As always, the morning began with the usual routine: wake up, freshen up, head to work.
Walking through the corridors of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, Kiichi Higashino couldn't ignore the subtle glances thrown his way. He had a good idea who they were from, too. Much like Miwako Sato's undeniable popularity among the male officers, Kiichi was something of a heartthrob among his female colleagues. Young, handsome, part of the elite First Division, and undeniably skilled, he carried an air of quiet confidence. It wasn't exactly a secret that his late father had been close with Director Hakuba, either. Among his peers, perhaps only Shiratori from the quasi-career track, a man slightly older and from a prestigious family, could rival him in reputation.
But unlike Shiratori, whose faint arrogance and complicated aristocratic background made him seem unapproachable, Kiichi's reserved—perhaps even brooding—demeanor only added to his allure. Shiratori's open admiration for Sato didn't help his case, either; it was no secret he'd been smitten since day one. During the rare group outings Kiichi attended, he'd overheard more than once how Sato's best friend from the Traffic Division, Yumi Miyamoto, was constantly pestered by colleagues hoping to glean insight into Kiichi's preferences through her.
Kiichi usually just smiled and brushed it off. Even after years in Beika, he still couldn't quite warm to the idea of someone molding themselves to fit his tastes. If he were to choose a partner, he'd want to see their true self—unfiltered, unpretentious.
"Higashino-kun, you cracked another case like it was nothing yesterday, huh?"
Kiichi had barely settled at his desk with a steaming cup of coffee when Miwako Sato's head popped over the partition, her grin as infectious as ever.
"It was a simple case," Kiichi replied with a small smile, already pulling up his schedule for the day.
Even without a fresh case, police work was hardly idle. This was the real world, after all—not some drama where officers swooped in, nabbed the culprit, and called it a day. Even Inspector Megure, who often relied on his "little brother summoning technique" (a.k.a. Conan Edogawa's uncanny knack for solving cases), had to oversee mountains of follow-up work: evidence collection, chain-of-custody documentation, and ensuring everything held up in court. Fans with even a passing knowledge of law could tell that many of Conan's "gotcha" clues—like the infamous "dying messages"—were circumstantial at best. A cryptic code scratched into a surface? Good luck convincing a judge without a defense attorney tearing it apart. Even a rookie lawyer could dismantle such evidence, let alone someone like Eri Kisaki.
That's why Kiichi hadn't immediately leaned on the dying message carved into the cabinet during last night's case. Sure, his airtight psychological profiling and logical deductions sounded impressive, but legally? They were flimsy. If the suspect claimed the scratches were planted, it'd be a dead end. The bloodstained shirt, on the other hand—that was the real clincher.
Amateur detectives like Conan could hand over clues to the police without raising procedural red flags. After all, a "concerned citizen" submitting evidence wasn't technically against protocol. It was practically a trope, straight out of legendary vigilante tales like The Chronicles of the Dawn Masses. The catch? Those "concerned citizens" often had to testify in court to validate their findings. And, well… good luck getting Kogoro Mouri to coherently explain his deductions. Though, knowing the old man, he might secretly keep meticulous case notes just to prep for such moments. Stranger things had happened.
Today's agenda included a morning meeting with Prosecutor Reiko Kujo to review evidence for an upcoming trial, ensuring every detail was airtight and admissible. Kiichi enjoyed working with her. Despite her role in the original series as a foil to Eri Kisaki's brilliance, Reiko was sharp, efficient, and kept pace with his relentless rhythm. She never zoned out or got lost in her own world, forcing him to repeat himself while she blinked and muttered, "Huh?" Kiichi had little patience for that, and when it happened, his temper flared—something that had sparked quiet rumors around the station that he wasn't the easiest to get along with.
But rank had its perks. As a police inspector, the occasional sharp word to a subordinate barely raised an eyebrow. It was just the natural order of things.
Anyone who'd binged American crime dramas knew the value of having an ally in the legal system. Take yesterday's case: Kiichi had secured a search warrant for Yuji Suwa's dojo in record time, thanks to his rapport with Reiko and her pull with a sympathetic judge. Without that connection, he'd have been stuck detaining Suwa on circumstantial evidence, waiting days for a warrant, and only then searching the dojo. A few hours could mean the difference between a conviction and a cold case. It was no wonder Kiichi's track record earned him trust where others, even Inspector Megure, might falter. No prosecutor would greenlight a warrant for Megure without ironclad evidence, no matter how chummy they were.
The morning flew by in a productive haze of discussions with Reiko. In the world of Detective Conan, barring a defense attorney of Eri Kisaki's caliber, cases rarely saw reversals. Culprits confessed with a fervor that would make any prosecutor weep with joy—a stark contrast to the legal battles of Kiichi's previous life. His meticulous attention to detail ensured his cases were as solid as they came. Another smooth collaboration wrapped up, and as Reiko left, Kiichi headed straight for the cafeteria. Time was tight; the Grim Reaper (a.k.a. Conan's uncanny knack for attracting death) could strike at any moment, and Kiichi wasn't about to work hungry. Getting called away mid-meal might inspire some noble sob story, but he had no interest in being anyone's martyr.
As he navigated the bustling corridors, snippets of conversation caught his ear—something about "marriage" and "weddings." His instincts kicked into overdrive. Had Conan's director already unleashed chaos at some high-society wedding? Kiichi hadn't even eaten yet! But no one came running to drag him to a crime scene, so he relaxed. If it was a major case, he'd already be on the front lines.
"Finished your meeting with Prosecutor Kujo?"
Kiichi turned to find Shiratori in the cafeteria line, looking as polished as ever. Despite their differences, the two got along well enough. They were technically peers, though Kiichi had hit the career track's minimum tenure and earned his promotion, while Shiratori was still climbing. If Shiratori minded, he didn't show it. There was a certain effortless poise to him, the kind only a scion of wealth could pull off.
Future promotions? Shiratori seemed unbothered by the rat race, as if policing was just a passion project. Damn privileged heir, Kiichi thought, though he kept his expression neutral.
"Yeah, it went smoothly. Just a matter of filing for prosecution now," Kiichi replied, ignoring the pang of envy at Shiratori's charmed life.
"You know, Prosecutor Kujo's pretty impressive," Shiratori said out of nowhere, his tone oddly suggestive.
Kiichi blinked, a mental question mark forming. What's gotten into him? The idea of Shiratori playing matchmaker was absurd—especially when his own love life was still a one-sided ode to Sato.