Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

Inside an off-road vehicle in the middle of the convoy.

Kava sat in the passenger seat, still clutching the key tightly in his hand.

The cold metal had been warmed slightly by his body heat, but the heavy, ominous texture remained clear.

He looked out the car window at the London street scene rushing past, blurred by the rain, his eyes deep and thoughtful.

The vehicle drove smoothly, but the occasional sounds of other vehicles confirming road conditions and locations came through the walkie-talkie, indicating that this was not an ordinary transfer.

His thoughts, however, drifted uncontrollably back to the scene at the crossroads, back to Baijiu's empty, lifeless eyes, and the key he had so easily handed over.

“Something’s not right…” Kava muttered to himself in a voice only he could hear.

He had seen too many prey behave in desperate situations.

There are collapses, but very few collapse as completely, so thoroughly, so cleanly, even with an almost complacent numbness, as baijiu. Especially for someone of baijiu's caliber and with such experience.

The baijiu in my memory, even in the most dangerous moments, always had a flame in its eyes that refused to be extinguished, a calm yet mad light belonging to a top predator.

That light made him a threat even when he was at a disadvantage, keeping his pursuers on their toes.

The person who was kneeling in the rain just now had nothing in their eyes.

There was only a deathly silence and nothingness. Like a fly that had completely lost its way in a storm, with broken wings and unable to even buzz, it could only wait in vain for its fate to be swatted.

This change was too fast and too absolute.

It's as if the liquor perfectly embodies the image of the "loser" they most want to see.

"What exactly did he go through?" Kava frowned.

"What is your ultimate purpose?" Kava's gaze sharpened.

Kava caused a slight headache.

He disliked this feeling of uncertainty and deep calculation.

He prefers direct goals, clear tasks, and solving problems with bullets and fists. The convoluted and ambiguous nature of baijiu (a type of Chinese liquor) instinctively annoys and warns him.

"Never mind." He shook his head vigorously, as if trying to shake off those chaotic thoughts. His fingers tightened, gripping the key firmly in his palm, the metal almost digging into his flesh.

"I don't want to think about it anymore," he told himself, his tone hardening again. "We've got the key and the guy's been caught; the mission's more than half done. The rest... let the higher-ups worry about it."

As for what tricks the liquor company is playing, whether it's real or fake, a collapse or a pretense... we'll find out when we get back to the organization.

If he's faking it, Kava wouldn't mind exposing his trick himself and letting him experience true despair.

If he really broke down... that's even better, it saves a lot of trouble.

He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, but his hand holding the keys never let go.

The convoy sped through the rainy night, traversing the sleeping streets of London, heading towards a secret hideout on the city's outskirts.

The car headlights illuminated the road ahead, but they couldn't dispel the lingering shadow in Kava's heart, born from the unusual behavior of the liquor.

As the convoy crossed a bridge over the Thames, dust slowly settled in the rain over an area on the riverbank where a collapse had recently occurred.

The night was still deep.

The rain hasn't stopped.

The chess pieces on the board are taking their places.

But the real storm may have only just begun to brew.

The night is as dark as ink, so thick that it cannot be dissolved.

A military-grade private airport on the outskirts of London, which is not open to the public and has no signs, is now as bright as day.

The towering searchlights, like the eyes of a giant, mercilessly poured their cold white light onto the empty concrete track, dispelling every inch of shadow and revealing the fine, suspended raindrops in the air.

In the center of the airport, a massive machine lay silently—a heavily modified Boeing C-17 Globemaster III transport aircraft.

Its robust fuselage and massive T-tail fin gleamed with a matte gray-black coating under the bright light, while the four enormous F117-PW-100 turbofan engines beneath the wings stood silently, exuding an undeniable sense of power.

This is not an ordinary passenger or cargo plane, but an "air fortress" used by the organization for high-priority, long-distance, and highly confidential personnel and material transfers.

The aircraft had no airline markings or serial numbers, only a few blurry traces of old paint that appeared to have been deliberately erased, making it seem mysterious and dangerous.

At the edge of the runway, several black Land Rover SUVs, like a swarm of sharks smelling blood, drove silently and swiftly, their headlights piercing the rain. They finally came to a neat stop about fifty meters from the transport plane's gangway, their tires screeching as they rubbed against the ground.

The car doors opened almost simultaneously.

Kava was the first to get out of the passenger seat of the lead vehicle.

He changed into a smart black tactical uniform, with a rain jacket over it. The rainwater on his face was still wet and reflected a cold light under the searchlight.

He didn't use an umbrella, letting the drizzle fall on him, his sharp gaze sweeping across the airport environment before finally settling on the silent giant bird.

He went around to the back of the vehicle and opened the door.

Inside the car, Baijiu was sandwiched between two fully armed, black-masked elites from the organization.

He seemed to have "recovered" somewhat from when he was at the intersection; at least he could sit up on his own, but he still kept his head down, his wet hair covering most of his face.

Most striking are his hands—his wrists are firmly locked by three heavy, high-strength carbon steel handcuffs, which are connected by short chains, restricting the range of motion of his hands.

Furthermore, the keyholes of the handcuffs were sealed with a quick-drying metallic adhesive, ensuring that they could not be opened by conventional means.

He also wore heavy shackles on his ankles, which were connected to a fixing ring under the seat.

This almost exaggerated level of confinement clearly demonstrates the extreme fear and importance the arresting officers placed on this man—they were terrified of giving this seemingly dejected prisoner even the slightest chance.

"Come out." Kava's voice sounded particularly cold and hard in the rainy night.

Two armed men roughly dragged the liquor out of the car.

His legs still seemed weak, and he staggered, almost falling, before being caught by two people.

He slightly raised his head, glanced at the huge transport plane not far away, his eyes still empty, without any emotional fluctuation, as if he saw only an insignificant piece of large machinery.

Kava walked in front, with two armed men on either side of him, and four other gunmen following in a diamond formation, vigilantly scanning any possible directions.

The group walked along the rain-soaked runway toward the heavy gangway that was slowly lowered at the rear of the transport plane.

Beside the gangway, two ground crew members in organizational uniforms stood at attention, nodding to the kava, their gaze lingering on the liquor for a moment longer, with scrutiny and a hint of barely perceptible awe.

The cabin was brightly lit, and more armed personnel could be seen in position.

No unnecessary words, no lingering.

Kava was the first to step onto the gangway, the metal steps creaking dully. Baijiu followed, half-pushed, half-carried, his shackles dragging on the metal steps, making a rhythmic, unpleasant clanging noise.