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everg1ad3s · 14 days ago

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A FIC THAT PERFECTLY CAPTURES THE FEELING OF GRIEF???

Still in the Picture

A/N: This is based on a request, but I accidentally deleted it :'(. Luckily, I had written down some basic notes for the story beforehand, though I wasn’t able to check back with the request to make sure I was still fully on track. I hope the Anon who requested it still sees this and that it’s what you were hoping for. I’m really sorry again!

synopsis: You're trying to juggle life between raising your brother and working for the ADA. But when he gets kidnapped during what should've been a routine day, you stop at nothing to bring him home—with the entire ADA standing beside you, ready to fight for what matters most.

content/warning: Ranpo x fem!reader, angst, gunshot wounds and death, hurt with slight comfort, -12.370 words

It was an unspoken rule within the Armed Detective Agency: when you spoke, people listened.

Not because you were loud—quite the opposite. You were calm, serious, sharp as glass and twice as unyielding. When a mission was assigned, you executed it without complaint. When someone was injured, you offered solutions before concern. Your eyes were focused, tone measured, and presence as steadying as Kunikida's idealism or Yosano's scalpel.

People respected you.

Ranpo had once said, through a mouthful of Pocky, "You're the kind of person who probably doesn't even cry when they stub their toe."

You hadn't responded. Not because it wasn't worth it, but because you had stubbed your toe that morning. And you hadn't cried.

So it always came as a shock, when you arrived with your little brother in tow.

"Nee-chan!" he shouted, running down the hallway of the ADA office, holding a crookedly drawn picture in his hand like it was gold. You were behind him, holding his little backpack and your own briefcase.

The child barreled toward your desk. You caught up with him mid-run, lifting him with ease, face softening into a smile that none of your colleagues had ever coaxed out of you, not even after a successful mission.

"Hey, hey, careful," you murmured, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he giggled. "What did I say about running in the hallways?"

"Only do it if it's a race!" he grinned up at you, completely ignoring the rule.

Ranpo, sitting nearby with his legs kicked up on the desk, looked at you. "I don't get it. Are we sure that's even the same person? Someone check if it's a shapeshifter."

Dazai, already halfway through his third cup of coffee, leaned over toward Kunikida. "Ah, the power of familial love. Truly, the only thing that can make our resident human-knife soften into a mother hen."

You ignored them all, smoothing down your brother's shirt with practiced, tender hands. You didn't laugh at the jokes, didn't deny them either. You simply knelt to zip his jacket and check the watch on his wrist.

"I'll be in the records room with Kunikida. Stay near my desk, alright? You can color there. Don't touch Dazai's coffee, or the man himself."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so. And because I love you," you said without missing a beat, placing a kiss on his forehead.

Gasps echoed in the room. Not because of the affection—but because you said it out loud.

Kunikida dropped his pen. Yosano actually smiled. Even Atsushi, ever polite, looked stunned.

Ranpo, ever observant, chewed thoughtfully on a sweet. "So that's what it looks like when steel bends."

And in that moment, with your brother's small fingers curled around yours and the barest trace of warmth in your expression, no one could deny it: You would move the world for that boy.

And break yourself doing it.

Balancing life between the Armed Detective Agency and raising a child was like walking a tightrope with knives beneath you—and no safety net. But you did it every single day.

Your mornings started before the sun rose.

You made breakfast with quiet hands, careful not to wake your little brother too early. He needed his sleep. Then came the routine: getting him dressed, brushing his hair, packing his bag, double-checking his lunch. You always walked him to school yourself, even if it meant waking up two hours earlier to get to work on time. If it rained, you carried the umbrella; if it snowed, you tied his scarf twice.

You didn't mind.

At the ADA, you were all business again. Serious, attentive, impossible to distract. Whether it was chasing down smugglers in the back alleys of Yokohama or analyzing crime scenes with Ranpo, your focus never wavered. You didn't waste words or hesitate when action was needed.

But the moment your phone buzzed with a message from your brother's school—your fingers would twitch toward it faster than you'd draw your weapon.

You finished missions with precision because your schedule had to be reliable. If you were late to pick him up, he'd wait—trusting you'd show, even if the clock ticked long past dismissal.

You were never late.

When the day's work ended, you'd be at the school gates. Your brother would run toward you, arms wide and grin bigger than the sun. And you'd kneel to greet him, to listen to his stories about math or recess or the imaginary game he and his friends invented.

You brought him back to the ADA on slow afternoons. Paperwork could always wait until he was settled—feet dangling from the chair beside yours, his backpack dumped unceremoniously under the desk, colored pencils already rolling across your files. He'd hum to himself, occasionally tapping your arm to show off a sketch of a cat that looked suspiciously like Kunikida or a wobbly drawing of the entire Agency with everyone's hair the wrong color. You'd smile, remind him to keep his math worksheet out of your coffee mug, and then return to sorting case files—half-focused, but always calm with him near.

The Agency... adjusted. Quietly, naturally. Your brother didn't just become a regular guest; he became family.

Yosano kept a separate drawer just for him—stocked with antiseptic wipes, cartoon-printed bandages, and the occasional sweet for when he looked nervous or tired. She teased him gently, always with a soft edge you didn't see often from her, and somehow, he trusted her deeply despite the fact that you flinched every time she reached for a scalpel.

Atsushi brought small things—packets of melon bread, a juice box, a toy from a capsule machine on the way to work. He never made a show of it, just casually slid them onto the edge of the desk with a smile. Sometimes, he'd crouch beside your brother's chair, ask him about the comics he liked.

Kunikida, bless him, once created a laminated list of "ADA-approved educational activities" after overhearing your brother say he was bored. The list included timed logic puzzles, geography trivia, and a math-focused scavenger hunt. Your brother glanced at it once, then went right back to drawing a manga scene where you and Atsushi fought a giant squid. Kunikida was... disappointed, but undeterred. He tried to quiz him on prefectures every time he visited.

Kenji was his favorite. On slow days, Kenji would plop down on the floor with a board game or deck of cards, playing round after round while telling stories about life back on the farm. Your brother listened with wide eyes, occasionally bursting into laughter so loud it disrupted meetings.

No one minded.

Even Dazai—unexpected, unpredictable Dazai—surprised you. One day, you were called away to chase a lead on short notice, something that would take the whole day. No one else was free. Dazai glanced up from his desk, sighed dramatically, and said, "Fine. I'll babysit. But only because children are slightly less insufferable than adults."

You returned a couple hours later to find the two of them playing Shogi, a plate of half-eaten cookies between them, your brother explaining the rules while Dazai nodded with the exaggerated seriousness of someone plotting a war. When you asked how it went, Dazai just shrugged and said, "He's alright. A bit too smart, though. Dangerous."

You knew what he meant. Your brother wasn't just clever—he had this way of getting under people's skin, of disarming even the most guarded of hearts. He didn't try to—he just was. A child who had lost too much too early, clinging to what little joy he had left.

The ADA saw that. And they embraced it.

Sometimes, your brother would get absorbed in one big project—usually on a quiet afternoon when the office buzzed with the rustle of papers and distant footsteps, the kind of steady calm that made him feel safe enough to let his creativity bloom. That day, he sat for nearly an hour, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, colored pencils spread around him like a halo.

When he finally stood, his drawing clutched in both hands like a priceless artifact, he didn't come to you first. He stood up straighter, marched to the center of the office, and cleared his throat in the quietest voice possible. "Um... I drew something."

Atsushi looked up first, then Kenji, and within seconds everyone had turned to look. He unfolded the page and turned it around. There it was—the entire ADA office, from the stacked shelves and cluttered desks to the big window with its warm afternoon light. Every person had been drawn, labeled with slightly crooked name tags. Even you—mid-paperwork, coffee mug in hand, a little heart hovering above your head.

