"No way," he whispered, but the voice that came out was high-pitched, childish.

The last thing he felt was the rain on his face, growing larger, heavier, until it felt like it was drowning him. Then, nothing.

As they walked toward the police car, Conan's mind raced. He was small, weak, and trapped in the body of a six-year-old. But his mind was still sharp. He was still the great detective.

And he would find the men in black. He would expose the organization. And he would get his life back.