Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

After entrusting the most dangerous and complex task to McCallum, and passing on that heavy trust and responsibility, Baijiu's gaze finally shifted temporarily from the cold calculations of the overall situation and survival, and fell on the woman who had always stood by his side, silent but suppressing all her emotions deep in her eyes—Vermouth.

He stopped in his tracks, turned around, and walked towards her.

Every step aggravated the wound, but at this moment, the physical pain seemed to be overshadowed by a sharper emotion.

He reached out, not with his usual firmness or support, but with a rare, almost gentle hesitation, and grasped Vermouth's hand hanging by her side.

Her fingers were long and strong, calloused from years of holding guns and moving around, but at this moment they appeared exceptionally delicate in his blood-stained and cold-sweat-covered palms, like fragile porcelain.

He took her hand slowly, as if confirming some kind of touch, or as if he was reluctant to let go.

He raised his eyes and looked into hers.

There was worry, confusion, and suppressed fear, but also a silent resilience forged through countless life-and-death experiences with him.

In his eyes, the lingering fear from when he faced the illusion of the intelligent being had not completely dissipated, and was now mixed with a surging, unfathomable reluctance.

It was the look in the eyes of someone facing certain death, unsure if they would ever return, stripped of all pretense and composure, leaving only the most primal emotion.

“You…” he began, his voice hoarser than before, yet strangely gentle, even with a slight, almost imperceptible tremor, “Stay away from the ice.”

This statement is abrupt and completely out of the blue.

Vermouth paused slightly, her icy blue eyes clearly reflecting confusion: "What ice layer?"

She subconsciously asked back, her brows furrowing.

This is an underground facility, so where did the ice come from?

Does it refer to a polar mission? Or is it some kind of metaphor?

Looking at her puzzled face, Baijiu felt as if his heart was being squeezed by an invisible hand.

He had so much to say, to explain the terrifying scene of the collapsing ice field and her being swallowed up that the intelligent entity had shown him, to tell her that it was not just a possible future, but a warning or prophecy that he could not fully understand but believed in.

He wanted to describe how that image was etched into his soul, how it tore his heart apart. He wanted to tell her to be extremely careful, and to hold her tightly in his arms, never to let her go again.

But there's no time left.

Not even a tiny bit.

Rum may be gathering strength, the countdown to the intelligent entity is ticking, and his own chosen path of "arrest" is even more urgent.

Even though she is Vermouth, someone he is willing to entrust his back to, share his deepest secrets with, and even the softest concern in his heart at this moment, he cannot spare even a minute to explain.

He compressed all his churning emotions, all his unspoken words, all his heavy fears and love into the simplest, most direct, and most unquestionable plea:

“Remember this,” he gripped her hand tightly, so tightly that her knuckles ached slightly, his gaze fixed on her as if trying to etch these words into her soul, “No matter what happens, no matter where you are, no matter how safe or dangerous the situation may seem—stay away from the ice. Ice, any kind, vast ice fields, frozen lakes, glaciers…stay away from them. This is my only request of you…”

It's not an order, it's a requirement.

It was his last ounce of strength, stripped of all strategy, all mission, and all external factors, that made his most private, most persistent, and most crucial request regarding her personal safety and the very survival of his own will.

Vermouth met his gaze. She saw the lingering fear deep in his eyes, almost crushed by immense pressure, and the unmistakable concern that transcended life and death.

This was the first time she had ever seen Baijiu with such a look in her eyes—so naked, so vulnerable, yet so resolute.

This is more impactful than any lengthy explanation.

She didn't ask "why" again, nor did she question the abruptness of the request.

After a long, seemingly frozen gaze, the ice deep within her icy blue eyes seemed to melt for a moment, a glimmer of water flashing across them before being quickly covered by an even deeper resolve.

She nodded slightly, her voice steady and clear, carrying a solemnity that etched the promise into her heart:

"Okay." She repeated, and as if afraid he hadn't heard her clearly, she added, "I understand."

Those few simple words carried immense weight. She agreed to his request.

Regardless of the reasons or the costs.

Baijiu gazed at her one last time, as if trying to etch her face into the deepest part of his mind.

Then, he let go, and that little bit of warmth was quickly carried away by the cold air.

He didn't say goodbye because he didn't know if they would ever meet again.

Just then, McCullen seemed to finally recover from the shock and contemplation of being given such a heavy responsibility, or rather, he made a decision.

He took a deep breath, his eyes no longer showing any confusion or resistance, but instead a settled, rock-solid sense of responsibility.

This sense of responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, transforming his previously somewhat cynical demeanor into one of composure and reliability.

With deft movements, he pulled something from a hidden compartment in his sleeve—the cross-shaped key that had gone through many twists and turns since its origins in Vienna, with its simple and unique design, and which was now gleaming with a faint but steady red light in his palm.

The red light illuminated his resolute profile and revealed an unprecedented determination in his eyes.

He walked up to the liquor, said nothing, and simply stretched out his hand holding the key, his eyes meeting the liquor.

That look in his eyes was incredibly complex: it contained concern, worry, and a solemn sense of uncertainty about the future, but more than anything, it was a promise that said, "I understand, leave it to me."

Baijiu looked at the key flashing red light, then at McCallum's completely transformed eyes, and the last trace of emotion on his face subsided, returning to that almost icy calm.

He took the key.

"Go." He said only two words, his voice so calm that no emotion could be detected, yet it contained all his trust and expectations.

Having said that, he no longer hesitated, resolutely turning his back to them—back to McCallum, to whom he had entrusted his mission, back to Vermouth, to whom he had just left his only personal request, back to Kiel, whose eyes held a complex mix of emotions and who seemed to want to say something, and to the silent Vodka. He swung his still aching but forcefully driven arms and began to run wildly down the dark corridor he had come from, a corridor leading to deeper unknowns and dangers.

It wasn't walking, it was running. Using every ounce of strength he could muster at that moment, it was as if he wanted to escape this heartbreaking scene of parting, or as if he was running towards the destination he had chosen, a destination destined to be extremely dangerous.

“Baijiu!” McCarran’s voice rang out from behind, filled with the urgency of finally asking the question everyone wanted answered. “Where are you going?!”

Baijiu's frantic pace didn't falter; only his hoarse yet exceptionally clear voice drifted back through the dimly lit corridor, like a final answer, like a final farewell, echoing in the deathly silence:

"I'm going to find Old Black."

As soon as he finished speaking, his figure disappeared into the shadows around the corner of the corridor, his footsteps quickly fading away and finally disappearing into the intricate network of pipes and echoing walls.