(`)
Before long, Curacao's phone vibrated at her distant business-trip location. She had received a specially marked message.
"..." She holstered her gun, stepped around the pool of blood on the floor, and wearily opened her Mailbox for a look.
Just as expected, it was another message from over there. Kurosawa Kazuma:
[That "George" followed that High School Detective, and then they got into a police car together!
Has he been exposed? Do we need to silence him immediately?]
"..."
Curacao instinctively tensed at the words "police car," but soon, seeing "High School Detective" before them, she silently deleted what she had just typed and entered a new reply:
[Leave it alone.
Everything is under control.]
After replying, Curacao called people over to clean up the scene while wearily pulling open the car door and sitting in the driver's seat. Then she hit the gas, sending the sports car speeding away as she faithfully upheld the organization's core principle: leave after killing someone.
On the road, thinking of the Emails that had been arriving one after another lately, Curacao let out a silent sigh. "..." Her subordinates had clearly all been very independent before. They had not dared bother an executive, and handled anything that came up themselves. But now, they had practically become puppets dependent on their superior, asking her about everything, whether it mattered or not.
And these matters did indeed have some need to be checked with her. More importantly, because of a certain uncertain factor around her subordinates, Curacao could not tell them things like, "Stop bothering me and handle everything yourselves"—otherwise, who knew what kind of disaster-movie scene their handling might turn into in the end.
"...That said, they ask far too often. Don't they have brains of their own?" Curacao began tallying accounts in