He was there too, front and center, grinning proudly with his usual hoodie and untied shoelaces. He had drawn himself right into the Agency's heart.

Everyone gathered around to look, voices warm with praise. Kenji clapped him on the shoulder so hard he nearly stumbled. Yosano ruffled his hair. Even Kunikida smiled and said, "You managed to capture everyone's likeness... surprisingly well."

Then the door to Fukuzawa's office opened, and your brother froze a little. He straightened again, this time in that particular way kids do when they're trying to be very polite and very brave at the same time. With quiet steps, he walked up to the president, holding the drawing with both hands.

Fukuzawa looked down at him, then at the picture. For a second, he didn't say anything, just observed it with that calm, careful gaze of his. Then he nodded.

"It's better than any photograph," he said.

Your brother blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

Fukuzawa knelt just slightly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "Would you allow me to hang it here in the office?"

Your brother practically beamed. "Yes, sir!"

And so, with great ceremony, the drawing was pinned up beside the whiteboard, above the file cabinets. Your brother stood beneath it, chest puffed out, glowing with pride while the rest of the ADA gave him a round of soft applause.

It stayed there from that day forward—sun-faded in the corners, but vibrant with something no case file or mission report could capture. A reminder of how deeply he had become part of the Agency, not just through you, but all on his own.

Whenever you had to come in on weekends and he wanted to stay in the dorm, you even left him home alone. Never for long. Never after dark. If you had to step out briefly and school was closed, you left him at your dorm, where it was safe, where you could call every fifteen minutes to check in. And even then, you'd leave him only with the sun high in the sky.

Every decision you made was filtered through a single, ironclad rule: He comes first. Always.

You made sure he ate. You reminded him to drink water. You kept spare gloves in your coat pocket in case he forgot his. You worked with bullet wounds, with cracked ribs, with bruised arms—but no one ever knew. You smiled when he needed you to. You reassured him on bad days.

You gave him everything.

Because long ago, you made a promise.

And you never break your promises.

The office was unusually quiet for a weekday. Kunikida was buried under mission planning, Yosano had locked herself in the infirmary (again), and Dazai—mercifully—was nowhere to be seen. The only noise came from the soft scratch of your pen as you worked through a stack of case reports, and the steady tick-tick-tick of the office clock.

And, of course, Ranpo's sighs.

Loud, exaggerated, and spaced every fifteen seconds with clockwork precision.

You didn't need super deduction to know he was bored.

"Ranpo," you said without looking up, voice even, "if you sigh any louder, I'm filing a noise complaint."

"I'm suffering, you know." Ranpo leaned dramatically over your desk, his chin nearly knocking over your coffee. "There's nothing to do. No murder. No mystery. Just you, being boring and responsible."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is. At least give me something to read. Or a cookie. Or attention."

You didn't roll your eyes—but only barely. "I'll give you a file to proofread."

He made a noise like a dying cat and slumped farther down, now half-hanging off the desk. "Unfair. You know I don't do paperwork. You're cruel."

Despite his antics, you didn't mind. Ranpo's presence, as loud as it could be, had become oddly comforting in these rare quiet hours. He never meant harm. Just attention. And beneath his self-proclaimed brilliance, you'd grown to recognize his rare moments of curiosity—ones he didn't share lightly.

After a long pause, Ranpo suddenly spoke, eyes half-lidded but focused on your face now.

"Hey… why are you taking care of your brother, anyway? What happened to your parents?"

The pen in your hand stopped.

The shift was small—but it was enough. Ranpo noticed. So did Kunikida, who froze mid-note-taking at his desk across the room. Atsushi, walking in with tea, nearly dropped the tray. No one said anything, but their stillness said enough.

You, however, didn't react outwardly.

Ranpo wasn't known for his tact. He asked questions most people tiptoed around, not out of cruelty but because boundaries often bored him. To him, information was just information.

Still, it was a heavy one to drop in the middle of paperwork hour.

You set your pen down neatly and leaned back in your chair, eyes distant, but voice calm.

"There was an accident. Our parents didn't make it. My brother was four at the time."

Ranpo blinked, straightening slightly. You didn't need to look at him to feel his attention sharpen—not with his ability, but with his human awareness.

"And you took him in?" he asked. Not in disbelief. In calculation. Trying to line up the timeline, your age, your responsibilities.

You nodded. "There wasn't anyone else who could. He was scared. I promised he'd be okay. That I'd be there for him, always."

A small silence followed. Not heavy, but thoughtful. Ranpo tapped a finger against the desk.

"Sounds like a lot," he said, unusually subdued for him. "I couldn't do that. Raising a kid. Waking up early. Caring that much." He scrunched his nose slightly, in that honest Ranpo way. "You're pretty cool, actually."

You blinked. That… might've been the most sincere compliment he'd ever given anyone without being sarcastic.

"Thanks," you said simply.

Ranpo leaned back in your chair now, resting his head on his arms. "Still boring, though."

You let out a small breath—not a laugh exactly, but close enough that he glanced up to check.

Outside, the sun was starting to dip. You checked the clock—time to pick up your brother.

"Don't mess with my desk while I'm gone," you said, grabbing your coat.

"No promises," Ranpo called after you with a grin, though something softer lingered in his expression.

As the door shut behind you, he murmured to himself: "Still cool, though..."

It was a Saturday. The sky was pale and overcast, the kind of day that made everything feel still—even the city.

You had just finished drying the breakfast dishes when your phone buzzed.

Kunikida: Emergency meeting at the office. Sorry, I know it's your day off. Fifteen minutes?

You stared at the message for a moment, jaw tightening, then looked over your shoulder toward the living room.

Your little brother was curled up on the couch, still in his pyjamas, a bowl of cereal precariously perched on his knees and the TV flickering with some colorful weekend cartoon. He looked content, warm, safe.

You hesitated, phone still in hand.

"Hey," you called gently, walking into the living room. He turned with a sleepy smile. "The office needs me for a quick meeting. You want to come?"

He shook his head immediately, mouth full of cereal. "Mm-mm. Wanna finish my show."

You crouched down in front of him, brushing a crumb from his cheek. "I won't be long. Probably just paperwork or a case briefing."

"I'll be fine," he said, looking up at you with that same unwavering trust that always, always struck somewhere deep in your chest.

You nodded, swallowing the flicker of unease. You'd done this before. Just for short periods. Never in the dark. Never at night. Never long.

Still, the checklist rolled off your tongue like always.

"Don't answer the door," you said.

"I won't."

"Don't touch the stove."

"Promise."

"Call me if anything feels weird. And answer when I call you, okay?"

"Okay, okay! I know!" He grinned and leaned forward to bump his forehead against yours in a playful headbutt. "You worry too much."

You smiled, though it didn't quite reach your eyes.

"Only because I love you," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before standing.

He gave you a little wave as you grabbed your coat and keys.

"Be safe!" he called out.

"I should be saying that to you," you replied, a half-laugh in your voice. "Lock the door behind me."

And with that, you were gone.

The ADA office was too quiet when you arrived.

Rain had begun to fall, a faint pattering against the tall windows as Kunikida briefed you and a few others—nothing major, just an unusual pattern in some case reports. Might be a coincidence. Might be a prelude. Ranpo sat sideways in his chair, uninterested, chewing on a lollipop.

You answered questions sharply. Focused. Efficient. Still, your eyes flicked to your phone between notes.

You called once.

No answer.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

Not unusual, not yet. He probably left it on silent. Or was in the bathroom. Or fell asleep with the cartoon still playing.

But you felt it. A pulse of something cold crawling up your spine. Your heart didn't beat faster—but your thoughts did.

