Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

The London night sky was like a piece of velvet soaked in ink, pressing heavily over the city.

At 3:47 a.m., on a quiet back street in the East District, only a few dilapidated streetlights cast a dim yellow glow, drawing trembling circles of light on the ground.

The silence was brutally torn apart.

Three black Land Rover SUVs, like sharks smelling blood, silently and swiftly turned the corner.

The car windows were tinted with dark film, and the engine was specially tuned so that its roar was so low that it was almost inaudible.

They drove through the deserted streets in tactical formation, their headlights sweeping across mottled walls and closed shop shutters, as if searching for something.

Just as the convoy had passed halfway—

Ahead, at the narrower alleyway piled high with trash cans, a dark figure darted out like a startled cheetah!

It's baijiu (Chinese liquor).

His white suit was no longer pristine; it was covered in dust, grease, and dark brown, semi-dried bloodstains—some his own, some from others.

The hem of his suit jacket was torn, revealing a blood-stained shirt underneath. In addition to the previous bruises and swelling, his face had several fresh abrasions, and blood was still seeping from his forehead.

He looked disheveled, but his eyes, under the dim streetlights, burned with an almost insane obsession.

He didn't even look back to check if the three SUVs had seen him, nor did he try to hide or take a detour.

The moment he stepped out of the alley and onto the main street, he began to run wildly.

It's not stealth, it's not hiding, it's a full-speed sprint where you give it your all and squeeze out every last bit of strength!

The leather shoes made a rapid and clear "tap-tap" sound as they stepped on the wet asphalt road, which carried far in the quiet early morning.

His shadow stretched and distorted under the streetlights, like a desperate ghost.

Exposure? Being tracked? These were no longer within his considerations.

Every second of delay could mean an eternal loss.

underground.

The air was murky, filled with the smells of blood, dust, and a faint, ozone-like odor from the heat generated by electronic components.

The only lighting was the regularly flashing, unsettling green fluorescent numbers atop the giant hexagonal prism bomb in the center of the room.

03:49

03:48

03:47

The numbers were decreasing relentlessly, second by second.

The cold green light illuminated the bomb's matte exterior, the precision tools scattered on the ground, and the figure crouching beside the bomb—Old Black.

He sat on the ground with his back against the cold metal casing of the bomb, one leg straight and the other bent.

His face appeared sickly pale under the green light, and his breathing was slightly rapid due to pain and focus, but extremely steady.

His forehead was covered in a fine layer of cold sweat, which slid down his cheeks, gathered at his chin, and dripped onto an open panel on the bomb's belly that he was operating.

His hands—those hands that were once as steady as a rock, capable of nanoscale micro-sculpting.

—At this moment, it is operating a miniature screwdriver and circuit pliers with astonishing stability and precision.

Although her fingertips were slightly white and even trembling due to blood loss and cold, every movement was precise, decisive, and without the slightest hesitation.

He first used a miniature endoscope to observe the internal structure, then carefully isolated several key cables with insulating tape, and then used the probe of the circuit tester to very lightly touch the solder joint of a certain node, observing the fluctuating values ​​on the tester screen.

There was no expression on his face.

There was no fear of impending death, no anxiety about the ticking countdown, and not even a frown at the pain of his own serious injury.

There is only one kind of absolute, almost mechanical focus.

It was as if he were facing not a terrifying device capable of turning everything here to dust, but merely a malfunctioning precision instrument in need of repair.

He had seen too many storms and waves, and life-or-death situations were commonplace for him. Fear had long been worn away by countless gunfights and conspiracies.

At this moment, all his attention was focused on the intricate network of cables, chips, and the constantly changing green numbers in front of him.

He operated the machine while simultaneously sorting out the logic.

The bomb was clearly designed by a master; it was not a simple timed trigger, but a complex system with multiple layers of safety and interwoven real and false circuits.

Rum leaving the tools behind wasn't out of kindness, but rather to increase the difficulty and psychological pressure of dismantling the device—giving you hope, only to let you experience even deeper despair within that hope.

Time, in silence, coldly flows by as the green numbers tick.

“Hu…Hu…Ha…”

Heavy, labored breathing, like a broken bellows being pulled, accompanied by staggering footsteps, came from the dimly lit passageway on the lower level of the pumping station, growing louder as it approached.

Baijiu practically scrambled up the last few steps, lunging towards the heavy metal fire door that was firmly sealed by thick iron chains and massive locks.

He braced his hands on the cold, rough door panel, bent over, opened his mouth wide, and greedily swallowed the stale air, trying to calm the burning sensation in his lungs that felt like they were about to explode and the wild beating of his heart.

Sweat mixed with blood dripped down his jawline, spreading a small dark patch on the dusty ground.

After a few seconds of near-suffocating gasps, he forced himself to lift his head and peer through the small, dusty, cobweb-covered observation window in the door panel.

Green light.

A flashing, countdown-like green light.

And, under the green light, the figure leaning against the bomb, focused on operating it.

"Old Hei..." Baijiu's voice was so hoarse it was almost tearing apart, carrying the exhaustion of a long march and the relief of seeing his comrade still alive, but more than anything, it was an anxiety that was stretched to the extreme.

Old Hei inside the door didn't stop his work at all, and didn't even turn his head completely, only glancing at the direction of the observation window out of the corner of his eye.

His voice came through the heavy door, somewhat muffled, yet unusually steady, calmer than someone standing next to a bomb and severely injured:

“Baijiu.” He called out the name, his tone as if he were greeting someone in a laboratory. “How’s the Rum thing going?”

This question, so ordinary and so untimely, was like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the thoughts that had been boiling over with Baijiu's frantic and tense state of mind, leaving him momentarily stunned.

Rum?

Oh, right, rum!

That madman who locked the door, left behind the bomb and tools, stole the USB drive, and left behind the words "I'll be waiting forever"!

What happened to him? Did he escape? Or is he lying in ambush nearby?

Baijiu's brain, due to lack of oxygen, excruciating pain, and extreme tension, was indeed like a pot of boiling paste, utterly chaotic. Leaning against the door, he struggled to organize his thoughts, answering breathlessly:

"Well...we're making progress...relatively smoothly," he said haltingly, feeling even his own words were weak and unconvincing. "We...forced him to retreat, he's injured, he should be temporarily..."