“You’re in danger right now.”

  Sherlock Holmes whispered, taking a small sip of his red tea, as if offering an opinion on the tea’s temperature that he wasn’t particularly fond of.

  I froze in bed. “Could you... explain a little more specifically? Like, am I in danger of my electricity being cut off because I haven’t paid the bill, or could I be hit by a falling flowerpot tomorrow?”

  He didn’t laugh. He simply looked at me, his gaze like a scanning beam, sweeping from my forehead to the tips of my toes. “I’m not being cryptic, Jason. Think for yourself. Since we came to this thrift store, have you noticed anything unusual?”

  I paused for a few seconds, about to say, “The air conditioner's broken,” but he had already launched into his explanation.

  “First,” he raised one finger, “The items in this store are extremely disorganized, from old record players to cracked thermoses, from yellowed comics to game cartridges, there’s no pattern. At first glance, it seems like a thrift shop, but there’s no proper system of categorization. I’ve checked the shelves—almost every item has the same layer of dust, which means no one’s touched these things for a long time.”

  He raised a second finger. “Secondly, sales records are almost non-existent. I tried looking at the cashier’s records, and the last transaction was three months ago.”

  I felt a little uneasy. “I... I honestly didn’t know any of this.”

  “Do you know the store owner?” he asked.

  I explained how I applied for the job and how I ended up here.

  He nodded, understanding, but his expression remained unchanged. “And here’s the third problem. The store owner has never shown up. You met through the internet? Yet, you’ve never seen them in person, only over the phone. This doesn’t feel like hiring an employee—it feels like setting up a ‘backstory.’”

  “Today, I walked around the area. Do you know how ridiculous the location of this store is? It’s two kilometers from the town center, no bus service, and Google Maps doesn’t even recommend this route. It’s hidden behind a curve. Unless you’re lost, no one would pass by here.”

  He paused, delivering the next point. “And the supermarket you took us to earlier—crowded, accessible, full of advertisements—that’s where a business should be.”

  I interrupted, “But the rent here is cheap...”

  “Cheap enough that no one wants to take over,” he cut me off. “This leads to the fourth problem—why hasn’t this store gone out of business?”

  I was at a loss for words and quietly drank some cold water to calm myself.

  He began pacing the room, like an old processor reading clues. “I went upstairs to check the attic. It’s the only clean and tidy area in the building. In the center of the floor, there’s a visible scratch that’s much newer than the surrounding flooring, which suggests a large box was recently moved. The dust in the corner is freshly accumulated, so whatever was here was likely moved within the past three days.”

  My head buzzed. “You mean, someone used this place... to store things?”

  He turned to face me, nodding. “Store them, then transport them. And the cover for this thrift store is perfect.”

  I whispered, “What do you suspect it is?”

  He smiled faintly, as if waiting for the answer to come from me, “The attic isn’t big enough to hide firearms, and explosives are too dangerous. So, there’s only one thing left: something small, high value, easy to conceal, and to divide into packages.”

  My back went cold.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Goods shipped from Latin America, arriving by sea at night, briefly stopped here, and then, taking advantage of the almost symbolic border management between Canada and the U.S., quietly transported into America.”

  He spread his hands. “Simple, efficient, perfect.”

  I muttered, “But the question is... How am I involved in this? I’m just an employee.”

  “So, you’re confused, right?” Holmes’ gaze suddenly sharpened. “You’re not the ‘manager of the transfer station.’ They don’t need you to manage anything, they just need you—to be found when something goes wrong, and take the fall for it.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. “So I’m... a scapegoat?”

  He nodded slowly, then shook his head. “Scapegoat is too mild. More accurately... you’re a ‘sacrificial pawn.’ And you need to die at a specific moment.”

  My throat tightened. “You mean... if someone embezzles the goods, they need a ‘dead handler’ to cover up the buyer or superior’s tracks?”

  “Exactly.” His tone was eerily light. “If a shipment goes missing, someone has to die. You’re perfect for that—contracts, keys, identity records—all the necessary paperwork.”