You stood without waiting for the meeting to end.

"Where are you going?" Kunikida asked.

"My brother isn't picking up."

Ranpo, who had been half-asleep with boredom, sat up straighter—eyes narrowing in that unsettlingly clear way of his. He didn't say anything, but you felt the weight of his gaze follow you as you turned and left the room.

Outside, the rain picked up.

You walked fast. Then you ran.

You fumbled with the keys. Rain slicked your fingers, cold and clinging, making it harder than it should've been. You unlocked the door in three practiced movements and pushed it open—

—and your breath caught.

The living room was too quiet. Too still.

You stepped inside slowly, almost unwilling to believe what your instincts already screamed at you. The cartoon on the TV had long since ended, the screen now dim and quiet. The cereal bowl sat on the table, half-eaten, milk gone warm. His slippers were by the couch.

But he was gone.

"Hey," you called, voice taut as a wire, trying not to tremble. "I'm home."

Silence.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

You moved faster now, stepping into every room, calling his name again—once, then louder. The bathroom: empty. Your bedroom: untouched. His room: bed still messy from earlier, his favorite stuffed animal on the floor.

And then you saw it.

The window.

The latch had been forced from the outside.

And your world stopped.

You stared, heart thundering against your ribs, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob that couldn't make it out. You were frozen—just for a second—before the panic hit like a truck.

You were already dialing Ranpo's number.

The call didn't even go through before you turned and slammed open the door, practically running straight outside. The rain came harder now, soaking through your jacket, your hair, your skin—but you didn't feel it.

You barely made it out onto the street before someone called your name.

"Y/N!"

You spun around. Ranpo stood at the corner, an umbrella half-cocked in his hand, Atsushi beside him already looking worried.

They'd never seen you like this.

Not like this.

Your expression—normally so composed, so sharp—was wide-eyed, pale, frantic.

Ranpo's brows drew together. "Where is he?"

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You shook your head instead, barely able to form the word: "Gone."

Atsushi stepped forward immediately. "What do you mean, gone?!"

"The window," you said, voice too low. "Someone broke in. He didn't answer. I called—he always answers—I told him not to open the door, he wouldn't open the door—"

You swallowed hard, trying to stop the spiral. Your hands were trembling.

Ranpo's gaze sharpened. His eyes flicked toward your building, then to your face, then the phone still in your hand. All at once, his usual laziness vanished.

"This wasn't random," he said flatly. "They waited for you to leave."

"How do you—" Atsushi began, but Ranpo was already walking toward the door, his umbrella forgotten. "Stay here," he said over his shoulder, "I need to see inside."

You didn't stop him. You couldn't. You just stared down the empty street, every shadow now a threat, every passing car a missed clue.

Atsushi hesitated at your side. "We'll find him. We will. I promise."

You didn't answer.

Because promises only matter if you can keep them.

And this time, you weren't sure you could.

Ranpo came down the steps ten minutes later, his expression unreadable—too calm for someone who'd just been in your apartment, sifting through the aftermath of your worst nightmare.

You didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

But when he reached you, he pulled the soaked glasses from his face, cleaned them on his sleeve, and said, "They came in through the window. The latch was popped with a flat tool—something thin. Professional. They didn't take anything else. Not your wallet. Not your laptop. Not even your emergency money stash."

He glanced at you then, eyes narrowed. "They came for him."

You already knew it. But hearing it aloud hit like a blade across your chest.

Ranpo turned to Atsushi. "Call Kunikida. Tell him to prep the board room and alert everyone. I want the last four cases of missing children that match this pattern. We've got maybe a six-hour window if we're lucky."

"Right," Atsushi said, voice sharp with urgency as he pulled out his phone. His eyes flicked to you briefly. "We're gonna get him back."

You just nodded, mute.

Ranpo didn't ask if you were okay.

He knew you weren't.

Instead, he simply motioned for you to walk with him, falling into step at your side.

By the time you returned to the Agency, the rain had slowed—but inside, the air was thick with tension. The elevator doors opened with a chime and revealed the familiar faces of your team, already waiting.

Kunikida stood at the head of the table, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Dazai lounged in his chair but his usual smug smile was absent, replaced by a grim sort of alertness. Fukuzawa stood near the window, expression calm but eyes sharp. Kenji looked confused and concerned, and Kyoka—silent as always—hovered near the board with a map already half-pinned with notes. Tanizaki was at the computer terminal, pulling records.

The moment they saw you, something shifted in the room.

They knew.

Kunikida stepped forward. "We'll find him."

You opened your mouth to say something—thank you, maybe—but your throat closed up. So instead, you just nodded.

Kunikida motioned toward the map. "We've compiled the police reports from similar cases. All children. All taken between noon and six in the evening. No forced entries at the front—always windows or fire escapes. Ranpo's theory is correct, this was planned. Someone's targeting kids."

Tanizaki's voice chimed in from the computer. "There've been five abductions like this in the past two months. None solved. The police kept it under wraps to avoid panic. But there's a pattern."

"They're stalling," Ranpo added, walking straight to the whiteboard. "Holding the kids somewhere. Probably central, somewhere abandoned but secure. Warehouse, maybe. Old school. It's not just kidnapping. It's something else."

"Ransom?" Atsushi offered.

"Worse," Ranpo said, eyes flicking briefly to you. "They wanted someone connected to us. It's not random anymore. It's personal."

Everyone in the room tensed.

Fukuzawa spoke for the first time. "You have full resources. Whatever you need. Every one of us is on this."

You looked around.

These were your coworkers. Your comrades. Your family.

And they weren't just helping because a child was missing.

They were helping because he was your little brother. Because you were theirs.

Dazai, of all people, gave you a faint grin and said, "Don't worry. We're professionals. We've dealt with worse." His smile faded just enough to reveal the steel behind it. "They'll regret ever touching him."

You lowered your head briefly, steadying yourself against the wave of emotion that threatened to rise again.

"I just want him safe," you said, voice quiet.

"And he will be," Kunikida assured you. "We'll bring him back."

The office was a storm of quiet urgency.

Kunikida barked updates from the whiteboard while Ranpo scrawled deductions across the surface like a man possessed. Kenji and Kyoka darted between rooms, collecting case files and camera logs, while Atsushi coordinated with the police under Fukuzawa's direction.

You stood near the back at first, still, watching. Your hands shook faintly. Your heart still beat too loud, too fast.

But then something clicked.

You breathed in—shaky—and then out, slow and deep. And you shut it down.

The fear. The grief. The panic.

It didn't vanish, but you locked it behind the same steel wall you'd used in the field more times than you could count. The same calm you wore through wounds, through firefights, through pain that would have brought others to their knees.

Your brother needed you.

You couldn't afford to fall apart again.

You stepped forward.

"What do we have on location radius?" you asked, voice suddenly sharp again, focused. "If they moved during daylight, they'd need a route with minimal surveillance."

Kunikida glanced at you, gauging you briefly. He nodded.

"Ranpo's narrowed it down to a five-block radius around your apartment," he said, pointing at the board. "These three areas are black zones—little to no working cameras."

"They wouldn't use the subway," Ranpo added, chewing thoughtfully on a fresh lollipop. "Too risky with a child. They're likely traveling by car or van. Stolen plates. We've already put in a request for traffic cam scrubs."

"I'll cross-reference known abandoned buildings in those sectors," you said, already pulling open a laptop. "Kenji, can you get me the municipal records?"

"On it!" Kenji chirped, already hurrying over.

Ranpo tilted his head, eyes flicking to you.

"You're calm again," he observed, not with judgment but… curiosity.

You didn't look up. "I have to be."

