Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

"What do you mean?"

The sound of baijiu (Chinese liquor) came through the iron gate, very soft, yet carrying a tense, forcibly suppressed feeling, as if it were on the verge of breaking.

He seemed not to understand, or perhaps he understood but refused to believe it, needing Old Black to personally expose the cruel truth once more.

Inside the door, the green countdown numbers flashed relentlessly, casting a cold light on Old Black's calm, expressionless face.

His expression was somewhat blurred in the green light, only his eyes remained clear and deep, showing no fear of death, no attachment to the world, only an almost detached indifference, a calm acceptance of all possibilities and one possible outcome.

He did not answer immediately, but instead completed the isolation of the third detonator circuit.

His movements remained precise and steady, unlike someone in the epicenter of an explosion whose life was measured in seconds.

Then, he slightly raised his head, his gaze seemingly able to penetrate the heavy iron gate, meeting the anxious, flustered eyes outside the door that were trying hard to remain calm.

He had almost never seen baijiu in this condition before.

“I can save this city,” Old Black said, his voice as calm as if he were stating tomorrow’s schedule. “If we prevent the implosion, the plutonium core won’t reach critical mass, and the explosion won’t happen. The shock wave and radiation leaks will be confined inside this concrete bunker.”

He paused, as if calculating, and then stated the unavoidable cost:

"However, the detonator itself has a large explosive charge. The energy generated by the simultaneous failure or partial detonation of nine detonators, combined with the possible unstable subcritical reaction of the plutonium core, is enough to trigger a violent conventional explosion and structural collapse."

His gaze swept over the upper structure of the pump station, which was surrounded by thick pipelines and load-bearing columns.

"This old pumping station, along with part of the tunnel network and foundation beneath it, will most likely collapse."

He's finished speaking.

Saving a city of millions comes at the cost of sacrificing oneself and the physical structure of that small area.

Outside the door, all was silent.

Only the ticking of the countdown, amplified in the silence, sounded like a pounding heartbeat.

Baijiu leaned against the iron gate, his body slowly sliding down, finally collapsing helplessly onto the cold ground.

Every word Lao Hei uttered was like an icicle, piercing through the psychological defenses he had just barely rebuilt because of the possibility of a successful bomb disposal.

Something was trembling violently in his eyes, eventually condensing into an indescribable glimmer of tears, a mixture of shock, pain, resentment, and profound helplessness.

But he forced himself to hold back and didn't let it slip.

Having faced life and death countless times over the years, amidst gunfire, conspiracies, and traps, they have pulled each other back from the brink of death countless times.

He thought they would continue like this until they achieved that vague goal, or until they fell together in some mission.

He never imagined it would happen this way, in this place, facing such an unsolvable choice—

On one side are the lives of countless strangers and a city; on the other side are companions who are both teachers and friends, whom one can absolutely trust.

“Whether it’s… dismantling the detonator…” Baijiu’s voice was terribly hoarse, and he had to swallow hard to continue.

He forced himself to think, using his remaining rationality to analyze the situation, though with each sentence he uttered, his heart sank a little further, "...or...the explosion was contained to a localized area..."

He looked up, and although Old Black couldn't see, his eyes were unusually filled with a desperate plea for confirmation, "...You...can't escape death either, is that right?"

Whether he succeeds or not, Old Black is trapped in this steel coffin that is about to become a grave or the epicenter of an explosion.

Success is a demise amidst collapse; failure is instantaneous vaporization. There is no way out.

Inside the door, facing this straightforward question, Lao Hei still showed no "sadness," "grief," or "regret" on his face.

He even tilted his head slightly, as if he were thinking about a technical detail.

Then, in his usual calm, almost detached tone, he spoke slowly, as if offering comfort, or stating a principle they had long understood:

“We all choose to focus on what we’re good at: baijiu (Chinese liquor). You should be well aware of that.”

He was skilled at defusing bombs and finding a glimmer of technical hope in dire situations, even if that hope didn't include himself.

Baijiu (Chinese liquor) excels at strategizing, maneuvering, and finding the key to breaking the deadlock on a larger scale.

They have a clear division of labor and each performs their duties. This is a tacit understanding formed through countless collaborations, which needs no words.

This time, however, the price for Old Black's "expertise" came at his own expense.

"Old Hei." Baijiu closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, all the weakness, struggle, and tears in his eyes were forcibly suppressed, leaving only a deep, cold, and resolute look.

It was the look in his eyes after making a certain decision.

He leaned against the iron gate and stood up again. His body was still weak, but his spine was straight.

“Give me the toolkit,” his voice was clear and calm, with an unquestionable tone of command, though the command seemed so powerless at the moment, “.

He was referring to the canvas bag containing various sophisticated bomb disposal tools next to Old Black inside the door.

“Since the tools are left here,” Old Hei reacted quickly, his tone even carrying a rare, forceful rebuttal. For the first time, he raised his voice slightly, interrupting Baijiu, “there’s naturally a reason for it! Baijiu!”

He stopped what he was doing and, for the first time, truly looked Baijiu in the eye through the iron gate. His voice deepened, each word like a hammer blow to Baijiu's heart: "You know why."

Reason? What reason?

The tools were left behind by Rum. What did Rum want to see?

Do you want to see Old Black struggle between tools of hope and a countdown to despair, in dire straits?

Do you want to see the liquor company's efforts outside the door go in vain and collapse?

Or... a deeper scheme?

Baijiu gripped the iron railing tightly with both hands, his knuckles white from the excessive force, and his hands trembled slightly.

But after a few seconds, the force gradually weakened.

He understood Old Black's subtext and realized Rum's vicious and ingenious scheme.

A cold, desperate feeling, mixed with anger and bone-chilling cold, instantly swept over him.

He had no choice but to compromise.

To compromise with reality, to compromise with Rum's scheming, to compromise with this merciless fate.

He released his grip, took a half step back, and pressed his back against the cold wall again.

He looked up at the mottled stains on the ceiling, and with an almost numb, calm tone, stated the cold, cruel truth—to Old Hei, and also to himself:

"Rum... wants to spare their lives."

"And he... wants you dead."

He paused, his throat dry:

"Because only you can create another virus flash memory."

"And... only I can find that submarine, the 'Sevastopol,' and get the 'horseshoe.'"

In the simplest language, he revealed Rum's entire intention: to use Old Black's life and the threat to the city to force White Wine to follow his script—to abandon the rescue and instead, for the sake of the "possible" survival of the city and the hope of the "future," hunt down Rum, retrieve the virus flash memory, and complete a crucial step that Rum himself might not be able to accomplish independently: controlling the "doomsday vault" or the intelligent entity.

Baijiu (Chinese liquor) became an indispensable and forced pawn in the Rum Plan.

Old Black is the "pawn" that must be sacrificed in this game to checkmate the enemy.

The moment the words fell, inside the door, in Old Hei's mind, as if hallucinating, the deep, malicious voice of Rum as he left echoed again, overlapping with Baijiu's words:

Tell Baijiu that I will always wait for him.

These words, at this moment, no longer sound like a provocation, but rather a confirmation.

It was confirmed that the liquor company would definitely come, and that this game, which staked Lao Hei's life and the city, had firmly trapped the liquor company.