A Call Across The Quiet Afternoon

It was a beautiful afternoon—

or rather, an ordinary one. The kind of afternoon where nothing of note happened at the Armed Detective Agency, where time stretched lazily and the air itself seemed to drift.

Ranpo was bored.

As usual, he pretended to do his paperwork, a stack of forms lying untouched before him while he leaned dangerously far back in his chair, limbs loose and boneless, like a discarded rag doll. Sunlight slipped through the wavering curtains, warm and unhurried, painting the room in soft gold as the afternoon breeze stirred the air.

Everything was quiet. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

Then the moment shattered.

A phone rang.

Ranpo’s rest was interrupted, the sound cutting sharply through the calm. He frowned, straightening just enough to glance at the screen.

Who could possibly be calling now?

The answer appeared a second later.

Edgar Allan Poe—calling from all the way in America.