Death Note: Starting from Detective Conan

Daikoku Building

From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a typical commercial building—bland, unremarkable.

The bar on the top floor, Cocktail, wasn't well-known. It rarely had customers on weekdays, and sometimes didn't even bother to open.

Haruki arrived almost exactly on time.

Pushing open the door, his first impression was of quiet desolation.

The bar was small. Dim yellow lighting poured from ceiling lamps onto a cypress wood counter and a liquor cabinet that stretched the entire back wall. Behind the counter, the bartender calmly polished glass after glass, their surfaces glinting under the low light.

Two men sat at the bar, both clad in black.

One was tall and broad-shouldered—Vodka, unmistakably a bodyguard-type. The other was slimmer, lounging slightly forward, a cigarette burning between his fingers—Gin.

"He's here, Aniki," Vodka muttered, catching sight of Haruki.

Gin looked over. His face, half-shrouded by the brim of his hat and long bangs, was cold and unreadable. His dark green eyes—unnaturally narrow—carried no warmth.

"Good evening, Mr. Gin. Mr. Vodka."

Haruki's tone was calm, composed. Almost eerily so.

He offered a polite smile. "I assume you summoned me for something specific?"

He looked different than he had during the day. Now, a pair of silver-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. The smile on his lips was the same as always—but behind the glasses, his slightly narrowed eyes stretched into slits, gentle yet vaguely threatening.

Vodka scoffed. He never liked this kind of refined scoundrel.

Gin, however, curled his lips into a sharp grin. His gaze was intense—his pupils unnaturally small, giving him the look of a predator moments before the strike.

"I have a job for you," he said.

"What kind of job?"

Gin didn't answer directly. Instead, Vodka reached over and handed Haruki an envelope.

Haruki took it without a word and slid onto a bar stool, his movements deliberate, unhurried.

The bartender glanced over. "What'll you have?"

"The same as them."

"Understood."

Without another word, the bartender began mixing.

Haruki opened the envelope.

The first thing inside was a photo of a man in his thirties—handsome, with sharp features, a black turtleneck under a light blue jacket. Below the photo was a name and a short dossier.

Toji Ayase.

Haruki took a moment to memorize both face and name. As he did, Gin's voice cut in:

"Tomorrow night. Eleven sharp. Second alley west of Beika Aquarium. Kill him."

"Exactly 11:00 PM?" Haruki asked, his tone almost casual. "Are you certain he'll be there?"

"Absolutely," Vodka replied with a sneer. "He thinks it's just another regular meeting. He won't see it coming."

"So… he's a traitor?"

Gin's eyes flashed. "Just a rat sniffing around places he shouldn't. If he were a real traitor, I'd handle him myself."

Classic Gin.

A one-man execution squad for the Organization's dirty work. If someone was a traitor—or even useless—he wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger. That brutal efficiency was part of what made him so respected. Or feared.

A silence fell over the bar, broken only by the quiet sound of mixing drinks.

"Gypsy, here."

The bartender set a clear amber cocktail in front of Haruki.

He lifted the glass, took a sip, then returned it to the bar.

Gypsy—vodka-based, blended with French Bénédictine and a touch of bitters. A hint of sweetness, a trace of herbs… but mostly, it was strong. Purposefully strong.

The bartender, unphased, prepared another.

"Orange Blossom, sir."

This one was vibrant—orange-red in a classic stemmed glass.

Haruki tried it too.

Smoother. Brighter. The gin base blended with Cointreau and citrus juices. A hint of grenadine gave it color and subtle sweetness, masking the alcohol's strength behind a fruity veil.

Vodka and Gin.

Two drinks. Two killers.

And now, a third player seated beside them—quiet, calculating, and holding a Death Note.

Both of them had ordered cocktails that shared their codenames.

Fitting.

Interestingly, Gin and Vodka—the drinks—are closely related. Both are distilled spirits born from similar processes, but Gin is infused with juniper berries, citrus peels, and herbs for character, while Vodka is stripped down—pure ethanol, diluted with water.

No complexity. Just raw strength.

…No wonder Gin always brings Vodka along. A blunt instrument to complement his own sharper edges.

Haruki slowly finished the Orange Blossom, savoring the citrus warmth.

Then, with fluid motion, he slipped the target dossier back into the envelope, tucked it under his coat, and rose from his seat.

"If there's nothing else," he said with a polite smile, "I'll take my leave."

Neither Gin nor Vodka responded.

Haruki didn't linger. He turned and walked out of Cocktail bar, the door closing behind him with a quiet thud.

Outside, the streets were still alive despite the late hour.

9:30 PM in Beika—pedestrians moved in clusters under buzzing signs, the air thick with neon and city noise.

Haruki moved smoothly past a man with a vaguely thuggish face, barely glancing his way, then raised a hand and hailed a passing taxi.

He stepped inside, gave the driver an address, and then calmly reached into his pocket.

A slip of paper.

Ordinary-looking… unless you knew its origin.

It had been torn from the Death Note.

When he'd first transmigrated into this world, Haruki hadn't expected to be thrown straight into the darkness.

A member of the Black Organization. But not even one with a codename.

Just another tool in the shadows.

The anime portrayal of Gin—as a theatrical, overworked executioner—almost made him seem like a punchline by the later episodes. But Haruki had no illusions.

The real Gin was terrifying. A predator.

So he prepared accordingly.

The Death Note didn't just kill. If used well, it could script reality itself.

And so—

Inoue Murao On March 18th at 9:00 PM, he wandered around the Daikoku Building in Beika City. He stayed in the vicinity until he saw a young man in a black coat and silver-rimmed glasses calmly hail a taxi and leave. Afterward, he loitered for another 48 minutes before leaving the scene. He continued living normally until April 10th, 3:46 AM, when he died by suicide via hanging.

The cause of death? Irrelevant.

What mattered was that he would witness Haruki leaving the building.

A planted witness. A timed alibi. Crafted in ink and death.

Haruki folded the note fragment carefully and slipped it back into his pocket.

"…"

The cab rolled smoothly toward Mihua Second Apartment.

Suddenly, Haruki's expression shifted ever so slightly. His gaze flicked upward—toward the rearview mirror.

Eyes narrowing behind silver frames, he began observing the cars trailing behind.

Every light, every lane change.

Was someone following him?

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