[Conan's walking down the corridor with a stride that seems entirely too big for himself somehow. His entire posture suggests self-satisfaction, his grin is wide.

There seems to be no obvious explanation for this obvious and exaggerated happiness, but the psychics might notice there seems to be a bit more of him than usual.

Investigate?]

Hattori Heiji, age nineteen, was not particularly happy right now. He was also a bit confused. Not only was he not where he'd been a few moments ago, this place was way too clean.

Just like the others from his world he was dressed in thick protective clothing covering every piece of bare skin within reason and was also loaded down with weapons, several guns and a katana strapped to his side in this case.

He's a bit twitchy too, scanning his surroundings wearily and keeping his ears open for any noise. It might be a good idea to approach cautiously.

He's stunned, the sense in his mind twisting. He can't quite seem to get a grasp on what happened, even though he knows it's real. Even though he can remember it with the clarity of it having happened only seconds ago.

--hysterical laughter threatens to spill out as he realises that he's won, he's finally won - but he chokes on it, his smile turning to bile in his throat and making him feel sick. He can't pay attention to the footsteps coming closer, not when the dampness in his knees from the pool of blood is sticky-wet and still warm--

He's covered in blood. The deep red draws lines across his hospital scrubs, marking where he's been wounded - a nasty gash down one thigh, parallel lines across his upper arm. The blood also marks what he's been doing, who he's wounded. The splatter is telling, splashed up his right arm and almost completely coating his fingers and the knife held in them. He's stabbed someone, quite probably lethally.

Shinichi's head makes a hollow thudding noise as he lets it drop back against the plaster, legs stretched out to meet the balcony rails. He can just about make out the marble floor of the lobby between the balustrade, the curve of the main stairs below. He doesn't care where he is, at the moment.

A slightly crooked smile crosses his lips and he chuckles without humour.

He'd finally done it. He'd killed 1412.