I'm writing a fictional immortality script in Detective Conan.

The waiters unveiled the folded place cards one by one, revealing delicate handwriting traced on the back of the paper, and the aroma of fine wine could be smelled with a gentle sniff.

As the person being examined, Masato Hanzawa immediately recognized the handwriting as belonging to Akemi Miyano. However, sensing the invisible authority between the lines, no one present would question the writer's identity.

[To my beloved wines,]

This may not be what you crave most, but it still holds a special commemorative significance.

The shimmering amethyst lid, like Pandora's box in mythology, tempted him with its alluring charm to open it.

Just as Fanze was about to start deciphering the mystery, Gin spoke up, bringing everyone back to their senses.

"As instructed, the heads of each department also prepared a New Year's gift for their members."

Gin crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, exuding a murderous aura: "In other words, every one of you here will receive a Christmas gift that I have 'carefully prepared'."

A gift from Gin sounds like the same kind of item as an invitation from the Grim Reaper.

Apart from Yoruichi Kuromon and Vodka, the other members had already begun to imagine their dark future.

"So this is what 'life in danger' refers to."

Fan Ze looked to his left upon hearing the sound, where the tall man codenamed Tequila was staring blankly at the tablecloth.

Tequila suddenly recalled that during his layover on his way back, he had accidentally encountered a fortune teller dressed as a sorceress in the lounge.

At the time, the woman was acting strangely, saying that if he returned to Japan, he would be in mortal danger, and he scolded her for it. Looking back now, divination seems quite credible.

After announcing the devastating news, Gin didn't continue, but calmly observed their reactions.

While the new members are clearly suspicious, this does not mean that Chianti and his group can be easily dismissed.

By adjusting the frequency of the lights and using visual effects to forcibly attract attention, this was a common tactic of that man. Everyone else was completely fooled and behaved normally.

From the moment they are selected for the organization, the codenamed members lose the right to retain their privacy.

The assessment and evaluation are just the most basic and public records. From each person's background to their behavioral tendencies and personality traits shown in the tasks, everything is recorded and analyzed by these seemingly ordinary waiters hidden in the crowd.

The waiters obeyed only the gentleman, and he had no authority to use Gin except in emergencies.

The knowledge and abilities that gentleman possessed were beyond the comprehension of those old guys like Piske; basic skills such as imitating handwriting and disguising one's voice were merely a drop in the ocean.

With this information, it's not surprising that the man impersonated a member of an organization he knew.

Presumably Vermouth is well aware of this, as she has recently been much more restrained in giving Calvados instructions than before.

Following the clockwise seating order, Gin revealed the contents of the gifts one by one: "The sniper team must increase their effective firing range to 650 yards within three months, and then undergo special physical training."

Before Chianti could protest, Cohen raised his hand and looked at Gin: "Three months is too short. Even if we don't participate in any missions during that time, we can't guarantee a 100% hit rate."

Cohen's explanation was expected. Gin tossed two black access cards over and explained, "The organization's simulation training room will be open 24/7 without restrictions."

Although he hadn't experienced the so-called special training room yet, just by looking at the way Chianti and Cohen's eyes lit up, Fanze knew that it was probably comparable to a luxury private gym.

"The military-industrial complex has imported weapons and equipment for seven years from Russia and Mexico respectively."

Vodka and Tequila nodded, accepting their assigned tasks well.

When it was Fan Ze's turn, the task was significantly simpler and easier because he belonged to a different department:

"As for Guinness, Rum has assigned you a new coach specializing in stealth, infiltration, and assassination."

Fan Ze, staring at the envious gazes of the crowd, clutched his heart and sighed: "Mr. Rum, thank you—"

Gin looked at Guinness's innocent face, which revealed all his thoughts, and didn't quite agree with Rum's skepticism.

The four informed executives each had someone they suspected. Rum seemed to have his eye on the unremarkable Guinness, while Gin was more suspicious of…

"Vienna, go to the intelligence department and choose a new social identity. Within three months, I want to see reports of your rise to fame in the newspapers."

Vienna Beer, whose real name is Asano Minami, is the orphan of a famous pianist. After seeking revenge, she faked her death to join the organization.

All three beers were personally introduced into the organization by Sugrid, with the most suspicious being Butber and the most ordinary being Guinness.

This person holds a dominant position within the organization and is clearly closer to Sugrid; his background is also closely connected to the organization.

