Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

"Get dressed, we're about to leave." Baijiu handed Vermouth a black leather jacket stained with blood.

"Rum is about to make his escape."

The darkness was as black as ink, swallowing everything. This was no ordinary darkness; it was a dungeon-like blackness, where the sun had never risen for years, mixed with the smell of rust, mold, and a faint, lingering disinfectant odor.

The only light source came from the low-powered emergency lights spaced far apart high up, casting pale, distorted spots of light that stretched ghostly shadows across the uneven concrete ground.

The hurried, echoing footsteps reverberated wildly in the enclosed space, crashing against the cold concrete walls and rusty iron railings, shattering into a chaotic cacophony.

Rum is running wildly.

The well-tailored dark suit, a symbol of power and order, was now soaked with sweat, clinging tightly to his body. The hem was lifted by the air currents during his desperate sprint, like a black banner of despair.

He had long since discarded the voice changer he used to disguise himself; his real breathing was heavy and labored, each inhale sounding like a broken bellows being pulled.

His usually meticulously combed hair was now disheveled and stuck to his forehead, and his glasses were nowhere to be seen, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes filled with shock, anger, fear, and strenuous exercise.

His mind was racing, and his previous composure and control had vanished.

Baijiu's reckless counterattack, Vermouth's swiftness after breaking free of her restraints, and especially the gruesome scene of the "surgeon" having his head smashed by a hammer—

All of this was beyond his expectations.

His meticulous planning and layers of safeguards, which he was so proud of, developed fatal cracks in the face of that man's madness, where he gambled with his life.

Without his intellectual body, he is nothing.

Now, he must retreat to a safe backup command post, regroup his forces, clean up the mess, or... consider a more thorough "cleanup."

The iron railings on both sides—transformed into blurry black shadows as they raced past, rushing backward like train windows leading to hell.

The flashing light from the emergency lamp made his face appear even more contorted and unpredictable.

A fork in the road appeared ahead, leading to a narrower, dimmer passage.

Rum turned in without hesitation; it was a shortcut to a hidden emergency exit.

Once we get there, there are waiting vehicles and even more people outside...

However, just as he rushed into the narrow corridor less than ten meters in, a towering figure, as thick as an iron tower, suddenly blocked his way in the darkness ahead!

It's vodka!

He had clearly been waiting there for a long time; his enormous body almost filled most of the passage, like an insurmountable wall of flesh.

He gripped a large-caliber pistol with both hands, the muzzle steadily pointed at Rum, who was running towards him. His usually expressionless broad face was tense at this moment, and his small eyes gleamed with a rare light that was a mixture of tension and determination.

"Don't move!" Vodka's voice boomed like thunder in the narrow space, carrying an undeniable force of authority.

Perhaps his marksmanship wasn't top-notch in the organization, perhaps his reflexes weren't the fastest, but at this distance, in this narrow passage with nowhere to hide, no one dared to gamble on whether his bullet would miss—

Especially given Vodka's straightforward, sometimes even reckless, style of doing things, he could very well pull the trigger at any moment.

Rum slammed on the brakes as if hit by a train that had braked suddenly, his shoes screeching as they scraped against the rough cement.

His chest heaved violently as he gasped for breath, sweat trickling down his temples and stinging his eyes.

He stared intently at the vodka, at the dark, menacing muzzle of the gun that seemed poised to spew flames at any moment, his body stiff, too afraid to move an inch.

He knew Vodka all too well; this seemingly dull-witted strongman possessed astonishing intuition and execution skills at certain moments, especially when he received orders to "stop" or "eliminate" a specific target.

“Vodka…” Rum tried to keep his voice authoritative, but his gasps and fear ruined the effect. “Do you know what you’re doing? Get out of the way!”

Vodka didn't answer, but simply raised the muzzle of his gun slightly higher, aiming it at the center of Rum's torso.

His eyes told Rum that talking nonsense was pointless.

Just then, Vodka turned his head slightly to a blind spot to his right and said in a slightly lower but louder voice than before, but loud enough for Rum to hear, "I've stopped him."

Rum's heart sank!

Almost as soon as Vodka finished speaking, a tall, cold figure emerged silently from the shadows behind him, as if peeled away from the darkness itself.

It's Kiel.

She was still wearing that white short-sleeved shirt stained with dust and blood, her face as pale as paper, but her once empty eyes now burned with a chilling flame—

It was an overwhelming hatred accumulated from long-term imprisonment, betrayal, and torture, mixed with a desperate, all-or-nothing resolve.

She held a long, narrow bayonet that she had somehow acquired, its tip slightly lowered but locked onto Rum's throat, and she approached him steadily and quickly.

There were no words, no expressions, only a naked, bloodthirsty glint in his eyes, a glint that seemed to want to tear his enemy apart.

Rum's pupils suddenly contracted to the size of pinpoints!

Kiel! What is she doing here?!

With vodka?!

The instinct for survival overrides everything!

All authority and scheming become a joke under the imminent threat of blades and guns!

The instant Gil appeared, Rum unleashed an astonishing reaction speed!

He no longer cared about the vodka gun barrel, and slammed his body against the wall on the left, trying to use it as cover. At the same time, he pushed off with his legs and continued to run wildly toward the darkness at the other end of the corridor!

He bet that Vodka wouldn't easily shoot him, and even more so that Kiel could throw a knife or sprint faster!

"Boom!!!"

Two deafening gunshots rang out almost simultaneously!

The firelight flashed and disappeared in the dimly lit corridor!

Kiel fired!

The bullets struck the distant walls and iron railings, sending up blinding sparks and debris. The scorching blasts of air grazed the skin, bringing a burning pain!

Rum felt a chill run down his spine and his ears were ringing, but he didn't stop moving at all. Instead, he charged forward even faster, fueled by the shock of the gunshot and his instinctive fear!

Vodka watched Rum scramble away into the depths of the corridor, then glanced at the pistol emitting blue smoke in his hand.

He quickly checked the magazine, then put away his gun and turned to Kir, who had rushed up to him, his eyes blazing with murderous intent, still wanting to give chase.

He reached out his large hands, not to stop him, but rather somewhat clumsily and gently grasped the wrist of the hand holding the knife.

It felt cold to the touch and trembled slightly with excitement.

“Kiel…” Vodka’s voice softened unusually, even tinged with embarrassment. A faint blush rose on his usually expressionless broad face, and his eyes darted away, unable to meet Kiel’s burning blue eyes. “Before…didn’t we say before…”

He stammered, struggling to organize his thoughts, his voice growing softer and softer, "I...I have to follow orders...I can't just kill them directly..."

This was probably the first time in his life that Vodka had shown such a shy and cautious demeanor in front of a woman under such a tense situation.

Kiel stiffened as his wrist was gripped, the murderous intent in his eyes undiminished, but now tinged with a complex emotion.

She bit her lower lip, neither struggling nor speaking.

Just then, a series of slightly hurried but relatively calm footsteps came from the direction they had come from.

McClane arrived quickly, looking somewhat disheveled, bearing signs of a fight and slightly out of breath.

He immediately grasped the situation: Rum fleeing into the darkness, Kiel being held back by vodka while holding a gun, and the air thick with the smell of gunpowder.

Without the slightest hesitation, he stepped forward, placing his hands firmly on Kiel's shoulders, which trembled slightly with excitement. His gaze was serious as he looked at her, glancing also at vodka. His voice was clear and forceful, conveying an undeniable authority:

“Baijiu said,” he paused, then emphasized, “that we must capture him alive. Rum cannot die now.”