Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

"Liquor."

"Please cooperate with us."

"This message is the same as always."

"It will be automatically destroyed in five seconds."

"Come back, Baijiu."

"we need you."

"At the same time, hand over the key to us."

"Currently, only organizations in the world have the ability to restore order to this chaotic situation."

The veins beneath his skin were slightly bulging; the key was cold, and its edges were a little rough on his hand. He slowly lifted it up.

The radio suddenly emitted a short, piercing electrical noise, followed by a wisp of smoke, carrying the distinctive smell of burning coils, struggling to emerge from the cracks in the wooden casing.

He stared at it meaningfully for a moment, then tightly withdrew his hand, his eyes becoming incredibly resolute.

Destroy immediately! Destroy immediately!

The air was gray, heavy with the impending dampness of rain.

A square in a French city; its name is no longer important.

Lead-gray clouds hung low over the spires of Renaissance-style buildings, stitching the sky shut and making it impenetrable.

The wind swept across the stone pavement, carrying away a few scattered leaflets with blurred slogans and angry faces printed on them.

In the center of the square, the crowd was like a black tide, constantly surging and restless, trapped by an invisible dam.

They waved their arms, their faces contorted with excitement and despair, their shouts rising in waves, crashing against the cold walls of the surrounding buildings, only to be swallowed by an even greater silence.

The silence came from the army and riot police who formed a dense human wall around the square.

They stood silently, wearing masks and holding shields and weapons, like another kind of lifeless, more oppressive sculpture.

The riot shields reflected the swaying crowd, while gun barrels pointed indifferently at the gray sky.

The liquor emerged from a narrow passage at the side and rear.

The passageway was dark and damp, and the walls were covered with layers of spray paint of dubious significance.

The moment he stepped onto the edge of the square, the immense pressure created by the mingling of sound and images rushed towards him.

He didn't immediately blend into the crowd; he simply stood there, his gaze slowly sweeping across the strange, suffocating stage.

Those shouting faces blurred into a chaotic mass of colors in his eyes; beneath the passion lay deep weariness and powerlessness.

He felt a familiar sense of alienation, as if an invisible glass separated him from everything. He could see and hear, but he couldn't touch any real warmth within it.

His gaze pierced through waving arms and fluttering flags, searching through the chaos like a probe.

Finally, the image settles at the other end of the square, beneath a tall bronze statue, perhaps of some historical sage.

The statue's pedestal casts a deep shadow, and in the shadow stands a man—McCarran.

His back was slightly hunched, creating an ironic contrast with the statue's upright and forward-looking posture.

He kept raising his wrist to check his watch, the movement hurried and anxious. His lips were tightly pressed together, and his lower lip was unconsciously bitten repeatedly by his teeth, turning it bloodless.

His head kept turning slightly, his gaze sweeping over every ripple of the crowd like radar, the heaviness on his face almost solidifying into a dripping substance.

He was waiting, and the waiting was rapidly eroding his remaining composure.

The liquor began to move.

Instead of heading towards the open, easily noticeable middle ground, he lowered his head and turned sideways, like a silent fish.

They flowed in the opposite direction into the crowd that consisted of more young students and angry citizens, who were constantly surging from various street corners toward the center of the square.

My shoulder was struck, and I heard heavy breathing and muffled roars in my ears. My nostrils were filled with the complex smells of sweat, damp clothes, and a kind of collective excitement.

He struggled through the gaps, the world compressed into a swaying silhouette and shimmering slits.

At that moment, through the narrow gap between the shoulders of the two young men shouting slogans, his gaze collided with that anxious, searching gaze beneath the statue, amidst the swirling dust and restless air.

There was no shouting, not even any obvious movement.

McCallen's body jolted, and then, almost without hesitation, he took a step.

It wasn't running, but rather a series of small, restrained steps that still seemed hurried, as it resolutely cut into the crowd, heading towards the direction of the liquor.

His movement as he pushed aside the person blocking his way carried an undeniable force, his eyes fixed on the liquor, as if he were the only visible buoy in this sea of ​​despair.

The surge of the crowd temporarily separated the two, and after a period of irregular movement, pushed them into a relatively loose gap.

They were no more than a meter apart. No words were spoken.

The heavy anxiety on McCallum's face eased slightly the moment she saw Baijiu's complete form, but it was quickly covered by a deeper and more complex weariness.

He stepped forward and stretched out his arms.

The liquor also came forward.

That was not a joyful or comforting hug.

Its force was immense; McCallen's arms gripped the white wine tightly around his back, his knuckles turning white from the force, as if trying to confirm that the person before him was real, and not yet another desperate illusion.

Baijiu's chin rested on McCallum's shoulder, and he could smell the cold rain and faint bitter tobacco scent on McCallum's coat.

Through the thick fabric, one could feel the heavy, rapid beating of the other person's heart, creating a dull and discordant resonance with the cold, slow-beating organ in one's own chest.

The hug lasted for about three or five seconds.

Amidst the clamor of shouts directed at external enemies, it remained silent like a black hole, sucking away all sound, leaving only the pure, tactile sensation of two individuals confirming their existence in the face of immense crushing force.

There was no warmth, only equal coldness, and a near-cruel realization that "you are here too."

McClane glanced around quickly, his lips moved, but in the end, he only uttered a few words in a very low voice, blending into the surrounding noise:

"Let's go, we can't stay here any longer."