Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

The world suddenly cracks open in the face of baijiu (Chinese liquor).

That was no ordinary cliff, but a massive, all-consuming wound in the earth's crust. The opposite bank was invisible in the pervasive fog, as if it didn't exist at all.

Beneath your feet, there is only a rolling sea of ​​clouds and an unfathomable void; the sound of the wind is the only constant whisper here.

The way out? It was cut off the moment the decision was made.

The engines of the pursuers may still be roaring in the distance, but at this moment, they have all become insignificant background noise.

Baijiu's gaze was fixed on the empty void in front of him, his eyes not filled with madness, but with a chilling calmness.

He took a deep breath of the thin, cold air, as if trying to force this last sense of reality into his lungs.

It's now.

He suddenly twisted the accelerator all the way to the floor!

The remaining power of the off-road motorcycle was fully unleashed, the engine emitting an almost mournful roar, propelling its steel body toward the brink of destruction.

The car bounced wildly on the jagged rocks, each bounce feeling like a final farewell to the earth.

The speedometer needle swung dangerously toward the limit, and the gale-force winds tore at his clothes, almost lifting him off the car.

The edge of the cliff rapidly magnified in my field of vision, and then disappeared.

The front wheels were the first to lift off the ground, followed by the entire car body.

In that instant, a tremendous sense of weightlessness gripped him, as if his internal organs had shifted. Time seemed to thicken and slow down.

The motorcycle is no longer a land beast; it has become a heavy steel projectile, carrying a tragic inertia as it traces an arc destined to fall through the air.

The sunlight briefly outlined the silhouettes of the car and people suspended in mid-air, against the backdrop of the magnificent yet desolate Alps.

This isn't a stunt performance from a movie; there's no meticulously calculated landing point, and no safety rope to ensure absolute safety.

This is pure recklessness, a crazy leap that gambles everything on the unknown.

The tire spun futilely in the air, with a bottomless abyss below that would terrify anyone.

Baijiu's body clung tightly to the car body, its muscles taut, resisting the chaotic airflow.

He stared wide-eyed down at the cloud-shrouded, unknown expanse below, waiting to devour him.

Is it life? Is it death?

The answer wasn't in his hands, but in the next few seconds.

The apex of the arc is being reached, but the call of gravity has only just begun.

Seeing that there was still no sound from Baijiu on the other end of the communication, McCallen couldn't help but worry, "Did you succeed? Baijiu?"

"Are you alright?" McClan repeated, "Hi?"

"I'm trying my best to avoid this mountain!" The cold wind lashed against Baijiu's face, and the chill prevented him from opening his mouth wide.

"Damn it! In the end, we still have to gamble!" Baijiu opened his parachute.

Inside the carriage, the air seemed to have solidified into amber, heavy and transparent.

Vermouth was the first to break this carefully maintained calm.

“For some reason,” she said, a cryptic smile curving her lips as she gracefully crossed her slender legs, “I suddenly have a strange feeling.”

Her voice carried a hint of languid playfulness, but her gaze was sharp as she pierced Gin.

"It seems that what I sold was not just this key."

Gin's face was as still as a frozen lake, without a ripple. "I don't understand what you mean," he replied calmly, his eyes fixed on her like a hawk's.

“But now,” Vermouth raised her chin slightly, revealing a section of her fair neck, her tone light with relief, “knowing that the key has been given to the right person, I can finally sleep peacefully.”

She stood up, her skirt tracing a clean, flowing arc. "Goodbye, Gin. I wish us... a successful collaboration."

The two of them got up from their seats at the same time, and an invisible tension permeated the small space.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Vermouth extended her hand, her smile impeccable.

“Me too.” Gin grasped her hand politely, his fingertips icy cold.

"Take good care of my brother." Vermouth gently patted Gin's shoulder, her gesture as natural as a younger sister instructing her family.

Before Gin could respond, Zola, standing nearby, cast a puzzled look at him: "What do you mean...? Alana, you don't need to worry..."

"Shh." Vermouth extended her slender finger and gently but undeniably pressed it against Zola's lips, interrupting him.

She then turned and left, her figure quickly disappearing into the shadows of the connecting area between the carriages, like ink merging into water.

Zola stood there, stunned, his brows furrowed. Before he could even process what was happening, a stumbling figure at the other end of the carriage caught everyone's attention.

The woman staggered toward Zola, her eyes unfocused, like a drunkard.

"Alana?" Zola called tentatively, a sense of foreboding rising in his heart.

“Who else!” the white widow snapped, her voice filled with offended anger. “Who do you think it is?!”

Her gaze met Gin's. In an instant, veins bulged on Gin's forehead, and his hand, which had been hanging naturally, clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force, making a slight "click" sound.

“Vermouth…” The three words were almost squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying a chilling intent.

He instinctively reached for his ribs, preparing to draw his gun and give chase. However, at that moment, the White Widow, who had been holding on for so long, seemed to have exhausted her last bit of strength. Her eyes dimmed, and her body went limp as she fell forward, landing right into Gin's arms before he could dodge.

"Don't touch me..." she breathed weakly, her words slurred, "Watch out... for the keys..."

A chilling coldness instantly shot up Gin's spine and into his brain. He abruptly reached into his pocket, and a barely perceptible twitch appeared on his perpetually icy face.

My pockets were empty.

"Where's the key..." the white widow asked weakly, her eyes half-open, "Is it... still in your hands..."

“The key…” Gin’s voice was terrifyingly low, like thunder before a storm. He slowly raised his head, his eyes surging with bloodthirsty killing intent, staring intently at the bewildered Zola.

“She took it.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, each word like a blade chilled by ice. “The key, that woman took it.”

"By...who?" Zola's brain seemed to be still processing this sudden change, and his reaction was a beat slow.

"It's that 'she' from just now!" Gin roared furiously, and with a flick of his wrist, a flash of cold light appeared—a long, narrow dagger, like a venomous snake emerging from its hole, whistled sharply, and with a crisp "thud," it precisely embedded itself in the table beside Zola's hand, the hilt still trembling slightly.

"Yes! Understood!" Zola was startled by the sudden threat of death, instantly sobering up. He hurriedly lowered his head, not daring to look at Gin's eyes that seemed to be spitting fire.