  I leaned back against the bed, my mind starting to buzz. A vivid image flashed in my mind: a figure in black, smiling coldly into a phone. “No problem, the person’s already arranged, clean as a whistle.”

  Holmes gave a faint smile, finished his tea, and stood up.

  “Don’t be afraid. I said ‘maybe.’ The only thing we know for sure is—this isn’t the ‘fresh start’ you thought it was. This is a chess game, and you’ve just moved to the center of the board.”

  He turned to the door.

  What were the goods? I asked.

  “Don’t you already have the answer?” Holmes said.

  “Drugs!”

  He smiled as the door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the ceiling, lost in thought.

  I was still lying there, trying to process Holmes’ words when—

  A commotion broke out downstairs, sounding like shouting, or perhaps furniture crashing.

  I sprang out of bed, an electric current of “something’s not right” shot through my brain. I dashed downstairs, only to find Miyamoto Musashi sitting on top of someone in the center of the living room.

  The person’s face was unrecognizable, blood pooling beneath them. No movement, no struggle.

  “What... what happened?” I stuttered.

  Da Vinci peeked down from the stairs, still in his blinding bathrobe, yawning.

  Holmes walked downstairs slowly, his gaze on the person on the floor, his expression unchanged.

  “Assassin,” Miyamoto Musashi said flatly, his voice as cold as ice.

  I turned to look at him. “How did you know? How long have you been sitting here? How... how are you still in your pajamas?”

  Musashi stood, brushing off his knees like he’d just finished meditating. “I noticed someone watching us when I came back. At first, I wasn’t sure if they were a homeless person or a tail, so I didn’t say anything.”

  “But just now, when I turned off the lights and was about to sleep, I heard their breathing.”

  I froze. “Breathing?”

  “They were in the corner, trying to be silent, but people can only hold their breath for so long. I could tell—trained breathing, mixed with control, but still rhythmic, unnatural.”

  I suspected there was something wrong with my ears. “You could... hear that?”

  He nodded as if saying, “Yes, I took a shower and did push-ups while I was at it.”

  “Then I jumped out the window.” He said.

  “You mean, you jumped out from the second-floor window without him noticing?”

  “I relaxed my muscles when I fell, using the balls of my feet to absorb the impact. It was silent.”

  My mouth hung open, struggling to process this. “And then you called his name, and he attacked you?”

  Musashi nodded. “I said, ‘You’re good at hiding,’ and he immediately drew his knife. Hmm, it was a dagger, not a sword.”

  I looked at the man on the floor. Sure enough, a military combat dagger was lying nearby, blood still reflecting on its edge.

  “He attacked you?”

  “To be precise, he tried to attack me.” Musashi’s tone was subtle. “I only used one move. He went down.”

  I was completely shocked. “You knocked him out... with just one move?”

  “No, he tried to dodge and counter with the hilt of his knife, but he was a second too slow. I struck him on the forehead.”

  My throat dried. “The forehead? You said you used a ‘move’... What kind?”

  “One-handed backhand slash.” He said, as if explaining the process of making tea.

  “Then... he won’t die, right?”

  “He should still be alive. Just temporarily unconscious.” He said nonchalantly. “If I had really struck, his brains would be on the floor next to your feet.”

  I instinctively stepped back. Musashi’s calm, sleepy face reminded me of a saying: The scariest thing in the world isn’t the enemy, it’s the roommate who can hear you breathe at night.

  At that moment, Holmes approached, squatting down to check the man’s neck. “Still alive. Shallow breathing, signs of combat reflexes. Not a civilian, not a thief—trained. The wear on his left hand shows he’s used to carrying a dagger, and the old injury on his right foot suggests extensive stealth training.”

  He looked up at me. “Looks like someone’s making a move.”

  I took a sharp breath.

  Miyamoto Musashi stood beside me, like a cold, statuesque figure. “They’re too weak. What can they do?”

  “Whats our next move?” I asked.

  Holmes said, “We’ll talk to him when he wakes up.”