Meanwhile —

Yosano was already halfway back from her last job when the message hit her phone.

URGENT:Y/N's brother missing. Abduction. Targeted. Current ADA mobilized. ETA for your return?

Her reply came almost instantly.

Tell Y/N I'm coming. She is not going through this alone. I'll be there in two hours. Three, tops.

The tires of her rented vehicle screamed as she pressed harder on the gas.

Back at the ADA office, the board filled fast. Photos. Building layouts. Police files.

Every agent worked in sync. You fell into the rhythm like muscle memory, pushing aside the ache in your chest with every clue you traced, every detail you lined up.

Dazai slouched beside your desk at one point, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. "You're kind of scary when you're like this," he mused aloud.

You didn't answer. You barely heard him.

Every second mattered. Every second he was gone was one more you might regret for the rest of your life.

"I've got a match," Tanizaki said suddenly. "Old textile factory. Closed five years ago. Three floors. One basement. In a black zone."

Ranpo was already walking toward the coat rack. "That's it."

"How do you know?" Atsushi asked, grabbing his jacket.

"Because I'm always right," Ranpo replied, already heading for the door.

And for the first time in hours, you felt your pulse steady just a little.

Because now you were moving.

Now you had a lead.

Now you had a chance.

The van rolled to a stop two blocks from the building—an abandoned textile factory, quiet and rotting on the edges of the city like a carcass forgotten by time. Windows were boarded up, metal doors rusted shut, the whole structure barely a whisper in the urban sprawl. The kind of place you'd never look twice at.

Perfect place to hide something precious. Or to bury it.

You stepped out first, moving like your bones were made of stone, face unreadable. The only thing betraying your fear was the white-knuckled grip you had on your weapon.

Ranpo was beside you, uncharacteristically quiet. His usual smugness replaced by something deeper—something steadier. "We go in together. You stay near me," he said, not bothering to ask whether you'd follow. He knew you would. Knew you'd do anything.

Kunikida held up the plan, crisp and tactical. "Two floors cleared by Atsushi and Kyoka. Kenji and Tanizaki take the basement. Dazai and I sweep the outer perimeter and meet you at the center. Y/N, Ranpo—you're leading this."

You nodded once.

And then you went.

The inside of the factory stank of mildew and rot. Faint bootprints in the dust told you someone had been here recently—several someones.

You moved like a blade: precise, silent, deadly.

Ranpo followed close, reading the walls, the dust, the scattered items. "Three guards total, maybe four. One upstairs, pacing. The rest are near the back—makeshift holding room. They're sloppy, not professionals. Guns, though. Be careful."

Your breath hitched at that word.

Guns.

Not just kidnapping. Hostile intent.

Your brother was somewhere behind these walls, maybe gagged, maybe scared, maybe hurt—

You pushed the thought down like poison. Now was not the time.

Atsushi crashed through the upper level seconds later, feral and silent, leaving a broken-nosed thug unconscious in his wake. Kyoka was right behind him, blade dripping.

"Clear," she called.

Kenji's shout rose from the basement. "We found restraints! But no kids!"

Tanizaki's voice followed, grim. "It was temporary. They were moving them."

And then—Ranpo stopped.

Right outside a sealed double door at the end of the central hallway. Dust undisturbed, except for a single fresh footprint.

"He's in there," he said. "Your brother's in there."

Your heart stopped.

You didn't wait for permission.

You kicked the door in.

The room exploded in sound and motion.

A man jerked backward, surprised. Another cursed, reaching for his gun—but Kunikida shot it clean from his hand a second later.

And there—huddled in the far corner, tears streaking his dirt-smudged cheeks—was your brother.

"Y/N!"

You ran to him instantly, the world narrowing to a pinhole of sound. You dropped to your knees, pulling him into your arms. He sobbed against your chest, clinging to your jacket like he might disappear if he let go.

"I told you I'd come," you whispered, voice hoarse. "I told you I'd always come."

"I was scared," he cried.

"I know," you said, holding him tighter. "I'm here now."

But even as the tension cracked with relief—

Ranpo's voice cut in, quiet and cold. "Wait."

You looked up.

Too late.

A gunshot rang out.

Your brother screamed.

Pain hit you like lightning—radiating white-hot through your shoulder as blood sprayed the floor.

Then the second shot fired.

And this time, it didn't hit you.

You turned just in time to see your little brother's small body jerk in your arms, blood blooming like a dark flower across his side.

"No—!"

You screamed, truly screamed—for the first time in your life.

And the only reason you didn't murder the man who fired was because Kunikida was faster—slamming him into the wall, disarming and handcuffing him with surgical fury.

"Yosa-!" Dazai began, already calling for Yosano, before remembering she was still on the road.

You were sobbing.

Your hands pressed against your brother's wound.

He was crying, eyes wide and dazed. "Nee-chan…"

"Stay awake, okay? Stay awake, baby, please—"

But the light in his eyes began to fade.

And you began to break as you were barely aware of anything anymore. The sounds around you were muffled, like you'd been plunged underwater. The chaos—the yelling, the rush of footsteps, the crackle of radios—all faded to static.

There was only him.

Your little brother trembled in your arms, breath hitching shallow and fast. Blood pooled beneath you, far too much of it. Your hands were stained red, pressing against the wound, uselessly, desperately.

"I've got you," you whispered, voice breaking. "You're going to be okay. Help is coming. Dr. Yosano will be here soon."

He gave you a wobbly smile, barely there, barely conscious. His little fingers curled into your bloodstained sleeve.

"…Nee-chan…"

You leaned in, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead.

"I'm here, sweetheart. Just stay with me, okay?"

He blinked slowly. His lips moved. The words barely came out—just a whisper. A breath.

"I love you…"

And then—

Stillness.

His chest fell.

And didn't rise again.

His eyes drifted shut, soft and gentle.

And he was gone.

You froze.

Completely.

You didn't scream. You didn't cry. You didn't move. You just held him tighter, almost as if you could trap his soul inside, keep it from leaving.

But the warmth in his body was already fading.

Across the room, the rest of the Armed Detective Agency stood still—silent witnesses to the moment the strongest person they knew finally shattered.

Tanizaki was the first to react, barely holding himself together. He turned away quickly, a hand to his mouth, shoulders trembling.

Kenji stood motionless beside him, fists balled tightly at his sides. His eyes weren't full of confusion or childish misunderstanding—not this time. He understood. More than anyone expected. He stared at your unmoving form, still cradling your brother, his face fallen in a grief too mature for someone so young.

"He was… really kind," Kenji whispered softly. "He brought me a rice cracker once. Said it tasted like home…"

No one had the heart to answer him.

Atsushi's shoulders were shaking. He'd crouched down by the wall, eyes wet, fists clenched, guilt etched into every line of his face.

Kyoka stared at the floor. Her hand gripped her katana so tightly her knuckles were white.

Even Dazai, usually flippant, had removed his hands from his pockets. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were grim.

Kunikida had his head bowed, glasses pushed up to wipe his eyes. He didn't say a word. He just stood there.

Because this loss… wasn't just yours.

Your brother had been part of them, too. A little light in their strange family.

He'd drawn with Naomi on Junichiro's tablet. He'd tried to braid Kyoka's hair once and gotten it all tangled. He once fell asleep on Dazai's shoulder during a meeting, and even Dazai had smiled. He'd called Ranpo "Detective Candy," and Ranpo hadn't even corrected him.

They all loved him.

But you… he was your world.

And now he was gone.

You didn't move for a long time.

Not when Ranpo sat down beside you, resting his hand on your back in silent support. Not when Kunikida knelt beside you and quietly offered to carry him. Not when Atsushi gently said your name.

You just stayed there.

Holding him.

