❦

It might have been early morning or it might have been night, but all Misa remembered was the blood-curdling scream of her mother. So strange coming from a voice that only whispered positive encouragements and huffed at fleeting annoyances.

Misa rushed downstairs, her father in front of her, still in his pajamas and without his glasses. In their living room was a man dressed in all black with a kitchen knife to her mother's throat. Their kitchen knife, the one Misa had used earlier to chop fruits for her lunch.

"Please," she wailed. "Please, don't. I'm sorry! Please!"

The man tightened his grip on her arms and pressed the knife against her neck. A drip of blood slid along it, staining their new white shag carpet.

She never managed to throw the carpet out.

The rest happened in a blur. Misa stood frozen on the stairs while her father rushed down them, tackling the man, and ending up with a knife through his stomach.

Misa screamed, probably, she couldn't remember, and her mother sobbed. Her mother clawed her way to the phone while Misa watched her father die. The burglar killed her mother as well before she could finish dialing the emergency service number.

Misa ran to her bedroom, barricaded the door with her desk, scattering modelling headshots and polaroids of her friends across the floor, and dialed 110 into her flip phone with shaky hands.

Glass shattering downstairs was the only thing she heard other than her own ragged breathing. At first, she thought she had to have been dreaming, but the reality became clear as the police escorted her past the greying bodies of her parents, and she couldn't help but peek through the fingers covering her eyes.

They looked like dolls. She wanted to vomit.

Misa spent months afterwards blaming anyone she could. She began with herself and how stupid it was to leave the door unlocked before progressing to her neighbours, who surely had to have seen the man, and eventually the police and even God because He must have sensed her parents' suffering and did nothing to stop it.

When she finally reached the burglar, she thought she had no one left to blame, but it reignited the rage boiling within her. At first, she only wished he were dead. But soon, she wished it were her hands that killed him. In various gruesome ways, Misa fantasized about murdering him.

They were disgusting thoughts, nothing a girl her age should be concerned with, yet she couldn't help herself.

It wasn't until she heard of Kira that she felt satisfied.

After months of trial with an unsatisfying end, the burglar died in prison of a heart attack.

At first, she thought little of it other than the rage of knowing it wasn't by her hand, but soon she heard the whispers of Kira's name. Kira, killer, saint, justice.

The forums taught her enough. It didn't take long to connect the dots.

Kira chose her; Kira wanted her killer to be brought to justice. The nightmare she lived in for a year was finally over because he wanted it to be. This Kira was her saviour, and she was devoted to proving it to him.

She just needed to find a way to get his attention. And a way to remain in his service.

Misa took the eye deal for the first time. Though she couldn't see it or feel it, technically, she still sensed it as her life span split, like time was carved around her.

When she first saw Light, nothingness floating above his head in a crowd of teenagers, she knew she had made the right decisions. She was certain when she spoke to him, promised her loyalty to the man, the god, who saved her life.

Still, as she killed for him, dirtied her hands for someone she barely knew, Misa thought. She didn't want to disgrace Light; she was loyal to him for as long as her lifespan allowed it, but she wished he were more considerate.

God has no time for His subjects, but Light should at least be able to make time for his favourite.

Misa incriminated herself for him, and the most she got was a thank you. If he weren't Kira, she might have had a word to have, but she supposed she couldn't ask divinity for too much. Misa wouldn't be greedy, even though the lack was eating her up inside.

And really, she was only mad when Rem brought it up, but Rem hated Light, so she never took much of what she said to heart.

She continued working alongside Light, was even imprisoned for him, in a cold room with an even colder-eyed freak staring at her all hours of the day.

Misa didn't remember much of what happened during that time, but she did remember the fear. It was like her parents dying all over again, the helplessness, the guilt, all of it. Except this time, Light could save her. That was the only thing that brought her comfort, the knowledge that Kira would be her saviour.

After Light freed her, she knew it was only fair to repay him. Ryuuzaki's name remained far beyond her reach, so she returned to the forest where something she couldn't place was hidden beneath dirt.

The feeling of dirt beneath her fingernails was nothing like she imagined in her dreams. Recovering the Death Note was more pleasurable than killing him, the dirt meaning more than petty revenge.

That time, Ryuk halved her lifespan. At least Rem made it feel personal; he only stared and warned her about death, like she had any fear left.

