Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

Darkness, like a viscous substance, pressed in from all directions.

The liquor was rushing at full speed through a long, narrow, and seemingly endless underground passage.

The walls on either side were no longer walls, but heavy, rusty prison bars that rushed past. Behind the bars lay even deeper darkness, with occasional hollow winds whistling through the bars.

His boots stomped on the damp cement floor, splashing up tiny droplets of water. The sound of his footsteps was amplified and prolonged in the enclosed space, mixed with his own heavy, bellows-like breathing and the booming of his heart pounding in his chest.

His brain blocked out all irrelevant information—the stinging of the wound, the burning sensation in his lungs, the groans of overused muscles. Only one thought burned within him, like a guiding lighthouse, casting a single beam of light on the dark sea of ​​consciousness: Old Black! He can't die!

The images of dying patients displayed by the intelligent entity, intertwined with Rum's venomous whisper, "The beloved is about to die," form the most terrifying driving force.

He didn't care if this was another trap, or if he was exhausted. All he knew was that if he hesitated even slightly, all that would remain was a cold corpse and irreparable regret.

Meanwhile, deep within the maze, in a disguised medical room.

The light was stark white, the overhead operating lights illuminating everything with a cold, clear intensity. The air was thick with the scents of disinfectant, medicine, and a faint, musty smell characteristic of decaying life.

Old Hei lay on a narrow hospital bed, connected to a cardiac monitor and an intravenous infusion pump, a transparent oxygen mask covering his face. His complexion was ashen, his chest heaving weakly, the monitor emitting a regular, monotonous "beep-beep," the screen displaying unstable waveforms and numbers. His eyes were closed, his head slightly tilted to one side, seemingly in a drug-induced slumber, or perhaps simply due to extreme weakness.

A woman dressed in a white nurse's uniform and wearing a mask was silently preparing medication in a syringe next to a small cart, her back to the hospital bed.

Her movements were practiced and mechanical, the glass medicine bottles clinking softly.

In this deathly and oppressive stillness—

The heavy, soundproof door to the ward was silently pushed open a crack.

A figure dressed in a dark suit, with footsteps as light as a cat, slipped in silently.

It's rum.

His face had lost its previous panic and madness, leaving only a chilling calm and focus, like that of a predator approaching its prey.

He even closed the door quietly without making a sound.

The nurse remained oblivious, focused on the medication in her hands.

Rum moved behind her like a ghost. In his hand, a long, thin, special dagger with a blade that gleamed with a cold, eerie blue light, appeared out of nowhere.

No hesitation, no unnecessary movements.

With lightning speed, he covered the nurse's mouth and nose with his left hand, while in the same instant, with a dagger in his right hand, he plunged it diagonally upwards from the side of her neck at a precise and cruel angle until the hilt was gone!

"Ugh...!" The nurse's body stiffened abruptly, her eyes widening instantly, her pupils filled with disbelief, terror, and the sudden darkness that had descended upon her.

The syringe in her hand fell silently onto the carpet.

All the struggles lasted less than two seconds before collapsing completely in the face of absolute power and professional assassination skills.

Rum gently laid her down, trying to avoid making a sound.

As the dagger was drawn, it left a trail of dark red, leaving an almost invisible damp stain on the cuff of his black suit.

He didn't even glance at the corpse at his feet; his gaze was fixed directly on Old Black on the hospital bed.

He stepped forward, the dagger in his hand still dripping blood.

He walked to the bedside and looked down at the unconscious Old Black. His gaze was sharp as a knife, sweeping over Old Black and finally settling on the slightly curled-up body in Old Black's arms—there, in the pocket of the hospital gown, the outline of a square, metallic object was vaguely visible.

A glint flashed in Rum's eyes. He reached out with his blood-free hand, slipped it into Old Black's clothes, and gently rummaged through his pocket.

He held a metal cube, slightly larger than a cigarette pack, matte black all over, with wear marks on the edges and precision interfaces on the side, in his palm.

The surface of the object still retained Old Black's body temperature.

On the ground, in London. Night falls, on the banks of the Thames.

The massive clock face of Big Ben emitted a dim, yellowish glow in the night, its hands silently ticking toward a certain hour. The usually bustling Westminster Bridge and surrounding streets were now eerily quiet and deserted, with only a few vehicles passing by, stirring up a chilly wind.

Against this vast, empty backdrop, a figure galloped recklessly along the riverside pedestrian path like a wild horse! It was Baijiu!

He had already rushed out of the underground labyrinth and onto the street.

The cold wind lashed across his sweaty, hot cheeks and neck like knives, but he was completely oblivious.

The surrounding ancient buildings, quiet streets, and even the Thames River flowing in the distance all became a blurred backdrop.

His world consisted only of what lay ahead, of that place whose exact location he didn't know, but which he had to reach.

We can't stop! It's unimaginable!

He forced himself not to think that Rum might have succeeded, not to think that Old Black might have met with misfortune. He had to believe that there was still time, he had to squeeze out every last bit of strength, even if it meant running until his heart and lungs burst, until his legs broke!

In the ward

On the hospital bed, Old Hei, who seemed to be in a deep coma, suddenly twitched his eyelids!

It didn't open slowly, but suddenly burst open!

Those eyes, which were always hidden behind special sunglasses, were now exposed under the operating lights. There was no confusion from just waking up, no weakness from serious injuries, only a sharpness, clarity, and even a cold vigilance as if they had expected it!

His gaze immediately fell upon the nurse lying in a pool of blood, already dead.

His pupils contracted slightly, but there was no sign of alarm on his face, and even his breathing rate did not change noticeably.