As he thought, James left the magic theater and returned to the bustling street.
He was just about to slip away quietly when, all of a sudden, one person blocked his path with a murder weapon in hand.
James: "?!"
Instinctively, he wanted to fight back, but when he looked closely, he realized what had been thrust in front of him was not a knife at all, but a microphone bearing a tv station logo.
A reporter stood before him, gazing at him in worship. "Mr. Hawke, could you tell us about how you built your fortune back then?"
James: "...?"
Who? What Mr. Hawke? Wasn't he James Black? Where had the surname Hawke come from?
Before he could figure it out, the other reporters nearby noticed the commotion and swarmed over. Even the reporters who had finished covering the murder case at the magic venue rushed over at the sound, surrounding him completely. Cries of "Mr. Hawke" came from every direction.
Sweat began to bead at James's temples. "Wait, you—are you sure you haven't mistaken me for someone else?"
"Haha, Mr. Hawke, you're as humorous as ever." How could the reporters possibly let this chance go? They clutched their microphones and squeezed forward, continuing to ask their own questions.
Meanwhile, inside the magic venue.
After figuring out the clown's cause of death and confirming that this was a man-made "accident," Inspector Megure let out a sigh of relief in a complicated mood and took his subordinates to wrap things up.
The magic show had come to an abrupt halt, and the audience had been left dumbstruck by this bloody magic trick without blood. But the magician himself was already dead, so no matter how dissatisfied they were with today's experience, they could only pack up the snacks they