Detective Conan: Becoming a Tycoon in Tokyo! [35]

“Satō, how could you…”

“I’m sorry.” Satō scratched her head awkwardly.

The incident at dinner still weighed on her. She’d felt powerless, unable to stop Shōichi from preying on others—and before she knew it, she’d drunk a full cup of alcohol.

But drinking was drinking. There was no excuse.

Miyamoto Yumi gently rested a hand on her shoulder, wordlessly comforting her friend.

“Still,” Yumi said, frowning, “why would that guy Shōichi report you? He doesn’t exactly follow traffic rules himself.”

“Maybe after you caught him once, he actually reflected and turned over a new leaf,” Satō said dryly.

“Impossible.” Yumi shook her head. “You didn’t see how arrogant he looked back then. No way someone like that would ever repent.”

Satō didn’t answer.

Inwardly, she guessed that her actions earlier must have rubbed Shōichi the wrong way—and that this was his way of warning her.

If she ignored the warning, maybe the next thing waiting for her would also be “suicide.”

But she didn’t want Yumi to worry, so she kept those thoughts to herself.

“Alright, I should get back to the station. I still have to face internal discipline,” Satō said flatly.

“I’ll drive you.”

...

“Administrator, sir, this is a report from below. Please take a look.”

“Leave it on my desk.”

“Yes, sir.”

Matsumoto Kiyonaga picked up the report and frowned after only a glance.

It was a formal complaint against Sumitomo Shōichi—accusing him of murdering innocents at will, of killing repeatedly for profit, and of being protected by someone inside the Metropolitan Police Department, resulting in multiple wrongful deaths.

A grave accusation.

Matsumoto thought for a moment. He knew who Sumitomo Shōichi was, and someone of that background needed to be handled carefully.

But he didn’t recall ever receiving any directive that required special treatment toward him.

And the person who’d submitted this report wasn’t someone who could be brushed aside, either.

So—was Shōichi really killing people so recklessly?

Matsumoto picked up the phone. “This is Matsumoto Kiyonaga. Tell Inspector Megure to come to my office immediately.”

Before long, there was a knock.

“Come in.”

“Administrator Matsumoto, you wanted to see me?”

“Sit.”

Once Megure was seated, Matsumoto asked, “Do you know a man named Sumitomo Shōichi?”

“Ah… yes, a bit.”

Matsumoto gestured for him to continue.

Megure nodded thoughtfully. “Sumitomo Shōichi—young heir of a zaibatsu, recently returned to Japan to start businesses. But his luck seems… suspiciously good. Everyone who’s had business conflicts with him ends up dying in strange ‘accidents.’”

“Because of that, he’s been brought in for questioning several times. But surprisingly, he doesn’t act like a typical arrogant heir—he cooperates fully with investigations. And there’s never been any evidence linking him to murder or hired killers.”

In short, squeaky clean. Just “lucky.”

Matsumoto listened, increasingly skeptical.

Was that really just luck?

Once or twice, maybe—but over and over again? Impossible.

“Investigate him thoroughly,” Matsumoto ordered. “Find out if he’s truly just ‘lucky.’”

His level of luck had become dangerous.

If they didn’t investigate, the department’s reputation could take a serious hit.

“Yes, sir!” Megure stood and saluted.

“Sit down,” Matsumoto said, smiling faintly. “Now, something personal—my daughter’s getting married soon. You must come to the wedding.”

“Sayuri’s getting married? Of course I’ll be there,” Megure said warmly.

...

“We can’t publish your article.”

“Why!?” The young reporter stared at the elderly editor-in-chief, furious and incredulous.

The editor shook his head slowly. “You said it yourself in the article—the man’s ruthless. If you don’t want to be 'suicided', we can’t print it.”

Truly, ignorance makes one fearless.

The power of the Sumitomo zaibatsu was beyond the young man’s imagination.

Publishing a scandal about a direct heir? If he didn’t care about his life, at least the newspaper did.

A visit from certain people was one thing—but what was worse was when they didn’t bother with warnings at all.

Still, the reporter’s blood boiled.

He glanced again at his article, rage rising.

“You think that even if you don’t publish it, the public will stay blind to the zaibatsu’s corruption?” he snapped.

The editor just shook his head. “Even the police say young master Shōichi hasn’t killed anyone. Your piece would be labeled misinformation. We can’t print it.”

Publishing it would achieve nothing.

Did he really think public outrage would make those in power reflect?

They wouldn’t. It wouldn’t touch them in the slightest.

“Hmph! If you won’t publish it, someone else will. Justice always prevails!” the reporter declared. He tore off his press badge, threw it to the floor, and stormed out.

Watching his retreating back, the editor sneered quietly.

Society would teach him soon enough.

Outside the office, the reporter pulled out a folded paper from his pocket.

The Daily Justice—a paper devoted to exposing darkness and revealing the truths other outlets wouldn’t touch, defending the people’s right to know and the ideals of social justice.

That was what real journalism was.

Lately, when no one else dared to report on Shōichi, The Daily Justice had risen to fame precisely because it dared—and it always delivered sensational scoops.

For example, the photo of Mouri Kogoro taking money from Shōichi inside police headquarters—that had been their exclusive.

“Hello,” the young reporter said, stepping up to the counter. “How can I join your newspaper?”

The editor-in-chief looked him over. “We publish dangerous stories. You may be threatened. Can you handle that?”

“I can,” the young man said firmly.

“Our paper values young people,” the editor continued. “They have courage, resolve, and a sense of justice. But older reporters—most of them lose those qualities. They grow slick, cautious, bowing to power, forgetting what a journalist’s backbone should be.”

He paused. “So we have an unspoken rule: all employees must resign voluntarily after turning thirty-five. Can you accept that?”

“Even at thirty-five, I won’t lose the justice in my heart!” the young reporter declared.

The editor-in-chief gave a small, almost pitying smile.

“No one can say what the future holds.”

“Then I accept. I’ll resign at thirty-five—voluntarily.”

---

This is a fan translation of 柯南：我在东京当财阀 by 倒霉的菜狗. Rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!