As if you could still keep your promise if you never let go.

After another few minutes, thhe door burst open.

"Where is he?!"

Yosano's voice rang through the space, breathless and sharp, heels clicking rapidly on the cold floor. Her coat fluttered behind her as she moved with practiced urgency. But the moment she saw you—kneeling in a pool of blood, your arms wrapped protectively around your little brother's lifeless body—she stopped in her tracks.

Silence met her.

She didn't need to ask. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the blood, the Agency's expressions, your hollow stillness.

"No…" she breathed.

She approached slowly, kneeling beside you.

"I came as fast as I could," she whispered, eyes trained on the boy in your arms. She reached out, fingers trembling for just a second as they hovered over his wrist—searching for a pulse, even when she already knew. Her jaw tightened. "But he's gone."

You didn't react.

Your eyes stared at nothing.

Yosano looked down, anger simmering beneath her grief. "If I'd been here… five minutes earlier—"

"There's nothing you could've done," Kunikida said quietly from behind. "The shot was deliberate. Close range. They wanted us to lose him."

She closed her eyes, pulling in a deep, steadying breath. Then she looked to you.

"…You're bleeding," she said. "You've been bleeding this whole time."

Still, you didn't move.

You didn't care.

The pain in your shoulder was nothing. Background noise to the silence that rang louder than any scream could've.

It took another long stretch of quiet before Kunikida and Dazai finally stepped forward again. They exchanged a glance—Dazai grim, Kunikida gentle.

"I'm sorry," Kunikida said softly. "But we can't leave him here like this."

Dazai knelt beside you, quieter than usual. "We'll take care of him," he said. "He deserves peace."

They reached for you together.

And at first, your grip didn't loosen.

But eventually—slowly, painfully—your fingers released.

Kunikida leaned forward, arms steady as he lifted your brother with care, holding him as though he were still alive. As though the weight of his small body wasn't heavier than the world.

Dazai stayed with you, steadying you as Kunikida turned and carried him out.

You stayed behind. Still on your knees.

The blood had soaked through your clothes.

Your hands were shaking, knuckles white.

"Hey," Ranpo said gently, crouching in front of you. He had taken off his hat, looking at you. His eyes were clear and sharp—but soft. "You're still bleeding. If you keep sitting there, you'll pass out."

You blinked. Slowly. Uncomprehending.

Ranpo gave you a moment. Then he offered his hand.

"It's not a bad wound," he said. "But if you don't let Yosano treat it, it will be. Come on."

At first, your hand didn't move.

But then—

Slowly, mechanically—you placed your palm into his.

His grip was warm and grounding, far more careful than you'd ever seen from him.

He helped you to your feet.

And though your legs trembled, and your clothes were soaked with blood that wasn't yours—

You followed.

You didn't say anything. You didn't look at anyone. But you moved.

And that, for now, was enough.

The ADA's infirmary was quieter than you'd ever known it to be.

No jokes from Dazai. No arguments from Kunikida. Not even the usual complaints about paperwork.

Just silence—and the faint metallic scent of antiseptic.

You sat on the padded table, your shoulder still bleeding where the bullet had hit you. Not fatal. Nothing compared to what you'd already lost.

Your eyes were fixed on nothing. Hollow. Blank. Like everything in you had been drained and left in that warehouse.

Yosano stood over you with her gloves already on, her expression unreadable. She didn't speak at first, just knelt beside you to inspect the wound. She was always methodical with her work—but today… she was gentle.

For once, her touch was soft.

No teasing. No cruel smirk about how she'd "make it hurt to teach you a lesson."

No pain.

Just swift, quiet treatment.

She pulled out a knife, and the next thing you knew, you were waking up again — the wound in your shoulder, and the one she gave you to bring you near death, were healed completely.

Yosano helped you up, watching your face for any sign of reaction.

There was none.

Only your silence. Still. Absolute.

She took a breath, steadied herself, and spoke—quiet, but firm.

"This isn't your fault."

You didn't answer.

She placed her hand gently over the now-healed wound. Her ability had done its work. Physically, you were fine.

But your eyes said otherwise.

She hesitated. For once, uncertain of what to say.

And you, finally, spoke—but only inside your mind.

I wish it wouldn't work.

You wished her ability had failed. That she had brought you just close enough to death that she could drag you back—but that, just this one time, it wouldn't work. That your body would remain still, unmoving, and your heart would follow your brother's to wherever he'd gone.

Because the only thing you wanted in the world was to be by his side again.

But you didn't say that.

You said nothing.

The weight of it all stayed trapped inside you, heavier than any injury, deeper than any wound.

And Yosano—perhaps sensing more than she let on—simply said nothing more.

She stepped back, her gloves red, her eyes unreadable.

You sat there, alone again, in a body that had been healed…

…but without a heart.

It was a small funeral.

You had made that clear. No friends. No classmates. No teachers. No condolences from people who would go home to full tables and warm hugs and laughter.

You couldn't bear it.

Not the pity. Not the hollow comfort of people who didn't understand what it meant to lose everything—not in stages, but in layers, stripped away one by one. Your parents first. And now him. The last piece of light you had left.

He was placed in a white coffin. Small. Too small. It looked unnatural, cruel even, for something like that to exist. Coffins weren't meant for children. They weren't meant to be this size.

The service was held privately, in a secluded section of the cemetery.

Only the Agency was there.

Even now, they respected your silence.

They wore black.

Atsushi stood near the head of the coffin, eyes red and swollen, jaw clenched as though holding back tears was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hands shook as he held a single white lily, knuckles pale. When it was time, he laid it down gently, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear.

Kenji didn't understand at first. Not really. He had been crying since they arrived, quiet sniffles and furrowed brows. But when he saw the way you stood—still, unmoving—his expression crumpled. He looked to Junichiro for guidance, confused by the heavy grief he didn't know how to carry. Junichiro placed a hand on his back and gave him a small nod before stepping forward.

Junichiro didn't speak either. But when he knelt beside the coffin, his fingers grazed the edge gently—reverently—and stayed there a second longer than the others. A quiet goodbye.

Kunikida stood tall, solemn. Hands folded in front of him. He'd brought a single origami crane—yellow, delicate, carefully made. He laid it down with the quiet precision of a man who had memorized funeral rites, who believed in small traditions even when they no longer made sense. His grief was contained, precise—but deep. Like it was folded into him, neat and permanent.

Dazai didn't say a word. He didn't make jokes or offer obtuse philosophies. He simply stared at the coffin for a long, long time. Then he sighed. A real sigh, heavy and dry. His gaze lingered on your brother's name etched into the plaque. When he finally stepped away, he looked older than usual—like he'd seen this too many times.

Yosano arrived in silence. No heels. No crisp lab coat. Just black gloves and a quiet bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Her eyes lingered on you briefly, as though checking for signs of life. She left the flowers, paused by your side for a moment, then stepped back.

Kyoka stood alone beneath a cherry tree just outside the clearing. She hadn't approached the coffin directly. Instead, she held a small, handmade crane in her hands—paper crinkled slightly from how tightly she'd clutched it. Your brother had always been kind to her. Asked her if she wanted to play. Treated her like she wasn't a weapon. Now, she looked at the small coffin like it was something too big to understand.

Naomi had cried earlier. Unashamedly. Her makeup was ruined, and she didn't care. She'd helped your brother with his homework whenever he had a question. He had insisted she was better at it than you. She had laughed.

Fukuzawa had remained quiet from the moment the service began. Not out of coldness, but deep respect. He was a man who believed in silence when words could not reach.

As he approached he coffin, he didn't lay anything down. No flowers. No gifts.

Just a quiet bow—low, formal, respectful.

Then he straightened and turned to you.

