouldn't be able to remember anything, but he does. He remembers how he watched her take increasingly difficult breaths, he watched the life drain out of her with each laboured exhale and listened to her fever-slurred words of affection to him as she died. Maybe it's because of his ability, maybe he had an eidetic memory even then.

Poe will kill that wretched man, and no one, Interpol or otherwise, is going to stop him.

With his shoulders set, his heart steeled and his mind a little manic but determined, he drops the letter in, walking quickly back to his home. Inside he's greeted by one of his many bookcases, volume after volume, spine after spine, and he's read them all, and he will probably do so again. They remind him of the detective's first letter.

"I've never finished reading a book since they passed. I always figure out the ending long before the story is over and I never saw the point of reading further after that, so I have a bunch of barely read books on my shelf. Because of you, I'm going to read all of them!"

Poe stops in his tracks, the thought sending ice through his veins. The detective will never finish reading any of those books . . . because of him.

'Ah, it can't be helped. This is absolutely necessary.' Poe assures himself, yet still he feels the sadness building up inside him like footsteps descending into a dark cavern or bricks being added to a wall. The turning of phantom pages echoes through the house.

'At least I have Karl. Karl will be my friend forever!'

He shakes away the thoughts, slinging his jacket over the back of his chair and kicking off his boots, far more carelessly than he would ever be ordinarily. Feeling a little lighter he heads straight to the large mahogany cabinet in his barely used sitting room. After all, nothing goes better with murder than underage drinking.

Poe stands for a moment in front of the piece of furniture, the windows, decorated with swirling patterns, make him dizzy despite his sobriety. Slowly he takes the key from the top of the cabinet, which he's only recently been tall enough to reach flatfooted or without shoes, and turns it in the lock. The cabinet opens with a resounding click revealing the mostly still full bottles of sparkling alcohol inside.

Aside from the occasional murder, Poe wouldn't consider himself a lawbreaker. In all his time living alone, he hadn't touched his father's stash of expensive liquor. He'll legally be able to in only two years, but right now he just wants to feel the exhilaration of intoxication which he's heard so much about from books, telly, and older friends. Yes, he knows the expensive whiskey is wasted on a young and inexperienced pallet like his but this was his father's so he gives about zero fucks.

Forgoing the fancy crystal glasses he grabs his favourite mug, (with a raccoon wearing a witch's hat and riding on a broom) and fills it with the strongly scented brown liquor. He downs it in five gulps. It burns like when you put an alcohol swab too close to your nose or bite your nails after using hand sanitiser, only so much worse. It leaves him sputtering and gasping for breath, hacking so hard he sounds like a certain black and white-haired inhabitant of Yokohama.

Even still, his veins fill with a comforting warmth, as if there's a miniscule fire roaring through him. When he recovers himself, he pours another mug. This one, Karl knocks from his hand, chittering angrily. Poe knows it's impossible (is it), because Karl's a racoon, but somehow he wears an expression that's so human. A look of disappointment, and . . . worry. The mug, thankfully, lands on the carpet, but the noise reverberates uncomfortably inside Poe's skull and the liquor spills out over the floor.

" . . . H-hey, whu zat for?' he slurs.

Karl, very smart for a raccoon, grabs the bottle cork and uses his paws to push it in, then takes the neck between his teeth and scampers off.

" . . . Eh? W-waaaait givit back!"

The racoon doesn't turn, but seems to shake his head as he disappears into the darkness. Poe could summon him back, he lacks the faculties to do much of anything right now. He starts after his pet and the bottle of liquor but all the doors are closed and he can't seem to remember how to open them. So, with a great amount of effort he staggers to his room and falls into bed, red faced, and still fully clothed.

'It . . . will be . . . so sad . . . to say goodbye . . . to my dear detective . . . when . . . he was . . . the one . . . to get the most . . . out of . . . my novels' Poe thinks drunkenly, a sad sort of smile on his face as sleep overtakes him.

(A/N: Author-san doesn't drink, certainly not fancy alcohol, so R.I.P. these descriptions, lmao.

Also for anyone wondering, Poe can tell Ranpo's gender despite not leaving his name because of his use of the personal pronoun "boku".

I have a HC that Karl is the manifestation of Poe's ability, like Elise is of Mori's. This is because Karl seems to be way smarter than a typical racoon and able to do things intuitively that normal racoons can't without extensive training. Karl normally has behaviour and habits of a normal raccoon, but when he senses Poe's in danger (say of alcohol poisoning) he becomes almost human-like.)

—

Ranpo expects the reply and is pleased when it comes. He may or may not have intentionally used inflammatory phrasing just to ensure his dialogue with the author, an admittedly great mind, would continue.

'Such a shame that he feels such animosity towards me. It's not like it's my fault his mysteries are simple. Mori-san would be pleased with my underhandedness.'

In his office he opens the letter, pausing to take a bite of a candy bar, then he sets his eyes on it. As soon as he processes the first word he feels himself being sucked down, down down.

'What the—? What's going on? Is this some sort of trap?'

Before he can finish his thought he lands in a new world. It doesn't materialise around him like something new, instead it stays static and stable as any earthly room or scene, as if it has already been long established and Ranpo is the outsider.

'Since when did isekai become a real thing?' Ranpo scoffs as he takes in his new surroundings.

