Prey and Predator [Ranpo x Reader] + Bonus ✓

1. The Poet Killer

'I don't have enough...' the golden-eyed boy whispered as he searched deep into his coin purse in the possibility there might be a concealed compartment with sufficient currency to pay for the large number of items placed at the counter. Without looking back at me, he turned his gaze to the other black-haired male who stood by his side, he evidently being impatient to dig in deep into the pile of confectionaries between me and the boys. 'We'll have to leave something behind... What's the one you're wanting the least?'

'I picked every single one of them because I am craving all of them. I'm not leaving anything behind. They're all coming back to the agency with me.'

The white-haired male subject to paying for such expenses looked back into his purse and then at the snacks which had built a wall between us. Before anything could be said, the shorter ebony-haired reached for the pile and brought each unpaid sweet towards him, carrying them in his arms out of the store; the boy left behind called out for him but this proved to be useless as the addressed did not do so much as look back at the calling of his name - Ranpo.

'I'm really sorry,' he began apologising, laying out every single copper he had even though he knew this did not sum to even half the total. 'I can make up for it some other time, but right now -'

'Atsushi, hurry! The ice cream is gonna melt!' Ranpo called from the door which had been held ajar with his foot.

'I'll add it to the bill. We might see each other soon,' I told him, waving a hand indicating he should follow the friend which he had been with; he gave a quick bow and thanked me, rushing out the door and letting the ring of the small doorbell above it echo in the empty store.

I sighed and sat down on a stool which had been arranged behind the counter in the frequent event that we did not receive many customers; occasionally, we had groups of school students such as myself rush in to buy the latest copy of a popular magazine, neighbours dressed in their most convenient garments only to buy the necessities (such as dairy or bread), and sometimes drunkards at night seeking a pack of cigarettes or another bottle of sake - those were the worst to handle. My brother often took the night shifts to have me avoid any form of harassment, but also to allow me to have a sleep schedule that favoured my studies.

Tapping my fingertips on the counter rhythmically, I looked around the store in search of an activity that would serve as a distraction to my boredom - perhaps a shelf in need of being stocked or litter to be picked up for an aisle. My hunt was cut short when I felt a pair of hands grasp at my shoulders, squeezing it enough to have my reflex arc command me to hit them away.

'Jeez, you've got a heavy hand,' the perpetrator whined as they recoiled their hands back from having been swatted by my own.

'You have a mouth, use it if what you want is my attention.' I shot back, looking up at the face of my brother who stuck his tongue out and mocked my speech. He then grinned, pulled me up from my seat and sat down instead. 'Hey!'

'You get to relax now. I'll take over. Dad said he wants to talk to you.' He lowered the cap he wore over his eyes and shoved his hands down the pockets of his loose trousers, resting back casually on the wall in a way which someone who did not know him would assume he belonged to some sort of rebellious organisation or was a troublesome child - quite the opposite in reality. 'He's talkative today,' he growled picking up a packet of chewing gum and tearing it open, throwing one small strip into his mouth. 'I bet you this month's profit you'll get a story today.'

And I did. I did not challenge his hypothesis, in fact: I enjoyed the stories; father was a former detective, possibly one of the best the company he had worked for had ever seen, so he often had stories and tales to tell about crimes he'd been appointed to solve, scenes he investigated, and culprits who were simply too unique to forget; these were often the things he still talked about, and, out of everyone at home, I had been the one most interested in these narratives, and such had begun from the moment I was a mere child.