Her glee didn't last for long, though, and the worthlessness of her sacrifice ate away at her. She wasn't the one to kill Ryuuzaki, nor was Light. Rem disappeared from her side like the sun fades out of the sky as night takes over. She felt lonely. Even with Light grinning next to her, Misa was pained with a sense of isolation she hadn't felt since her parents died.

The pang didn't go away when she slept. Not when nightmares of her parents plagued her visions, their lifespans ticking to zero as she watched.

Yet promises meant nothing, not when Amane Misa walked the Earth, her lifespan hanging mockingly overhead.

Rem would do anything for that girl. She would traverse forbidden territory, wade in the waters outlawed by the Shinigami King. Seeing Misa felt like rebirth.

Gelus died, and Rem's love for the girl blossomed.

It wasn't that Shinigami loved as humans did. Rem felt no traditional desire.

In fact, her 'desire' was closer to consumption. The weight of her failure ate away at her as she watched Misa pose in a modelling shoot from above. Perhaps humans would compare her feelings to lust, but Rem knew she was not lustful. It was something more: the only way Shinigami brains are capable of processing such complex emotions. It was fear.

There was fear when she handed Misa the Death Note, her fingers still coated in Gelus' dust. There was fear when she planned to meet Light and an even greater dread when Rem saw beyond Light's facade. But more than fear, Rem was tormented.

She loved Misa as much as the Shinigami loved gambling, and she watched as she threw her life away for a man who meant nothing. A human. A fragile egomaniac.

Yagami Light. She despised him with every fibre of her being.

It was strange feeling so strongly when she spent most of her life in apathy. In the Shinigami Realm, everything disinterested her. After the first hundred years, gambling grew stale and humans grew staler. She found no joy in watching society tear itself apart and rebuild again, fracturing and reuniting like an ugly scar.

It was not long before Rem's devotion was tested. Not long before Misa's lifespan was cut in half, and Rem mourned the fragility of humanity.

Not long before Yagami Light was roping her into a plan that could end in her death, and the grin on Light's face told Rem he already knew.

She agreed, of course. Kill L Lawliet or have Rem do it.

Rem felt ill, cursed with the knowledge that no matter what decision she made, it would be incorrect. Love was utterly useless. Apathy was a blessing she had forgone in favour of this devastating emotion.

Shinigami weren't supposed to understand desire, but Rem knew it now. In the tips of fingers as she yearned to brush the hair from Misa's shoulders, in her eyes, in the rattle of her bones, in the ink written in her Death Note. Each name was a testament to Misa.

The names grew closer to L Lawliet, especially as Misa begged for her death. How desperately Rem wanted to, in that moment, scrawl his name with such violence he would be erased from history, becoming a shadowy figure in Misa's dreams rather than her reality.

Instead, using her last dredges of common sense, whatever had not been stripped from her by the chemicals of love, she convinced Misa to forget. Forget about her, the Death Note, Yagami Light, hopefully.

Misa did not forget Light, but she did forget Rem, and it almost drove her to insanity, except for the knowledge that Light was still a fragile human as much as he played god.

And fragile he was, reduced to nothing without his memories of the Death Note and a woman to exploit.

Rem expected to leave the Human World, but she didn't. She stuck around, following a man named Higuchi who was much less interesting. He was cruel, uncaring, and vicious. Higuchi went through life as a Shinigami would gamble, without a care for others and a desperate desire to ruin. Watching his lifespan tick away was the only pleasure Rem found in her days alongside him.

When Higuchi wasn't prattling bullshit, Rem thought of Misa, and sometimes, she thought of her even when he was.

Misa was like nothing she had seen before. Loving her terrified Rem in ways she had never felt. The ache in her heart grew so strong she worried her own fate may be a heart attack, but she knew better than to hope.

It wasn't just the newness that killed her, but the knowledge that Misa could never know, and would never know, Rem's emotions. Misa was not naive; intelligent in her own right, but she saw nothing she didn't want to see. And it appeared that Rem's love for her was just that: unseen. Devotion hidden behind paper and threats.

Rem wouldn't allow herself to pretend there was a future for them. She could not be so careless, even when there was an innate carelessness to her relationship with Misa.

It wasn't long before Higuchi's lifespan drew to a close. The satisfaction of the numbers reaching zero was sickening, and Rem once again yearned for the apathy of a thousand years in darkness.

The expression on L Lawliet's face was enough for her to forget her misery for a moment, though.

He asked her many questions, as a detective would. They grew increasingly ridiculous.

"What are Shinigami?"

Demons, monsters, whatever humans choose.

"Why are there Shinigami?"