He's outside. The day is warm and the sky is blue, dotted with perfectly shaped white clouds, like cotton balls or candy floss. The rolling hills are alive with grass of vibrant green and wildflowers add brillant pops of colour. Majestic oak trees sway in the gentle breeze providing shade, on one tree there is a swing secured to a branch.

To the side of the house is a small lake, it ripples slowly jiggling the lily pads that float upon its surface. A crane stands at the edge and frogs splash happily until the crane spears one of them violently with its beak and gulps it down.

There's something unsettling about the place. He feels it in his bones, but Ranpo can't point out what it is specifically. It's already driving him mad. Everything looks as it should be but he can feel something underneath like a thrumming evil. He files the information away for later and continues observing.

In front of Ranpo is a road, a driveway and it leads up to a large mansion. The mansion is a beautiful grand place with new paint and trim, light shines from within the spotless windows, and smoke rises charmingly from the chimney. It's perfect.

Too perfect, apart from one thing, the single imperfection in the utopic vignette.

A thin crack extends from the house's intricately tiled roof, down the front of the house, just missing the front door, and disappearing into the lake.

'Now that isn't right.' Ranpo wants to be pleased that he's found something to justify his unease, but he can't shake said unease enough to be pleased.

He's a Port Mafia executive as well as a police consultant, he's seen more gore and death than most, yet he scarcely thinks of it again, but this sickly peace sends a shiver through him.

At the same time, he feels too hot. And the seams on his clothes, usually hardly noticeable (and picked for that very reason) are suddenly very irritating. He whines and tugs at his shirt surprised when he finds a thicker material. Wool.

"Ack!" He squirms quickly out of the heavy suit jacket and begins loosening the tie, and unbuttoning the vest. After he's shed the layers, he runs to the edge of the lake, shaking his hands and arms out a bit manically at the new freedom. The crane doesn't startle, instead looks him dead in the eyes before returning to its hunt for frogs.

On the surface of the lake, Ranpo stares, aghast at his reflection. He's wearing a three-piece suit, a term he only knows because of his father's love for the Sherlock Holmes series. He reaches for his glasses and realises they aren't in his pockets, instead there's something smooth.

He takes it out. It's a folded sheet of paper, almost identical to the one he held only minutes ago, but this one is faded and creased. It tells him that he was asked to visit this strange place by a friend suffering from a mysterious illness alongside his sister.

'Perhaps my "friend" can help?' Ranpo thinks doubtfully.

He walks up the drive until he arrives at the front door, like his own home, it has a knocker, which he uses to rap thrice on the heavy wooden door.

Someone answers just after the third knock. A man, tall and slender and looking quite pale, his brown locks are frizzy and slightly matted, and barely visible beneath a stringy fringe are his eyes, which Ranpo guesses are dull murky brown on a good day, marred by dark circles.

(A/N: For those of you wondering, yes Poe did subconsciously model the main character after himself because of his desire to meet Ranpo.)

"Oh, Hello friend. Thank God you arrived on time, and with all this terrible weather. It's truly a miracle indeed."

"What?" Ranpo looks behind him. There's only the sunny, perfect sky and that seemingly never ending road behind him.

"The weather, the storms, the lighting? Haven't you noticed? It's rather hard to miss, is it not? Are you quite alright?" The man sounds frantic, his voice cracking and when he runs his hand through his hair, his fringe pulls away, revealing fevered eyes. "Well, I really must insist you get inside. You're getting soaked."

"Oh, uh, yeah."

More creeped out than ever, Ranpo tries to peer around the man and see into the cracked house. Behind the owner is what must be the house's main staircase. The bainsters are chipped and crumbling away, the carpet is torn and rotten. Broken, flickering lamps, slashed, red stained paintings and animal heads in various states of decay line the walls.

Ranpo knows it's not a good idea to go in there, but having no other choice, he enters. Immediately as his foot crosses the threshold he feels the dampness seep into his clothes. He is, in fact, soaked.

Inside the house, everything is different. The mansion is what can only described as decadent. The stairs shine, perfectly polished with soft maroon linear carpet. The sconces give the foyer a soft glow, perfectly lighting the charming landscape paintings and mounted animals heads, unharmed on their plaques.

'Unharmed aside from the fact that their heads are no longer attached to their bodies.'

The friend directs Ranpo to a perfecty fluffy sofa. He knows he shouldn't sit, no matter how safe it looks. If there was ever a time to get a bad feeling, it's now.

"Oh, I'm quite stiff from my travels, I'd prefer to stand."

"Of course, I shall prepare some tea." the man leaves. Ranpo realises that he doesn't know his name. The letter was only signed "your friend".

When Ranpo looks out the window he sees the most disturbing things of all. The day is now dark, the sky black with heavy clouds, lighting striking fiercely, trees swaying and the flowers blown over. He can even hear the creaking of the swings, and the rippling of the pond mixed in with the flap of wings.

Frantically he runs for the door. The man was right, it is raining. But as soon as Ranpo steps out of the threshold, the day is calm again.

"My friend? Are you determined to catch your death out there?"

Ranpo turns, quite startled. "No, . . . I was simply investigating what could be the cause of your illness. You were right, this weather isn't good for anyone."

To Be Continued . . .

(A/N: The next chapter is finished. It's a separate storyline so don't worry it will make sense.)

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