Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

Upon entering the cabin, the interior is not a typical passenger cabin layout, but rather resembles a combination of a mobile confinement room and a command center.

The front section contains communication equipment, monitoring screens, and several fixed seats;

The rear section was separated into a separate, windowless, enclosed cell by heavy partitions. The cell door was a heavy, explosion-proof metal door with an observation window.

Baijiu was immediately taken to the prison cell.

Inside, there was nothing but a metal chair welded to the floor. The air smelled faintly of metal and disinfectant.

He was forced into a chair, his hands and feet secured with extra straps to ensure he could not move an inch during the long flight.

After doing all this, the armed men left the cell, and the heavy metal door slammed shut and locked behind them.

The only sounds in the cell were a pale white LED light overhead and the low hum of the ventilation system.

The kava didn't leave immediately.

He stood in the passageway outside the prison cell, looking through the observation window at the white wine that was firmly imprisoned on a chair inside.

Baijiu lowered its head, seemingly indifferent to its surroundings, or perhaps completely numb.

A few minutes later, the roar of the engine starting grew stronger, and the immense thrust slowly propelled the fuselage away from the tarmac, taxiing towards the runway. Accelerating, lifting its head, breaking through the rain, it climbed.

A feeling of weightlessness followed, then a smooth flight.

They are flying to Tokyo. To the heart of the organization, to the headquarters where Gin is based.

As the flight entered the stratosphere, the aircraft stabilized.

The cabin noise was filtered out by the excellent sound insulation materials, leaving only a low background sound.

The cell door was opened.

Kava walked in, carrying a simple in-flight meal and a bottle of water.

He wasn't wearing a jacket, just a tactical vest, revealing his muscular arms.

He placed the lunchbox and water on a small, welded table next to the liquor, then dragged over a folding chair and sat down opposite the liquor.

They were so close that they could see every tiny scar and tired lines on Baijiu's face.

He didn't speak immediately, but quietly observed the liquor.

Under the pale light of the cell, Baijiu's face appeared even paler. The dark circles under his eyes and the stubble that hadn't been shaved for a long time made him look haggard. But deep in his downcast eyes, there seemed to be something more than when he was in the rain—not radiance, but something deeper and more elusive, like the sea after a storm, seemingly calm, but with turbulent undercurrents beneath.

Kava stared at him for a full minute, then pulled a photograph from his breast pocket, held it between two fingers, and held it up to Kava's eyes.

The photo was taken secretly and is somewhat blurry, but the person in it is clearly recognizable—a burly man with a square face, wearing sunglasses, and a serious expression.

It's vodka.

“You should know this man, right?” Kava spoke, his voice low but clear amidst the engine's hum. He tilted his head, his tone calm, even slightly casual, but his eyes were sharp as knives, intently watching the most subtle changes in Baijiu's expression.

Baijiu's gaze fell on the photo, pausing for about two seconds.

Then, he nodded very slowly and very slightly, uttering a hoarse syllable: "Mmm."

There was no extra reaction, no surprise, no attempt to deny or cover it up. It was as if recognizing vodka was the most natural thing in the world.

Kava put down the photo, leaned forward slightly, and continued to ask in that seemingly casual tone, "Excuse me, is he still alive?"

This question seems simple, but it contains hidden meaning.

Vodka disappeared during a previous operation in London, and the organization is unable to determine his fate.

Asking about the liquor company was both to verify information and to test their willingness to cooperate, as well as whether they had more inside information.

Baijiu raised his eyelids and glanced at Kava.

His eyes still lacked sparkle, but there seemed to be something else in them—a very faint, almost imperceptible...mockery?

Or rather, the absurdity of "How could you ask this?"

He licked his chapped lips, his voice still hoarse, but his words were clearer: "Of course."

He paused, then added in a flat tone, as if he were saying the weather was nice, "He's definitely alive."

There was no explanation, no mention of where or how they survived; it was simply a resounding affirmative answer.

Kava's eyes narrowed slightly.

The answer itself wasn't surprising, but the baijiu's matter-of-fact, even slightly sarcastic tone made him very uncomfortable. He was about to press for details, such as the whereabouts of the vodka and whether it was related to the baijiu—

Suddenly, Baijiu took the initiative to speak, abruptly changing the subject like a cold arrow shot from the darkness:

"You are actually the son of Merlot, aren't you?"

Kava's body stiffened almost imperceptibly for a moment.

Although the change was extremely subtle and so fast that it was almost impossible to detect, Baijiu, who was sitting opposite him and had always seemed dejected, saw it clearly.

Kava's facial muscles seemed to tense for a fraction of a second, and the knuckles of his fingers holding the photo turned slightly white.

More importantly, the pupils in his usually sharp and scrutinizing eyes suddenly contracted, revealing an extremely complex emotion—

Shock, anger at being exposed, a hint of panic, and a deeper, chilling killing intent that had been touched.

Although he quickly suppressed these emotions with strong self-control, that momentary loss of composure was enough to tell the story.