When Ranpo called you to Poe’s house, you expected something serious.

A case, maybe. A mystery. Something worthy of the great detective’s attention.

What you got instead… was Poe.

Singing.

Dancing.

Spinning in circles like a caffeinated ghost, arms flailing, voice cracking mid-verse as he performed what could only be described as a one-man musical meltdown. His hair was a mess, his coat half-buttoned, and his eyes—wide, wild, sparkling with manic energy—told you everything you needed to know.

He’d eaten one of Ranpo’s sweets.

Correction: several of Ranpo’s sweets.

And now he was ruined.

“Ranpo,” you said slowly, watching Poe attempt a pirouette and nearly knock over a lamp. “What did you give him?”

Ranpo, seated comfortably on the couch with a bag of candy in his lap, didn’t even try to hide his grin.

“Just a little sugar,” he said, popping another piece into his mouth. “He said he wanted to try one. I warned him. Kind of.”

You blinked.

Poe shrieked something about ravens and moonlight, then collapsed dramatically onto the carpet, only to spring back up seconds later with renewed vigor.

Ranpo laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

It was chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos. And somehow, you were in the middle of it. You sighed, rubbing your temples.

“Next time you call me,” you muttered, “I’m bringing tranquilizers.”

Ranpo just winked.

Poe began reciting poetry to a houseplant.

And you wondered, not for the first time, how your life had ended up like this.