Disclaimer: Don't own le Magic Kaito or le Detective Conan

I scribbled this together a while ago and forgot about it. It is sort of a prequel to my fic Poker Face, but neither are necessary for understanding the other.

And all of a sudden she was there, sitting dumbfounded on the curb. How did she get there? Why did she smell of smoke and ash even though it was raining? Why was she crying?

Oh. Now she remembered.

She had been standing on the roof of a building. The building was burning, up in a flaming inferno, and she had to get out. She had to. But the stairs were on fire and the roof was on fire and oh God everything was burning, burning, everything's burning.

And then she saw him. An angel, flying in on white wings, reaching out a hand of aid.

But the trickster god never gave anything away for free. Not without a price, not without a trick.

She hesitated. The wind shifted, the smoke blowing into her face, making her cough. His urgings suddenly became more urgent. She said something, she doesn't remember what, and he told her he wasn't a bad guy. After all, what bad guys wear white?

She said he was a wolf in sheep's clothing. But then the fire crept closer, a stray spark landing on her skirt and singing it. She looked behind her. She looked back to him. And suddenly her angel had fangs, and red eyes, and demonic wings.

He lunged at her, almost knocking her into the fire. Manhandling her, he dragged her to the edge of the building. She was so terrified. He was going to throw her off, throw her to the ground, kill her. Throw her to the concrete one hundred feet in the air.

But then she was airborne. And the wind in her face gave her such a thrill she almost forgot the danger. Almost forgot that she had nearly burned to death, that she was being kidnapped by a demon, that the merest slip would send her plummeting to her death.

And it was raining. Because surely that's what it was? The water falling down his cheek, because surely he didn't cry? It was on her cheek as well. And that banging sound, that was thunder rumbling.

She had been deluding herself.

Her captor cried in agony, almost dropping her as red sprayed from his arm. She reached her own arms around him and clung tighter. Don't let go, don't let go, that's what he had whispered to her, and what she had whispered to herself. Another bang, and in her peripheral vision she saw something silver plummet to the ground. The hang glider buffeted ominously in the wind, her pilot starting to lose control. Something warm dripped into her hair, enough for it to dribble down on to her face buried in the white-no-more suit.

She shifted her head. She gasped in surprise. And she let go. She had one image of his widened, terrified eyes before it was gone.

She fell through the sky, a silent scream caught in her throat. She could see the white shape dive towards her, getting ever closer, ever faster. The speed knocked off the white hat, sending it flying to the whims of the wind, letting loose brown locks fly freely. Another bang and the glider jerked off course, another stain of red forming. But then suddenly it was back on track, and he was screaming her name.

And then he caught her.

And there were those ten breathless moments as they looked into each other's eyes. Those ten breathless moments as she became drenched in his blood, as her brain slowly worked its way through everything, chugging like an old computer.

But then his eyes left hers and the glider swerved sharply upward, narrowly missing the ground. It lost momentum like a poorly-thrown paper airplane. She felt him jerk, rolling the glider upside down, in a way that could never fly. As she remembered her mental form watched from the sidelines as first the glider hit the ground, the metal struts bending and shattering upon impact. And then he landed on top of that, and she on top of him, their foreheads bouncing against each other but nothing else.

And all was still.

They lay there, one on top of the other, rain cooling her back, blood warming her front. There were bullet-made gashes on his arm and side, and a third tiny one by his right eye. Their eyes met once again. She opened her mouth, but her speech stumbled. What was she trying to say? What had she been about to say? What was she going to say?

In all honesty, what could she say?

She quickly started to remove herself from on top of him. She accidentally put weight on his shoulder and he suddenly gasped in unexpected pain. She stumbled physically, falling back on to the wet, soggy concrete ground. He slowly rolled over and pushed himself to a sitting position, frail and shaky.

They communicated, meaningless monosyllabic answers, sentences of one word. The rain poured ever harder, drenching the two of them. And finally something had to be said, try to fix things before it was too late. Even though it clearly already was.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice dead, containing none of the gaiety always present.

She clapped her hands over her ears, screwed her eyes tight, shook her head violently. "I hate you!"

"I'm sorry."

But it was too late. Several police officers swarmed the abandoned street, clapping handcuffs on to the complete stranger's wrists. Because that was what he was: a complete stranger.

The rain pounded on to the blanket draped around her shoulders. She stared off into space, towards the still burning building. Two figures provided a welcome distraction from her own personal tragedy by giving her insight into theirs. An older, wider man held a second younger one back from the flames. The way the wind and rain played with his hair, it was almost too painful to watch. He was screaming, screaming a name, screaming at the top of his lungs, screaming himself hoarse.

"RAN!!!"

He had screamed for her like that. But she didn't care, because she didn't know him anymore.

"RAN!!!"

She pulled the blanket tighter, wishing it wasn't so white.

The suicide king is the king of hearts, who just so happens to be stabbing himself in the head. There is no happy ending. Ever. Reviews are love.