Shinichi was tired.

No, saying that he was tired was definitely an understatement. He was fed up with the situation, to the point he started wondering if there even was a point. A point to his suffering, a point to his hiding, and most importantly, a point to his lying.

Because yes, his life was all about lying, now wasn't it? It was now far beyond the simple white protective lie it all started with. He became the very embodiment of a lie. First, it was just a false name. But then, it became more. It became a whole new person, a new personality, a new mystery, really. After all, no one really knew who that mysterious, body-magnet of a child was. No one knew what kind of darkness crept behind those big, round glasses that the overly smart Edogawa Conan wore daily.

Edogawa Conan, really. Even he himself couldn't help but laugh at how ridiculous that name sounded. It was on the spur of the moment, just a second of uncertainty, and that lead him to bear the name of his favorite author. But unlike Arthur Conan Doyle, he was no author and certainly did not have a say about how his own story was going to end.

Arthur Conan Doyle once killed Sherlock Holmes off out of tiredness, after the character's popularity, but the public's disappointment led to his revival. When this would all be over, would he ever be able to give up on Conan? Would it all finally disappear and go back to how it was before, how it was meant to be?

Or would he be stuck in the aftermaths of a disappearing kid, that his friends would never really give up on?

… Would he actually ever be able to return to his own body?

Sometimes, he wondered. Haibara might be a genius, but she was no god, and without the original formula, she would never succeed in creating a definitive antidote. He knew as much, and he was certain that she was just as aware of it. So, what if the original drug didn't exist anymore? What if it got destroyed before they could manage to snatch a sample?

Shinichi stared at the face reflected in the mirror. It wasn't anything, and yet was everything. It didn't even exist, and yet his whole being revolved around it.

"Fuck", he swore, knowing that no one would hear him. He laughed dryly, imagining the face Ran would make hearing that word coming from a 6-year-old body.

She would be furious.

And whoever it was that could've possibly taught him that word? They would be done for, that much he had no doubt of.

Then again, it shouldn't be something to trigger her anger in the first place.

He closed and reopened his eyes again and again, to no avail. No matter what he did, that figure wouldn't disappear. That body wouldn't grow, and the face he would see in the mirror would still be, again and again, the one of a precocious preschooler. Damn it.

Those round cheeks. Those tiny arms, and useless legs that didn't permit him to even reach a freaking doorknob.

And those goddamn eyes, that looked bigger every second he kept staring at them.

How pathetic.

Without even really acknowledging it, his fist met the glass. He could hear the mirror shattering, he could see red droplets fall down from his shaking fingers. And somehow, it felt just right. Somehow, it looked like it was exactly what he needed to feel better. So he raised his other arm, and punched.

Again, again, and again.

Maybe he would regret it, later, when Ran would ask him why the bathroom was in such an awful state. Maybe he would find himself an excuse, something about slipping and breaking the mirror in the process, one more lie, would it even make a difference at this point? But right now, he knew that he just couldn't stop. Not when it relieved his pain like nothing else could for the past year.

He heard more cracks, but he wasn't sure anymore, if they were from the glass or his own fingers breaking. It didn't really matter anyway. He could hear his ragged breath. Feel tears rolling down his face. But everything started to fade slowly, and when his vision blurred, he lost all the energy he had left.

He felt on his knees, staring at nothing, blank mind and red body.