“I know the truth!” Hakuba screamed, slamming his fists against the mirror in his bathroom. It was late, he was drunk, but that was no excuse for him to be talking back. “You’re nothing but a fake! A monster! A selfish, spineless, emotionally manipulative coward who goes by my name, uses my face, speaks to my friends, my lovers, and my family… You solve my cases, spread my reputation, but you are not me!" 

The blond took another swig of rum, then another, and pushed the bottle at the mirror with a snarl. "Would you like some? Or is it too dirty for you, now?! Bloody hell, how does someone like you exist?! How do you survive?!”

He shook his head, pulling a hand back from the mirror to run through his hair, fingers twisting, digging, yanking at blond locks in frustration. His reflection watched calmly, perhaps even with the same disgust that Hakuba felt, and that only infuriated him more. 

“I am NOT a coward!” HIs voice grew desperate with every exclamation, and he thrust the bottle at it again, sloshing rum over his hands, over the sink, leaving more spatters against the reflective surface. “YOU’RE the one that needs professional help, not me! Stop SAYING that! STOP INSISTING that I’m broken, when it’s clearly YOU!  Leave me alone!”

When that smug little smirk refused to leave the reflection, the half-brit picked up the bottle again, gripping it hard by the neck, and smashed the base of it against the mirror. This he did again and again until there was a lengthy crack. Then again until the bottle broke, shattering in his hands. With bloodied fists, he pounded at the glass until it was in pieces all around the sink, each fallen chunk only percussion to his vehement stream  of curses. 

Finally, though, when all that was left was a matte grey finish on the wall, splattered with bloody handprints, Hakuba sank down to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Shards cut against his face and pressed deeper into his palms, but he didn’t care. “It’s over,” he whispered, breath catching in emotional agony. 

The tears poured and his shoulders shook as he curled inward, sick and despairing. He’d just destroyed the proverbial painting. What was to become of him now?