"Wait." Conan turned around and stared straight at Recardis. "It wasn't just those shoes you needed to wipe clean, was it?"
Recardis turned back in confusion. At the same time, Conan dropped the ball to the ground and suddenly kicked it hard.
With a whoosh, the soccer ball flew straight at him. Recardis instinctively crouched and assumed a defensive stance. The next instant, pain shot through his knee. The ball struck him in the face, and he sat down on the ground.
"What's wrong with you?" Conan walked over to him. "Even an ordinary high school student could have made that kick. At your usual level, you could have caught it easily with one hand—but why couldn't you catch it now?"
Recardis sat on the ground, gasping a few times before saying helplessly, "That doesn't sound like a question. It sounds more like an interrogation—Boy, how did you know drugs had already ravaged my body?"
Conan looked at his knee. "Constant yawning, joint pain—those are obvious symptoms of drug use.
"When you came out of the restroom, you were holding your left knee, not your previously injured right one. I guessed it from that moment on—many people can't quit drugs because they can't endure the pain in their muscles and joints after going without them. I never thought what that American reporter said would actually be true..."
"Of course it wasn't!" Recardis had listened quietly until then, but he could not help speaking up.
"When that guy first reported that I was using drugs, I hadn't touched them at all! But because of that report, I suffered countless attacks. My wife couldn't bear it and eventually took her own life.
"So, to take revenge on that scum, I made a plan.
"First, I made him suspect that I really was