Chapter Fourteen: Why Bother with a Bicycle?

“Disguise?” Gin cast a glance at Moriarty and scoffed, “Changing your face all flashy like that, like that sky-flying white-clad clown.”

“That’s part of the ritual.” Moriarty, having reverted to his original appearance, relaxed considerably and leaned back on the sofa. “It’s a self-suggestion procedure, both a switch and a boundary. Without it, the lines between different personas would blur, and they’d all blend together.”

Moriarty’s disguise was essentially a manipulation of the soul. Without clearly defining the boundary between the disguise and his true self, the purified core of his soul would be tainted by the remnants of the old professor’s influence. Although the danger wasn’t great because it was the same person, the disguise would become unusable, and his body would be affected to some degree—it would be troublesome to separate them again.

“Sounds all mystical,” Gin said with little interest and didn’t press further.

“By the way, who’s that ‘sky-flying white-clad clown’?” Moriarty’s curiosity was piqued.

“A thief,” Gin replied disdainfully. “Look it up online if you want to know.”

With that, he lost interest and lowered his gaze to sip his drink.

But Moriarty wasn’t really seeking that information; he was trying to lure Gin into talking more, hoping to glean useful details from his words.

“Gin, Vodka… are all the organization’s codenames based on alcoholic drinks?” Moriarty raised an eyebrow. “If I join, will I get one too?”

“Core members do,” Gin answered curtly, unwilling to discuss it further. He changed the subject instead. “I saw in the news recently they called you a detective?”

“That’s what the news said, not me.” Moriarty rested his hands behind his head and sighed, sinking deeper into the sofa. “Does solving cases make you a detective?”

“I just happened to encounter that high schooler ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ I’m a bit interested,” he added with a hint of boredom. “But I haven’t heard from him or seen him around lately.”

“Interested?” Gin asked casually but kept a wary eye.

“Just wanted to see if he truly deserves the name ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”

Moriarty looked at Gin, who was drinking alone, and frowned. “Why are you the only one drinking?”

Gin didn’t answer, simply giving him a look that said, “Mind your own business.”

Moriarty let it go and resumed the previous topic. “I have to say, he’s somewhat skilled, but not quite Holmes. Maybe half.”

“He’s dead.” Gin set down his glass.

“Huh—” Moriarty shook his head. “Then zero.”

Gin was speechless. Was this really the same man who had been a formidable, decisive figure before?

However, seeing that Moriarty wasn’t overly concerned about Shinichi Kudo, Gin eased a little of his guard.

Moriarty closed his eyes, seemingly resting.

The organization would inevitably investigate his records, yet none existed. Moriarty thought: no country on earth ever had a record of him; even his original identity, “James Moriarty,” was a fictional character.

He had pondered what to do if someone probed into his identity.

After much thought, he decided not to think about it anymore.

How to respond? There’s no way to respond! Not even Sherlock Holmes could handle this!

Drifting alone into a parallel world—another era—with no social ties or past, forging an identity was nearly impossible.

He could fabricate a flawless background for ordinary people, but against an international crime syndicate, a single slip could expose him.

Given that, he decided to let things be. His European appearance meant any investigation would focus on Western countries, with his assumed nationality being French.

Though no records existed in Europe, given his displayed abilities, he clearly wasn’t an ordinary person. So even if investigators found no information, his mysterious nature might lead them to believe the government was keeping his files hidden.

As for the organization’s suspicions? Such groups never trust a stranger with exceptional skills and an unknown past. Use them if useful; dispose of them if not—that was how he’d operated before.

His current capabilities had eased Gin’s suspicions enough to consider recruiting him. If Moriarty endangered the organization’s interests or probed into secrets—or things “not officially secret but that he shouldn’t know”—Gin’s vigilance would instantly spike.

Both men understood this, but since current developments benefited both sides, they tacitly avoided the subject.

Moriarty stood, yawning. Gin cast a subtle glance.

If they were to investigate, accessing records would take time. Moriarty’s eyes fell, thinking, during this period, he needed to find a chance to prove his loyalty.

His disguise was a middle-aged version of himself. Though the night obscured some details, he had altered his appearance and habits slightly. Still, he bore some resemblance. Conan was sharp; he might have to deal with his probing visit tomorrow.

Ugh, so annoying. I want a drink.

Moriarty sat at the bar, leaning forward, and asked the bartender, “May I order a drink?”

The bartender glanced at Gin, who didn’t respond, tacitly allowing it.

Moriarty nodded.

“What’ll you have…? Ah, Cognac.”

Cognac—a grape brandy produced in the French Cognac region.

“Speaking of which… no one’s used that codename before,” Gin suddenly recalled. “If you’re proven trustworthy and pass the organization’s assessment, with your skills, you might get that codename directly.”

“Cognac?” Moriarty glanced at him.

“That’s the French pronunciation,” Gin lit a cigarette. “In Japan, people usually say ‘Koniaku.’”

“You Japanese and your accent…” Moriarty sighed.

“Ah, it’s late—” Gin finished his drink, looked at the clock on the wall, and stretched. “I should head back… I’ve got research to do tomorrow. I’m exhausted…”

“Research?” Gin was puzzled.

“What else? You think I’m bluffing when I say I have some math skills?” Moriarty rubbed his waist and turned to Gin. “Do you guys have bicycles here?”

“?” Gin finally broke his composure, his eyes incredulous.

“?” Moriarty felt slightly offended. “What’s wrong? Don’t you need time to get a driver’s license? I haven’t been in Japan long, and besides, how could I drive after drinking?”

Gin was silent, then turned away. “…Licenses and other certification will be arranged by the organization after assessments.”

With that, he casually summoned a subordinate to drive Moriarty home.

He wondered what kind of person he had really recruited.

Moriarty in battle: cold, efficient, powerful, ruthless, measured, taciturn, tastefully dressed with a matching gun—perfectly fitting Gin’s aesthetic.

Moriarty in daily life: talkative, relaxed, drinks but doesn’t drive, rides a bicycle home.

Are they really the same person?

Of course, Moriarty couldn’t know what Gin was thinking. After bidding the driver goodbye, he returned home and lay back in bed.

Tomorrow, I have to deal with that brat. Tch.

To maintain human cognition and relax his mind, even though Moriarty’s soul had materialized and he was immortal, he still needed to sleep every day.

Under the cloak of night, Moriarty drifted into a deep sleep.