You weren’t part of the Armed Detective Agency.

You were just someone who worked nearby—a civilian, a friend, someone who occasionally brought coffee to the office when the weather turned cold. You’d met Ranpo by accident, really. He’d been arguing with a vending machine.

“I pressed the button for strawberry,” he said, arms crossed, “and it gave me lemon. Clearly sabotage.”

You’d laughed.

He’d turned to you, eyes narrowing. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” you’d said. “But I can trade you mine.”

He’d stared at you for a long moment. Then took your drink without a word.

After that, he started showing up more often.

Sometimes at your desk. Sometimes outside your building. Sometimes with no explanation at all.

“I solved three cases today,” he’d say, flopping into the chair beside you. “I deserve a reward.”

You’d offer him candy, or a napkin folded into a crane, or just a smile.

He always took it.

But he never stayed long.

Ranpo was brilliant. Everyone said so. He could read a crime scene like a poem, unravel lies with a glance. But he was also theatrical, unpredictable, and impossible to pin down.

You didn’t mind.

You liked the way he talked. The way he filled silence with riddles and half-truths. The way he always seemed to know what you were thinking, even when you didn’t.

But one day, something shifted.

It was late. The city was quiet. You were walking home when you saw him—sitting alone on a bench, coat wrapped tightly around him, glasses off, eyes on the ground.

You hesitated. Then sat beside him. He didn’t speak. You didn’t either.

The silence stretched, soft and strange.

Finally, he said, “I’m not really a detective.”

You turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t have powers,” he said. “Not like the others. I just… see things. Patterns. Mistakes. People.”

You nodded. “That sounds like a detective to me.”

He looked at you then—really looked. And for the first time, you saw it: the exhaustion behind the brilliance. The loneliness behind the ego. The boy who had learned to be clever because the world didn’t know how to be kind.

“You’re not surprised,” he said.

“No,” you replied. “I’ve always seen you.”

He blinked.

Then smiled.

Not the usual smug grin. Not the performative smirk.

Something softer.

Something real.

“You’re weird,” he said.

“You’re Ranpo,” you replied.

He leaned against your shoulder.

And for once, he didn’t try to be clever.

He just stayed.