Chapter One: The Phantom Thief of Hearts! But Conan

“Thank you for riding the Tokyo Metro. This train is bound for Shibuya Station. This train is down for, Shibuya...”

A gentle, even-toned female voice roused Karasawa from his slumber.

Barely opening his eyes, still groggy, Karasawa instinctively tensed his back muscles, snapping to full alertness in an instant.

This wasn’t his bedroom. Just a moment ago, he’d been nestled in his own warm bed.

Realizing this, he immediately eased his breathing, deliberately lifting his head at a natural pace and scanning his surroundings.

The train was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with commuters. Advertisements and slogans lined the carriage. The car’s gentle sway and the rhythmic clatter of wheels on the tracks filled the air. Bright daylight streamed through the broad windows, casting patterns across his body.

A train—he was on a running Japanese commuter train. And he...

Karasawa lowered his head, surreptitiously examining himself.

A crisp, pale-blue jacket, white shirt, and a deep green tie—he looked like he was wearing a school uniform. At the moment, his arms were wrapped around a black commuter bag.

He unzipped the bag for a quick inspection: an umbrella, a glasses case, a planner, tissues, a pencil case, a wallet—all typical student paraphernalia.

In the inner pocket, there was a black folder. Karasawa glanced at the passengers on either side, all silently absorbed in their phones, and decided not to take the folder out. Instead, he used his fingertips to thumb through the papers inside.

Squinting, he managed to make out the documents, then jolted as if shocked.

“Notice of Expulsion” and “Probationary Supervision Order.”

He’d just saved his third New Game+ file before bed, and instantly, the pieces fell into place.

He must have—probably—become the protagonist of Persona 5.

Isn’t this the opening cutscene of P5?

Karasawa’s feelings were complicated.

There was a twinge of excitement, a bit of confusion. He felt he ought to be happy—after all, he knew the plot like the back of his hand—but he couldn’t quite muster any joy, considering the protagonist’s rather grim future.

But wait, if this was P5, shouldn’t his uniform be black? What was with these clothes...?

Steeling himself, Karasawa pulled out his wallet, looking for more evidence of his identity.

Inside, he found a few ten-thousand-yen notes and, in the transparent side pocket, a student ID.

The moment he saw the card, his mind buzzed and his pupils contracted in shock.

“Teitan High School Student ID

Class: Grade 2, Class B

Name: Karasawa Akira”

On the left, a two-inch ID photo: a boy with light brown hair and blue eyes stared expressionlessly ahead.

A strikingly handsome face, impressive features—yet the slightly upturned, round cat-like eyes and arched brows lent his youthful visage a sharp, aggressive air.

It was odd, very odd—almost like his own face had been blended with P5’s protagonist. Simply put, if the two of them had a child, he’d probably look like this.

Karasawa quietly locked eyes with the boy in the photograph.

As a tingling ache radiated from the back of his head, fragmented memories flickered swiftly before his eyes.

A deserted alley under the heavy night, blinding headlights, a young woman calling for help, a middle-aged man reeking of alcohol and red-faced, toppling into a roadside planter during a heated altercation.

Then came the flashing red and blue of police car lights, the interrogation room’s cold, surgical glare, the judge’s gavel thundering through the silent courtroom...

No mistake—this was P5’s backstory. He was now the youth who, after intervening for justice, was falsely accused and convicted of grievous bodily harm. Alone, he’d come to Tokyo to serve a year under probationary supervision—a suspended sentence in which his conduct would determine whether he’d end up in juvenile detention.

But what was with Teitan High School?

If he’d landed in the world of Detective Conan, and going by their never-ending “one year,” just how long would his probation last?

A deep, bitter sense of resignation washed over him.

Only his well-honed control over his expression kept Karasawa’s face from twisting too much. He pressed his lips together, pulled out his phone, and turned on the front-facing camera to inspect his current appearance.

Perhaps his cat-like eyes made him look younger; the brown-haired boy in the camera looked even more juvenile—about fifteen or sixteen. His tousled brown hair brushed his cheeks, and his eyes were a clear, vibrant blue, making his pupils seem almost luminous, dazzlingly bright.

Still reeling from the psychological blow, he was now frowning in distress, his tensed lips puffing out his cheeks.

Well, I do look good—maybe a bit too cute.