"You protected him as long as you could," he said softly. "And he was loved."

Still, you said nothing.

But for the first time since the service began, you blinked. Just once.

Fukuzawa placed a steady hand on your shoulder.

His voice was gentle—but final.

"You do not have to carry this alone."

And then, without waiting for a response, he stepped back, letting the weight of his presence—and his words—rest gently over you, like a blanket meant to warm, not smother.

And Ranpo… Ranpo didn't hide the way he stared at you.

You hadn't moved since the start of the service. You stood near the head of the coffin, gaze fixed ahead, expression unreadable. Not a single tear. Not even the tremble of a breath.

Ranpo watched you like he was solving a puzzle he didn't want to finish.

When it was his turn, he placed a small bag of candies at the foot of the coffin. Strawberry-flavored. The kind your brother liked. It looked out of place among the pale flowers—but somehow… right.

He didn't say anything. Just rested a hand briefly on the lid of the casket.

Then he turned, stepped back beside you.

"You're not crying," he said quietly, not expecting a reply.

You weren't.

You were existing.

Just existing.

No pain, no fury, no breakdown. You stood like a statue—like something inside you had been scooped out and nothing had taken its place.

The service ended in silence.

Each member of the ADA stayed nearby, lingering as long as they dared. Not ready to leave. Not ready to let go.

But eventually, one by one, they drifted back to the black cars waiting near the edge of the cemetery.

Only Ranpo stayed.

And you.

Still unmoving. Still silent.

Even as the sun began to dip lower in the sky.

Even as the cold crept in.

Still, you didn't cry.

You had nothing left to cry with.

Life at the Armed Detective Agency never truly stopped. Not even after something like this.

Cases still came in. People still needed saving. The city still asked the impossible of them.

And slowly—painfully—the ADA began to move again.

But something was missing.

Not just the light, fleeting presence of a child's laughter echoing down the halls… Not just the impromptu visits to your office where small hands would leave behind crayon sketches on old case files or climb into your lap while you worked.

It was you.

You, who had always been the first to arrive and the last to leave. You, who met every mission with a calm mind, every injury with a steady hand. You, who had become the quiet anchor in the Agency—reliable, serious, unwavering.

But now…

Your desk remained untouched.

Your phone remained unanswered.

After the funeral, they gave you space at first. Thought maybe it was what you needed. That with time, you'd come back. That your silence was a form of healing.

But a week passed.

No messages. No signs. No you.

They started trying.

Kunikida was the first to knock on your door. Then Naomi. Then Junichiro. One after another, they stood outside your dorm, calling your name, hoping you'd speak.

But you never did.

The only thing you gave them was a single text each day, sent like clockwork, always to Kunikida.

I'm still here.

That was it.

Not I'm okay, not I'll be back soon, not thank you.

Just proof of life.

And that was only because they had feared the worst. Ranpo, especially, had started pacing whenever the texts didn't come in by noon. Yosano had tried to force the door open once, only stopped because Dazai reminded her you needed some kind of control, however fragile.

It wasn't enough.

Not for them. Not for the empty spaces you'd left behind.

Kenji still looked at your empty desk every morning when he came in, half-expecting you to be there already, a mug of tea in hand, reading reports. He once left a rice ball wrapped in cloth on your desk before heading out to a mission. He never said anything about it, but everyone saw.

Kyoka stopped wearing her hair the way she used to. You had once complimented the ribbon your brother gave her. Now, it stayed in a drawer.

Naomi left a note at your door once. Just a small folded paper: "You don't have to talk. Just let me know if you want someone to sit beside you."

She never got a reply.

And Ranpo…

Ranpo was the only one who never looked away when your name came up. He watched everyone carefully—like he was waiting for a clue to crack, a thread to tug. But even the greatest detective in the world couldn't solve what had broken inside you.

Not yet.

So they waited.

They tried to go on. Filing papers. Solving cases. Saving people.

But everything was a little slower.

A little heavier.

Because there was still a desk that stayed empty. And a child they would never hear laughing again. And a member of their family who had vanished, even though they were still breathing.

The ADA was still standing.

But it wasn't whole.

Ranpo stood at your door with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. The air was still—thick with early morning quiet. The kind of silence the city rarely allowed. Even the birds seemed hesitant to sing.

He stared at the door.

Then, without fanfare, pulled out a small, silver key from inside his coat.

You had given it to Kunikida a long time ago. "In case something ever happens to me," you'd said.

Back then, "something" meant getting injured in a mission. A delay. Maybe forgetting to pick your brother up from school. Not… this.

Kunikida had hesitated when Ranpo asked for it. His mouth had been tight. His hand reluctant. But he'd passed it over anyway. Said nothing.

Ranpo pressed the key into the lock. It clicked softly.

He stepped inside.

The apartment was quiet, dark despite the daylight spilling faintly through the closed curtains. Dust hung suspended in the air like it didn't dare settle too fast. The air smelled faintly of old tea and something sadder—like rooms left untouched for too long.

Ranpo didn't say anything at first.

He just walked in.

The living room was as you'd left it: tidy, minimal, practical. The only splash of color came from a half-finished drawing stuck to the fridge—your brother's.

Ranpo's eyes lingered on it.

Then he turned toward your bedroom.

The door was cracked open slightly.

He knocked once, gently. "It's me," he said.

No answer.

He opened the door anyway.

There you were, curled under a blanket, back facing the door. You didn't move. Didn't react.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the rise and fall of your breathing.

"You gave us space," he said quietly, walking into the room. "We gave it back. Thought maybe you'd pull yourself out eventually."

He sat at the foot of your bed without asking. "But you didn't. And I'm not letting you disappear."

Still, you didn't move.

Ranpo leaned forward, voice softer now.

"Everyone misses you, you know. Kenji left you food. Naomi cried so much she ran out of tissues. Even Dazai's been oddly decent."

No reply.

"…And I miss you," he added, almost too fast.

That finally made something shift.

You turned your head, slowly, eyes empty. Not cold—just… lost.

"You should go," you whispered.

"No," Ranpo said simply. "I'm not here for a case. I'm here for you. And if I leave now, you're going to fade, aren't you?"

You didn't answer.

"You haven't eaten properly in days. You only text Kunikida once a day like a ghost on a schedule. You're not living."

You finally spoke, barely a whisper: "I don't deserve to."

Ranpo didn't flinch.

Instead, he leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Your brother wouldn't want this," he said quietly. "You promised to keep him safe. But you also promised to be there for him. That doesn't end just because he's gone."

You closed your eyes.

Ranpo's voice dropped to something gentler than anyone thought he was capable of.

"He loved you. He died loving you. And now all that love's just… sitting here, going nowhere."

A pause.

"You have to do something with it."

He waited a moment longer, then slowly reached out, gently taking your hand in his. You didn't pull away.

"I'm not leaving," he said simply. "Not until you eat. Not until you move. Not until you come back."

You said nothing.

But for the first time in days, your hand tightened ever so slightly around his.

Ranpo smiled, small and sad.

Progress.

The miso soup steamed gently between you, the scent light and familiar. You sat at the kitchen table, hunched slightly forward, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic bowl Ranpo had placed in front of you.

You hadn't spoken since he led you out of bed—gently, with no pressure, just quiet insistence. He didn't try to coax a smile or distract you with some performance. Just handed you a pair of house slippers, helped you to your feet, and guided you wordlessly to the table.

He'd even brought the soup himself, packed neatly in a thermos, carried from a little corner shop near the agency. Said it was good for upset stomachs. Said nothing more.

You took a slow sip.

The silence wasn't awkward. Not with Ranpo. It sat between you like a folded blanket—soft, and strangely comforting.

