A single spark stirred up a storm.
Satou Miwako, the police flower of the First Investigation Division — a goddess admired by countless male officers — had committed the unthinkable. She had shot and killed a criminal who had already surrendered.
The news exploded like a bomb. This wasn't some small mistake; it was a scandal that shook public trust in law enforcement. People began to question whether the police were abusing their authority. The police were supposed to protect lives — even those of criminals. Once a suspect had dropped their weapon and given up, pulling the trigger was forbidden.
It was written clearly in the police manual: an officer must never fire on a suspect who has ceased resistance. Never.
As soon as Satou's act was exposed, the public erupted. If police could kill criminals at will, who would they protect next? What if next time, it was an innocent citizen?
Public opinion turned entirely against her. And though it was harsh, it wasn't baseless — the people had their own perspective, their own fears.
But they weren't Liu A'dou.
Liu A'dou could cast aside the narrow vision of ordinary people, peel back the surface, and see the essence beneath. He had both the strength and the insight to stand beyond the law if he needed to. And from that vantage point, he understood that Satou wasn't a villain — she was a woman with the potential to become a true hero cop.
Human society, though, was far from ideal. For common people, law was protection. For the privileged, it was a cage.
In truth, the law stood like a wall cutting through humanity. Some lived under the law, some above it, and most simply ran parallel to it.
There were those who preached abolishing all law and morality — claiming that the "genius class" should be unchained, that humanity's brightest minds could then lead the species to greatness. In their view, law and morality were shackles that restrained progress. Free the gifted, and the taboos buried by society would become breakthroughs — humanity's next step in evolution.
Others argued the opposite: that true order could only come when everyone was equal before the law. Every action, every choice would be regulated, ensuring perfect stability. Humanity would become mechanical, predictable, safe — thriving forever under rigid rules.
Both views were extremes.
Without law or morality, people would sink into chaos. Freedom would rot into indulgence; progress would give way to destruction. Geniuses were rare, but cruelty was abundant.
And total control, on the other hand, was no better. It would strip humanity of the very freedom law was meant to protect. The true purpose of law was not to abolish or limit freedom — but to preserve and expand it.
That was why the heroic ideal stood between those extremes. Heroes could transcend the law, not to dominate, but to safeguard humanity's freedom. Yet that power demanded restraint — bound not by written law, but by moral strength and a deep sense of responsibility.
Liu A'dou was such a hero. And in his eyes, Satou could be one too — if only she had a little guidance.
But reality had no patience for ideals.
The atmosphere in the First Investigation Division grew heavy. Satou had been taken into custody. The internal investigation had begun. Interrogations would follow — cold, precise, merciless.
And all of this, everyone knew, started because of Takagi.
If he hadn't said anything, if he hadn't pushed her to confess, Satou never would've overturned her original statement. The looks the other officers gave him now were filled with blame — sharp, burning, unforgiving.
But procedure was procedure. The questioning had to continue.
Inspector Megure himself came to the interrogation room, along with Shiratori and Takagi.
The air was suffocating. They had interrogated many suspects in this room — thieves, killers, liars — but never imagined they'd one day interrogate one of their own.
For the officers, this was torture.
Satou looked pale and exhausted, but strangely calm. At least now, she no longer had to hide. The days of sleepless nights and gnawing guilt were over. That constant fear, that sense of being hollow — it had drained her.
"Officer Satou," Megure said automatically, out of habit.
"Inspector Megure," Satou replied softly. "I'm not an officer anymore. Please… don't call me that."
Her tone was bitter, resigned. She had turned herself in, but that didn't mean she wasn't afraid of what would come next.
Megure sighed. "You were one of my best subordinates. I even thought you might become the next Inspector, after Shiratori. Why did you have to throw it all away?"
Satou gave a faint, broken smile.
"At that moment… I don't know what came over me," she said quietly. "Maybe it was the devil of impulse taking control."
"Was it because of Matsuda?"
It was Takagi who finally broke the silence. He couldn't hold it in any longer. The jealousy burning in his chest had reached its limit. Satou… she had done all this for a man who'd been dead for three years. The thought tore him apart. How could Matsuda still matter that much to her?
Satou only whispered, "I'm sorry."
She didn't even know who that apology was for — Takagi, Matsuda, or herself.
But Takagi knew. Satou had pulled the trigger for Matsuda.
Silence filled the room. Inspector Megure frowned, the weight of the moment heavy on his shoulders. Matsuda had once been his subordinate too, and Megure had mourned him deeply. But even so, he would never have let grief drive him to this kind of mistake.
"Satou, you shouldn't have done that," Megure said, his voice low but firm. "You already had the bomber in custody. There was no need to fire. The court would have punished him."
Satou gave a small, broken smile. What was the point of saying that now? It was over.
"Inspector Megure," she said softly, "please, just take my statement. At least then I can clear Kaitou Kid's name."
"Huh?" The three men in the room — Megure, Shiratori, and Takagi — all froze.
"Even if Kid didn't kill the bomber," Megure said, frowning, "the gunshot wound you took… that was from him, wasn't it?"
"No, it wasn't," Satou said, shaking her head. There was no point in hiding anything anymore. "When Conan picked up the revolver, it accidentally went off. He was trying to act brave and catch Kid, but the gun fired by mistake. I threw myself in front of the shot to protect Kid. In return, he took the blame for everything."
The room fell silent again.
"…I didn't expect Kaitou Kid to have such a strong sense of honor," Shiratori murmured. "But why did Conan lie about it?"
"Because he wanted to protect me, too," Satou said.
The statement made perfect sense. It explained everything — the order of the shell casings in the revolver, why the shot that killed the bomber came before the one that wounded Satou.
No one had imagined this would be the truth. Megure had been so determined to arrest Kaitou Kid, and yet the thief had never even touched the gun. He'd taken the fall out of gratitude, not guilt.
If only they hadn't known.
If only this truth had stayed buried.
Now it was too late. Satou's crime was undeniable. What awaited her was judgment — cold, merciless, final.
The prosecutor's office would never let this go. Satou's case had already sparked outrage. The Tokyo Metropolitan Police's reputation had collapsed overnight. The public demanded accountability, and even the Police Superintendent-General was under pressure to resign.
The backlash was brutal. Her sentence would be, too — not because she shot an unarmed criminal, but because she told the truth.
In Japan, making a mistake wasn't the worst sin. As long as you kept it hidden and didn't implicate your superiors, most would turn a blind eye. But if your mistake dragged the higher-ups down with you — your fate was sealed.
Satou was doomed. Everyone in the First Investigation Division knew it. Once a scandal reached the point where leaders were being forced to step down, there was no way to escape punishment.
"I'll find you a good lawyer," Megure said at last. It was the only thing he could do.
"Thank you, Inspector Megure."
Satou's voice was faint, almost hollow. The bright, confident woman she once was had vanished completely. The sunlight that used to shine from her smile was gone.
Now, she was nothing more than a broken prisoner — lifeless, resigned, awaiting a life behind bars.
And for the first time, Satou Miwako truly accepted her fate. She wouldn't resist. She wouldn't run. There was nothing left to fight for.