When Conan regained consciousness, elsewhere...
After all, they had used the same Anesthetic. Though the doses differed, the difference in their builds was enormous.
Before long, Irish woke up as well.
The Black Organization executive lay on the hospital bed, staring at the clean ceiling of the Ward. For a brief moment, he felt dazed, with a trace of the peace of having arrived in heaven lingering in his subconscious.
Several seconds later, what had happened before he was knocked out, along with those two terrifying shadows descending from the sky, suddenly leaped back into his mind.
"?!"
Irish shot upright, reaching for his gun, but grabbed nothing.
Looking down, he realized that someone had changed him into a hospital gown.
Another person stood beside the bed. His confidant had been faithfully keeping watch, and this seasoned Peripheral Member understood his superior's gesture at once. He secretly signaled to Irish that he had hidden the gun elsewhere—the Ambulance had naturally not taken them to an Organization medical facility, but to a nearby hospital. The Doctors and nurses here were not Organization members, and they might call the police if they saw a gun.
The nurse in the Ward jumped at the sound of Irish sitting up.
When she looked over and saw that the patient had merely bolted upright from a dream, rather than someone coming in to overturn beds and cause trouble, she finally relaxed. "How do you feel?"
"Much better." Irish restrained himself from showing his gloomy expression. "Thank you."
He asked a few simple questions. Once the nurse had left, he looked at his subordinate beside him. "Bring me my coat. We're leaving."
The two left the hospital, and Irish asked coldly, "What happened earlier?"
Under his stare, the confidant could no longer keep pretending to