But precisely because it was so obvious, Gin believed that he was nothing more than a target set up by that man using reverse thinking!

Ordinary people would suspect him because he is conspicuous, codename members would think he is a decoy, Rum would suspect that Butbell is blind to what is right under his nose, but Gin's thoughts are a step deeper than Rum's.

Moreover, during a brief moment of clarity in the middle of the night, Gin recalled a hidden clue:

That man was often accompanied by death.

After joining the organization, Vienna used the pretext of avenging his father to commit bloodshed every week, becoming bloodthirsty by nature.

Moreover, they always managed to plan the duration of the raids precisely so that the scene would be cleared just before the Japanese police arrived.

Thinking this, Gin looked at the person beside him whose attitude was similar to that of Shiho Miyano:

"And Butber, you will be responsible for most of the tasks for the rest of the team over the next three months, with a target of 27."

Twenty-seven, which translates to two per week!

As Fanze looked up, intending to defend Kuromon Haruya, he met Gin's merciless eyes. His survival instincts told him that he must not make a sound now.

Kuromon Haruya clenched her fists under the tablecloth, her lips pressed tightly together.

His eyelids trembled uncontrollably from intense emotions, and after a long while, he replied in a hoarse voice, "I understand, I will complete these tasks."

When his companions were oppressed and he was powerless to do anything about it, Masato Hanazawa felt a long-lost sense of infuriating helplessness.

As Kuromon Haruya felt the gazes directed at him from both sides, some scrutinizing, some pitying, he just hoped they would move on to the next stage quickly. He was about to burst into laughter.

Gin dumped the task on him, like throwing a meat bun to a dog... ugh, like handing a pillow to someone who's sleepy.

Ravens walk with death. Cursed by a demon, Yoru Kuromon needs to actively engage with cases of unnatural death every week, otherwise he will be triggered to experience random events happening around him.

He once joked that it was a shame this curse wasn't used in the Conan series, but unexpectedly, twenty years later, his jinx came true.

However, in these past few months, thanks to Conan's true death god aura, Haruya Kuromon has not needed to create cases on his own.

"Hey Gin, this Christmas present has to be opened here, right?" Even though Chianti was trying to suppress her anger, the tattoo at the corner of her eye gradually turned red due to her turbulent emotions.

She seemed to have identified the item and was staring intently at the blurry red object.

“Yes, all the gifts received by the members will be announced here.” After bowing to answer her, the attendant looked at Gin, who was seated at the head of the table, and asked, “Then, sirs, please allow us to announce them on your behalf.”

Beneath the crystal fortress, a jet-black wool scarf lies coiled on a plate, like a dragon guarding a treasure, and each person's corresponding treasure is different.

Chianti picked up the gift from the plate and examined it against the light.

The crimson gemstone, meticulously carved by artisans, refracts a flame-like light. A butterfly with outstretched wings is carved in the center of the gemstone, the pattern being the same as the tattoo on Chianti's eye, with distinct, sharp, and flamboyant lines.

Butterfly—that was her codename before she joined the organization. Also once engraved on the ruby ​​were spiders and snakes…

She stood quietly in the firelight for a long time before turning around, her previous agitation gone: "Indeed, as that gentleman said, it is a very meaningful gift."

Others either put the gifts away or wrapped them in scarves, but none of them objected to her.

Gin, meanwhile, pulled out a Beretta he had specially prepared for tonight, stood up, and questioned the waiter behind him: "So, what about the answer I've been waiting for?"

That waiter was less dignified and more like he had no sense of self:

"Regarding the question you raised, Lord Gin, that gentleman's answer was:"

The baby crows that arrived did not grow mouse tails.

"Oh, thank that gentleman."

Unable to discern whether he was satisfied or disappointed, Gin gave a cold laugh, took the scarf offered by the waiter, and turned to leave.

"Tonight is Christmas Eve."

...

Inside the empty, cold isolation room, cheerful Christmas carols drifted through the white walls.

Last year, the sisters' headshots taken in the shopping street were scattered on the floor, with cheap, flashy patterns adorning their sides. One could still vaguely recall the laughter and promises they made at the time:

"We promised each other, sisters, we'll never be apart..."

She wrapped her white coat tighter around herself and curled up helplessly in the corner. Her reddish-brown hair was disheveled from the struggle, but no one would bother to take care of it anymore.

A clear tear swept down her cheek, drawing the curtain on Christmas Eve.