Title: Killing People is Kinda Scientific, Right?
"Eitan-sensei, this is the contract our publishing house has carefully prepared for you. Please take a look."
A neatly stacked document was handed over with both hands.
Eitan reached for it, his well-defined fingers pressing down gently on one side of the paper. He skimmed it briefly before handing it naturally to the woman beside him.
Eri Kisaki was an efficient woman.
With a poised elegance, she took the contract without saying a word and began reviewing it thoroughly.
Across from them, Asamiya Nanase—the editor from the publishing house—waited quietly, a calm smile on her lips. She seemed confident in the terms they were offering.
Eri, having read through the document, gave a small nod.
"The terms are surprisingly generous," she remarked, a hint of surprise in her tone. "It's rare to see such a clean contract these days."
Her gaze lifted to meet Asamiya's. "This isn't something you'd give to just any popular novelist. Only someone with a proven bestseller track record would typically receive terms like these."
"Our publishing house believes strongly in Eitan-sensei's potential," Asamiya replied smoothly. "And this contract was the result of careful discussion between our editor-in-chief and the president. They were both very impressed by his previous work."
Asamiya gave a subtle, knowing smile.
Of course, that part was a lie.
Though he didn't fully understand the reason, Eitan had no choice but to accept the favor. He set down his coffee cup and smiled politely.
"It's my honor."
Asamiya blinked, caught off guard for a moment.
The young man in front of her was simply too striking.
His black hair shimmered softly under the café lights, his features exuding an elegant refinement. His faint smile and clear voice carried a calm aura that seemed to put everyone at ease.
Anyone meeting him for the first time would no doubt think him a gentle and composed young man.
"Ahem… So, Eitan-sensei, are you satisfied with the contract? Or is there anything you'd like me to relay on your behalf?"
"No, this is fine. I'm already very satisfied."
"Then… shall we proceed?"
"Please give me a pen."
"Right away."
Asamiya quickly passed over a fountain pen with both hands.
Under her guidance and with Eri watching closely, Eitan signed his name—formally entrusting the rights of his new work to the publishing house.
Asamiya stood up right after, ready to report back with the completed contract.
Only Eitan and Eri remained at the booth.
"Congratulations, Eitan," Eri said warmly, her mature features softening into a smile. "You landed a very good contract."
"Yes… and I'm sorry for troubling you to come with me today."
"For something this important, of course I had to make time," Eri replied as she checked the time on her wristwatch. "I always feel better seeing things through in person."
She picked up her bag and stood. "But I should head to the office now. If you need anything, call me later, alright?"
"Got it. Will you be working late again today?"
"I will. There's a case going to trial soon, but I shouldn't be out too late."
"Understood. Drive safe."
"Ah, see you later."
Eri gave a brief wave before heading out.
Eitan watched as she got into her Mini Cooper and drove off. He didn't linger much longer. After standing on the sidewalk for a moment, he raised his hand to hail a taxi.
"Please take me to Mihua Second Apartment."
"Understood."
Clack.
The door shut, and the cab took off toward its destination.
Though March marked the beginning of spring, the breeze still carried a slight chill.
Inside the moving taxi, the radio played a new single by pop idol Yoko Okino.
Outside the window, the city slid past—vivid and alive.
Middle-aged pedestrians hurried along the commercial streets. Young couples strolled close together, whispering to each other. Horns blared the moment the lights changed.
Everything was real.
A world with weight, heat, and time.
Eitan had transmigrated into this world more than a year ago. By now, he had adapted completely.
After all, there were no signs this was a fictional setting.
Life here was tangible—flesh, breath, and pulse.
He knew that when someone's arteries were severed, what spurted wasn't ink. He knew that running endlessly in one direction wouldn't lead him into a painted backdrop.
Everything was just too vivid, too grounded.
There was no room for doubt.
His real name was Eitan Lin.
Before inexplicably arriving in this world—both familiar and strange—he had lived a relatively smooth, successful life for over twenty years.
And yes, he had watched Detective Conan.
