He understands. She’s not entirely with them. She’s a mole.

A silhouette of Gin’s car fading into the fog. Text appears:

“Tch. We’re leaving.”

Cut to a dark, rainy street. A black 356A Porsche speeds through the night. Inside, Gin puffs a cigarette, his long silver hair illuminated by the dashboard light.

Sirens wail in the distance. Gin snarls.

Conan’s eyes widen. He grabs his skateboard.

Before Conan can move, the vent floor drops. A trap door. He falls into a service elevator. The doors close. Standing there, arms crossed, is , disguised as a maid.

Conan freezes. Kir’s eyes flick toward his hiding spot. She smiles—not cruelly, but with a strange, warning sadness.

They drag Vodka into the Porsche and speed away. As they disappear, Kir looks back through the rear window. She mouths two words to Conan:

His heart pounds. The Black Organization is active again.