Older by nearly a decade in his original life, Karasawa sighed and closed the camera with a trace of weariness.

What could he do? He was here now—was he supposed to leap off the train and end it all? One still had to keep living.

Returning to the phone’s home screen, he wasn’t surprised to see the red-and-black alternate world navigation app icon front and center—a red eye, hollowed out against a graffiti-like background of red and black lines, seeming to gaze straight at him.

He tapped it. Nothing happened.

Tried again.

After six or seven futile taps, Karasawa gave up and locked the screen.

Useless app—won’t open, can’t delete. Exhausting. Just let the world end.

He wondered whether he’d inherited his own third New Game+ save file. Even if his stats didn’t carry over, could his painstakingly acquired Persona compendium come with him? Please, he begged silently. The plot’s already stitched together—forcing him to grind fusion in the Metaverse for a lifetime would be inhumane.

At that silent plea, the world around him abruptly quieted.

A black-clad Phantom Thief turned and slapped a hand against the frame—suddenly, the familiar P5 system interface unfurled before his eyes.

Karasawa stared dumbfounded at the menu, subconsciously tapping the “Items” tab.

“Whoa!” He couldn’t help but exclaim in delight at the crammed item slots.

A New Game+ in P5 wouldn’t carry over character levels, but all equipment, money, and previously fused mask records would come along.

Fantastic—he was a fully loaded third-run Joker! He could survive this! And he was flush with cash!

After all, he’d maxed out his money in that third playthrough!

Although many options were still grayed out, Karasawa felt infinitely reassured.

His cheat code had arrived.

Exiting the interface, the sounds of the train and its passengers flooded back in. Not a single commuter spared him a second glance, and Karasawa finally relaxed, leaning back and letting out a breath.

Only now did he have the leisure to thoroughly examine his phone.

Whether it was a new device or the result of his crossing over, there was almost nothing in it. The photo album was empty; the only contacts were “Father” and “Mother.” He didn’t know if he truly lacked friends or if his “juvenile offender” status had severed all prior ties.

There was just one email, from his father—a terse, formulaic note describing the lodgings he’d arranged in Tokyo: a shop owned by an old friend, with a habitable attic. The old friend now lived abroad, the shop run by family and staff, and the attic was completely vacant, available for a year. It was conveniently close to his new school.

As for his son, about to live alone in Tokyo, the letter offered only two frigid lines: “During your probation, keep in regular contact with your supervisor and obey all rules,” and “Don’t cause trouble for others this year. If anything happens, you won’t get a second chance.”

“What the...” Karasawa scrolled through the email, feeling his fists clench tighter with each line. “Did my father really write this?”

It wasn’t just cold—it was hostile, as if he truly were an incorrigible criminal.

Karasawa took several deep breaths, suppressing his rising anger, and finally found the address for his destination at the end of the email.

Tokyo, Beika Town, 5-chome, No. 39—Poirot Café.

Karasawa stared at the address in silence.

He should have expected it. Sleeping in a café attic was apparently a fixed narrative element.

How fitting—below the Mouri Detective Agency, there was a café!

If memory served, once the story reached the Bourbon arc, Toru Amuro would start working at the café.

Which meant—

He was about to become classmates with Ran Mouri and Shinichi Kudo, neighbors to Ran, and a coworker of Toru Amuro?

How could this be?

Given Conan’s plot style, suspect, victim, or culprit—he’d have to be at least one. Anything less would be impolite.

Thinking it through, with his current backstory, he was especially suited to be the culprit.

Falsely accused, discarded to live alone, all social ties severed—a heart full of resentment and grievance. He was a model “chosen culprit,” practically destined for a revenge-against-society role.

As for being a victim—well, that depended on whether the scoundrels who framed him would use the original case as blackmail material. There was quite a chain: the politician involved, the female employee he’d saved, the police and prosecutors who handled the case—none of them clean.

Becoming a suspect was even easier. With his record, if Tokyo’s Investigation Division didn’t put him in the top three or four suspects every time, it would be an insult to the weight of a “juvenile offender convicted of grievous bodily harm.”

While Karasawa’s mind wandered, the train’s announcement for the upcoming Shibuya stop snapped him back to reality.

Shibuya was the terminal station for this train. He needed to switch lines to reach Beika Town.