After a while, he leaned back in his chair, watching you without expectation. Then, after a long pause, he asked gently:

"Have you thought about your next step?"

Your spoon froze mid-air. You didn't look up.

"I don't know," you answered honestly, voice rough from disuse.

He nodded. "Do you want to stay here?"

The question lingered in the room. It felt… heavy. Not because of the words themselves, but because of what they carried.

This place was yours. Yours and your brother's.

His drawings still hung on the fridge. His favorite book still lay on the coffee table. His shoes still by the door.

Every corner breathed with his absence. Every silent second echoed with what used to be.

You stared into the soup for a long time.

"If I stay," you said quietly, "I'll see him everywhere."

Ranpo nodded. "And if you leave?"

"…Then it's like he was never here."

He didn't answer at first. Just let your words hang, then softened his voice.

"There's no right answer. People do both. Some keep everything. Some throw it all away. Some… do a bit of both."

You finally looked at him. He wasn't smiling. Not his usual smug grin, not even a comforting curl of the lips. Just watching you with quiet sincerity.

"I can't decide that for you," he said. "But whatever you choose… I'll be there."

You blinked.

"If you stay," he continued, "I'll stay too. Move in. Temporarily. Or longer. Doesn't matter. I'll be in the next room. You won't be alone."

Your chest tightened.

"And if you want to leave, I'll help find a new place. Something small. Quiet. Maybe near the river. We can bring whatever you want with us. Or nothing at all."

He tilted his head slightly.

"You don't have to figure it out right now. But just… know I'll follow. Wherever you go."

Your fingers tightened around the bowl.

You didn't answer, not yet. The question was too big. Too soon.

But something inside you eased—just a little.

The soup was still warm. Ranpo was still here.

And maybe, that was enough. For now.

Ranpo didn't move in all at once.

He simply started… being there.

At first, he kept his word exactly: not too close, not too far. He slept on your couch the first few nights—not that you'd asked him to, but when you wandered out of your room for water at 2 AM and saw him there under a throw blanket, you didn't wake him. You didn't ask questions.

You were grateful.

You didn't say that either.

He made coffee in the morning, always the way you liked it. Didn't ask if you wanted some—just handed you the mug, already knowing.

He restocked the fridge without asking. Your favorite tea, the kind of soup you could stomach, the brand of rice crackers your brother had loved and you now found impossible to throw out. He fixed the loose window latch in your bedroom when it got cold. He did the laundry when the hamper was overflowing. Folded it neatly and left it in the hallway.

When you forgot to take your phone charger to the living room—he brought it. When your head ached, he left a glass of water and painkillers beside you before you could say a word.

Ranpo was... a constant.

Never demanding. Never in the way. Never pushing for words you didn't have.

And yet always there.

He never tried to "cheer you up." He never told you it would get better. He never told you to move on or to let go. He understood—without needing to say it—that some things weren't meant to be healed, only carried.

And so he carried part of it with you.

He filled the silence with presence. Not noise.

On nights you couldn't sleep, you'd find him sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, flipping through one of your brother's old manga volumes. He never said he missed him too—but he didn't need to. You knew. The way he touched the page edges gently, like something sacred. The way he didn't speak when you sat beside him on the floor, close enough to feel his warmth.

You'd forgotten what it was like to feel safe. To feel that someone could be relied on, fully, without condition.

But Ranpo—Ranpo didn't falter. Not once.

He was everything you needed. Even when you didn't know what that was.

And though you never said thank you—he never expected you to.

Still, you caught him watching you sometimes. Quietly. Carefully. Not analyzing. Just… watching.

As if trying to solve a mystery he didn't want to rush.

As if learning you all over again, one breath at a time.

You'd been sitting on the edge of your bed for twenty minutes, hair half-brushed, dressed in a clean hoodie for the first time in days, trying to talk yourself into walking outside.

The thought of returning to the ADA felt like standing at the edge of a high place. Not because you didn't want to go back. But because you weren't sure how to take that first step without falling apart in front of everyone.

You could already imagine it—how their eyes would follow you the moment you walked in. Full of sympathy. Of sadness. Of quiet apologies no one would dare speak aloud. You didn't want that. Couldn't take that. Not yet.

Ranpo, of course, knew.

He didn't say anything about it. Didn't ask if you were okay, or if you were going to go in on Monday. He simply waited until Saturday morning, then made you tea like always. The moment you settled down at the table, he glanced at the clock.

"Any minute now," he said.

You looked at him, puzzled. "What?"

And then, as if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

Before you could move, Ranpo was already on his feet, unlocking it.

"Good morning!!" came a voice brighter than the sun.

Kenji.

He practically bounded into the apartment, a paper bag in each arm, beaming with joy so big it nearly cracked your chest open.

"Ranpo-san said I could come if I brought enough food," he announced proudly, as he set down a mountain of bakery bags onto the table. "So I bought everything!"

There were croissants, melon bread, jam rolls, curry buns, cream puffs, matcha cookies, apple turnovers—you weren't sure the bakery had anything left.

Kenji turned to you, still smiling but softer now, his voice lowering just a little. "I missed you... a lot."

For a moment, you couldn't speak. Couldn't even look away from his face—so open, so unguarded, not heavy with pity but full of genuine happiness just to see you again.

"…I missed you too," you said. Your voice cracked just slightly. You hoped no one noticed.

Kenji did, but he said nothing. Just plopped down across from you, already pulling out pastries and arranging them neatly in the center of the table.

"I didn't know what you'd want," he said, handing you a paper napkin and a little cinnamon roll. "So I got all the best ones. You can eat whatever you want—or none of it! That's fine too."

You took the cinnamon roll.

You didn't eat all of it, but you took a few bites. That was enough for Kenji to light up like someone had turned the sun on in your tiny kitchen.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn't feel entirely empty.

Ranpo didn't say much either—he just sat nearby, sipping his tea, watching over both of you with a faint, knowing smile.

Because he understood.

Sometimes, healing didn't start with the big things. Sometimes, it began with warm bread, a full table, and someone who missed you so much, they raided a bakery just to see you smile again.

The next evening Ranpo mentioned, rather casually over a shared cup of tea, that he'd be out for a few hours.

"Case," he said, sliding on his coat. "Kunikida begged me." (You knew that meant Ranpo offered, and Kunikida had just been too tired to refuse.)

You only nodded. You'd grown used to his comings and goings. He always came back, anyway.

What he didn't mention—deliberately—was that he'd also invited a few people over. People you hadn't seen in weeks.

There was a knock at the door twenty minutes after he left.

You blinked. Then stood up slowly and opened it.

"Surprise!" came Naomi's cheery voice, arms full of snacks and DVDs.

Yosano stood just behind her, elegant and cool as ever, holding a small bottle of plum wine and a tired smile. "Ranpo called. Hope you don't mind a girls' night," she said. "We brought provisions."

Kyoka was the last to enter, quiet and composed, her eyes softer than usual. She didn't carry anything but herself, which somehow felt like enough.

You stepped aside, uncertain but not protesting, and they entered your apartment like they'd done it a dozen times before. No fanfare. No awkward tension.

Naomi flopped down on your couch and kicked off her shoes, already pulling out a DVD box. "We're watching Sailor Moon. And you're not allowed to say no."

Yosano was in the kitchen, helping herself to your tea set. "I'm making honey citrus tea, and yes, you're having some," she called. "Plum wine's only if you want it."

Kyoka sat beside you gently, not close enough to overwhelm, but near enough to say: I'm here. If you need me.

You let them.

You let Naomi chatter away about the animation quality and her favorite senshi. You let Yosano pour you a warm drink and sit down like she belonged there. You let Kyoka quietly hand you a blanket when the evening air grew colder.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence didn't press down like a weight. It simply existed.