But ever since the day he suddenly appeared here, not only did he possess a legitimate identity and household registration, but his familiar body and mind had inherited certain memories and social connections as if they'd always belonged to him.
"Guest, are you perhaps in a hurry?"
The taxi driver, calmly navigating the streets, occasionally glanced at him through the rearview mirror. He had noticed that Eitan kept checking his watch.
"No, I'm not in a rush," Eitan replied. "But could you please switch to the news radio?"
"Alright."
The driver obliged without hesitation.
The time was 2:18 PM.
The radio broadcast had switched to a replay of earlier news segments. Eitan, meanwhile, subtly monitored his watch, keeping track of the seconds. When the clock reached precisely 2:21:30 PM—
"According to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department in Beika, criminal suspect Nishikawa Shigehiko suffered a sudden heart attack during an arrest operation at 8 PM on March 16th and died en route to the hospital.
"According to Inspector Megure, Nishikawa Shigehiko had committed multiple violent crimes, including robbery, coercion, and illegal debt collection with high interest…"
The female announcer's voice was crisp and steady, but to Eitan, it grew distant—like a recording playing underwater.
He quietly compared every detail of the report against his memory. Slowly, a smile curved on his lips.
"Not a single error."
He silently celebrated.
"A scumbag like that dying... that's satisfying."
The middle-aged driver clearly had his own moral compass. Though his tone was casual, the satisfaction in his voice was genuine.
Eitan shared the sentiment, the same light smile still on his face.
"Yes."
---
Mihua Second Apartment
A high-end single-person unit located near the heart of Beika City.
After stepping inside, Eitan changed into his indoor slippers, poured himself a glass of water, and made his way to the bedroom.
On the desk sat a bulky, outdated computer monitor.
Product design in Detective Conan was always fascinating—though the timeline in the series remained mostly ambiguous, real-world technology and architecture had always progressed in sync with reality. Since its serialization in 1994, even if only a few months had passed in the plot, electronic products and cityscapes continued evolving.
Perhaps in the near future, this outdated monitor would be replaced.
But that wasn't the focus today.
Eitan pulled open the computer desk drawer, lifted the wooden board acting as a false bottom, and retrieved a jet-black notebook hidden beneath it.
"DEATH NOTE"
Those two words were scrawled in pale, crooked English letters across the dark cover—
The handwriting of a Shinigami.
Translated directly: Death Note—a person whose name is written in the notebook will die.
A tool pulled straight from another high-intelligence detective manga.
Eitan didn't know how it ended up in his possession.
When he transmigrated, it was simply... already there, in his hands.
And after a series of careful experiments, one thing was certain: it was real.
—As long as the user clearly visualized the person's face in their mind and wrote their true name in the notebook, the target would die of a heart attack exactly forty seconds later.
Once a name was written, even if it was erased or altered within those forty seconds, the result remained unchanged.
The person would die.
No exceptions.
However, beyond simple heart attacks, the notebook allowed the user to specify both the cause of death and the exact time.
Illness, car accidents, gunshots—so long as the death was physically plausible, it would happen.
The condition was that the time of death must occur within 23 days of writing the name.
"As long as it's physically possible, the Death Note can even control the target's actions prior to death."
For instance, if someone was set to die from a heart attack in an hour, their behavior during that final hour could be fully scripted using the notebook.
But the keyword here was "physically possible."
You couldn't, for example, make a man currently in Tokyo die in New York an hour later.
Geographic teleportation simply wasn't possible.
So even if you wrote that scenario, the notebook would default to a standard heart attack—right there in Tokyo, right on time.
"Nishikawa Shigehiko's death announcement aired on the news this afternoon... just as I wrote it."
"To be able to achieve this degree of control... things will be much easier going forward."
Eitan slowly opened the Death Note.
Despite its thin appearance, the notebook never ran out of pages.
He flipped to the most recent entry, where his neat handwriting spelled:
Nishikawa Shigehiko
March 16th, 8:23:47 PM — Died of a heart attack while fleeing during a police arrest operation.
He stared at the ink for a few seconds, then quietly closed the cover.