Warm. Present. Accepting.

You even smiled once. Just barely. But Naomi saw it and beamed like she'd won something. "See?" she whispered to Kyoka, grinning. "Told you."

You didn't cry. Didn't break down. But you felt something loosen inside your chest—a thread of comfort you hadn't known you were missing.

And later that night, after they all left with promises to come again, you sat at the table by yourself for a moment. Letting it all settle.

The thought of returning to the ADA… didn't feel quite as impossible anymore.

Because little by little, piece by piece, the people who made up your second family were coming to you—not asking you to be okay, not demanding you return—

Just reminding you that you weren't alone.

Monday morning came like a slow exhale. The streets of Yokohama bustled with life, and the world kept turning, indifferent to the holes grief carved out of you.

You stood outside the ADA office doors for a long minute. Not frozen, not trembling—just… still.

Ranpo stood beside you without a word. His hat was pulled low, and he had his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He didn't say anything to hurry you. Didn't joke or smile.

He just waited.

The building looked the same. Same glass windows. Same hum of old electric lights. Same crooked sign above the door. But to you, it was different.

You hadn't walked through those doors since the day your world ended.

You let out a quiet breath. And then another. Ranpo didn't move, but you felt him with you. Steady. Solid.

Then, finally, you stepped forward and opened the door.

The sound of it creaking open seemed deafening in the stillness of the morning.

The office was warm inside. Sunlight filtered through the blinds. The smell of coffee lingered in the air. Paper rustled. Someone coughed. It was—normal.

Until everyone looked up.

It was subtle at first. A pen paused mid-stroke. A keyboard stopped clacking. Even Dazai, lounging on a couch, lifted his head with surprising gentleness.

The entire agency fell silent.

You stood in the doorway, shoulders square but eyes unreadable. Ranpo followed a step behind, his presence calm, anchoring.

"Good morning," you said. Your voice was quiet. Not hesitant—just… even.

Kunikida was the first to stand. "Welcome back," he said, his voice low, careful. But steady.

Then came Kenji, already bounding across the room with a grin, but slowing to a walk at the last second, respecting the quiet weight in the air. "I'm so glad you're here," he said simply, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Naomi waved from her desk, beaming through misty eyes.

Atsushi looked like he didn't know whether to cry or smile. So he did both.

Kyoka nodded, her expression unreadable, but her eyes warm. She didn't need to say anything.

Even Dazai straightened up, looking at you with something like respect. No jokes. No teasing.

Just understanding.

You gave a small nod in return and slowly made your way to your desk—your old desk, still exactly as you'd left it. A few papers had been tidied. A small note from Kenji sat on top, scribbled in crayon. "Your chair missed you! (Me too.)"

You sat down.

Ranpo pulled out the chair beside yours and dropped into it with a sigh, tossing a wrapped candy onto your desk. "Welcome home," he said, simple as anything.

Your fingers brushed the smooth edge of the desk—your desk—and for a moment, it felt both painfully familiar and impossibly distant. The office was quiet, gentle in its rhythm. No one stared. No one spoke louder than they had to. Life had moved forward, but not without leaving space for what had been lost.

Then your eyes drifted upward—past the shelves, past the softly humming lights—to the corner of the room where a sun-faded drawing still hung.

It was a little crinkled around the edges, the tape slightly peeling, but it was still there.

Your brother's picture.

All of them—Atsushi, Kenji, Junichiro, Naomi, Kyoka, Yosano, Dazai, Kunikida, Ranpo, even Fukuzawa—drawn in crooked, smiling lines, labeled in wobbly handwriting. And you, at your desk, coffee in hand, a little heart hovering above your head. In the center, as always, was him. Bright eyes. Big grin. Like he belonged here. Because he had.

You didn't cry. You didn't collapse.

But something cracked open gently inside you. Not in pain—but in warmth.

For the first time since the funeral, your chest didn't feel quite so hollow.

He was still here with you. Still in the picture. With all of you.

Ranpo leaned his shoulder against yours, quiet in a way only he knew how to be. He didn't say anything else, didn't need to.

You let yourself breathe again.

You were home.

The new flat smelled faintly of fresh paint and the faintest trace of lemon cleaner. The windows were wide, sunlight pouring in from every angle, touching each wall with warmth you hadn't quite grown used to yet. Cardboard boxes still sat in corners, half-unpacked, a sign that life was still in motion—even now, even after everything.

It had taken nearly a year to get to this point. A year since everything had changed. Since you'd lost him. Since your world had quietly, devastatingly cracked in half.

A year in which you had learned how to live again.

The fridge was already covered with drawings. Crayon lines forming stars and stick figures and messy attempts at animals. You had carefully placed each one there, smoothing the edges with care. He had drawn them all in moments of joy, of boredom, of childhood—simple, beautiful snapshots of the boy you'd loved more than anything.

You stood there for a moment, hand brushing over one of the pages. Your chest ached. The kind of ache that had settled in and made a home beside your heartbeat, quiet but constant. It didn't flare so violently anymore. It didn't crush your lungs like it had.

But it never left. Not fully. And you didn't expect it to.

On the walls of the living room were framed photos—one of you and your brother with ridiculous hats on at a festival. One of him asleep on your shoulder during a slow afternoon at the ADA office. One of your team all crowded into the frame at a year-end party, laughing like nothing bad could ever happen to any of you.

Each picture was a weight. But it was a weight you had to carry.

And through it all, you kept moving.

Not because you didn't feel like breaking. Some days, you did. But because, somehow, you learned how to breathe through it. How to get out of bed even on the days you didn't want to. How to ask for help when the silence felt too loud. How to let the people who cared about you stay.

Ranpo had helped more than you could ever put into words. He didn't push. He didn't prod. He just… stayed. With gentle persistence, in his own curious, compassionate way, he had given you space without ever leaving your side.

Now, he sat beside you on the couch in the new living room, your first night truly living there together. The lights were dim. The boxes were forgotten for now.

Your legs were curled beneath you, your body tucked into his side like it had always belonged there—because by now, it did. There was no hesitation in the way you leaned into him, no line between comfort and closeness anymore. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, holding you not like a friend would, but like someone who had chosen you—again and again, every day since.

His fingers traced soft, slow circles into the fabric of your sleeve, grounding you with each small movement. The television was off, the lights dimmed, and the city outside murmured through the windows—faint, distant, almost unreal.

"You okay?" he asked, voice quiet, brushing gently against the stillness that had settled over the room.

You hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah," you said. It wasn't entirely a lie. Just... not the whole truth. "It still hurts."

"I know," he said, no push, no pressure—just him.

You tilted your head, resting it against his shoulder, and felt his cheek come to rest on your hair like he'd done it a hundred times before. "I think it always will."

He kissed the crown of your head—light, familiar, and steady. "Yeah," he murmured, "but you're not alone. You'll never be."

And somehow, that was enough. Not to erase the pain, but to make the weight bearable. You closed your eyes, the silence stretching comfortably between you—filled only with the sound of your breathing and his, two rhythms moving together in quiet defiance of the ache.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were going to be okay.

Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.

Because the promise you made—to always protect your brother, to keep going for him—wasn't broken.

It had simply changed.

And with Ranpo by your side, with your family at the ADA, with your memories framed on the wall—you'd carry it forward.

Always.

Masterlist

#ranpo edogawa #ranpo #bungo stray dogs ranpo #bsd ranpo #bungo stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs fanfiction #bsd fanfic #ranpo edogawa x reader #ranpo x reader #ranpo edogawa angst #ranpo angst #ranpo edogawa fluff #ranpo fluff #grief #dealing with grief #dealing with loss

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