Why are there humans?

"What is the purpose of a Shinigami?"

Balance.

"Is it possible for a human to write in the notebook Shinigami carry?"

Perhaps. (She tried to avoid answering questions that might implicate Misa. She cared less about Light, though).

"If a human were connected to a Shinigami, how would I know?"

You'd see them.

"I think I must test this notebook myself. Misa would make a prime subject."

No.

"Interesting." (He was always quite annoying when he made an observation). "Can Shinigami care for humans?"

I don't know. (He knew she was lying, and she knew it too. Seeing Misa's lifespan slashed in half for the second time threatened to break a dam within her that could not be sealed).

"If Amane Misa is such good friends with a Shinigami, would that not implicate her in the Kira case?"

Amane Misa and I are not friends.

"Can Shinigami lie?"

She said nothing. L knew.

Rem warned Light and Misa of this, but Light didn't care. If it wasn't his life on the line, it meant nothing. And he knew well enough that Rem would do anything to prevent Misa's death, even as her lifespan resembled Higuchi's.

Seeing the numbers fade was much less pleasurable this time around. Rem didn't want to imagine the ways L would have her executed or tortured or whatever messed up fantasy his brain saw as justice.

So she did what she had to.

There was no logic in her decision or forethought. She was playing into Light's hand. Misa had to live. Rem would not allow her to die under her care, and if Misa did die, there would be no reason for her to continue living such a monotonous life after tasting possibility.

Watari, whom Rem cared very little for, died quickly, but alerted L in the process. L Lawliet, whom Rem despised, died slowly, practically in Light's arms.

None of it brought Rem any pleasure.

The first night with Light in the hospital was the last time I got a good night's sleep. Lately, I've been so preoccupied with making sure everything's in order so that I've had no time to myself, including sleeping. It feels like I'm in an endless cycle of pumping breast milk. Soichiro laughed when I told him that, and then I cried because I guess pregnancy hormones haven't fully gone away yet.

Light's healthy, at least, which is one less thing I have to worry about. He came out right on time, wailing like an onryo. At first, I thought it wouldn't stop, but he calmed down pretty quickly. He's been calm ever since. Like I said, he's not too fussy. Sometimes, it's a little concerning, but when I contacted our physician, she said I shouldn't worry too much about it. I'm trying not to. Nothing really prepares you for being a mother, not even all the books Soichiro and I read.

I'm nervous about messing something up. I mean, babies are so fragile, and Light looks especially tiny in his little hat and onesie. The books (and Soichiro) told me not to worry so much, but it's hard not to when there's a whole new human in your house.

Soichiro's setting the table, so I probably have to leave soon. I'll try to write more when I get the time, but between worries and taking care of Light, I don't have much of that anymore.

The Polaroid is weathered around the edges from where it had been slipped in and out of picture frames. In it, a man with thick glasses and long hair is leaning over a bed where a woman lies with a baby in her arms. There are bags beneath her eyes, though she's smiling, and so is he. The baby is swaddled in a pink blanket, likely done by an experienced nurse, one whose hands weren't shaking so much they appear blurry in the photo.

The woman on the bed has her hair pulled back into a bun, though strands of it cling to her sweaty face. Her husband's ring glints off her shoulder where his hand rests. It's vibrant against the blue hospital cotton. Her husband is smiling as well, though the lines around his eyes are covered by his glasses. He appears nervous, a pinch to his brows and stress within the pull of his lip.

Surrounding the hospital bed is a collection of gifts, most with Christmas wrapping, though some with the brown paper provided by the hospital. A scattering of wrapping paper is left alongside a stuffed sheep.

On the back of the Polaroid, the date December 25th, 1987, is written in smudged handwriting. Traces of pen ink cling to the backing where a hand dragged through the characters.

The birth certificate looks like any other of its time. Registration district, administrative area (The City of Winchester), DOB (October 31st, 1982), sex (M), all of it regular. It's tattered around the edges, a little torn where the pen of the signatures and date bled through the pages.

Overall, it's nothing special. Nothing to glance twice at. Everyone has one. Well, all landed citizens should unless they lose it, and in that case, you have to request a new one.

Except on this birth certificate, a line of black tape blots the name out. Its placement is messy, twisting downwards to reveal the concluding letters ET. It looks and feels like electrical tape, the type that sticks to anything but wires like crap.

The edges of the tape are peeled, skimming over the name beneath. There's no purpose behind its redaction, unlike the Sharpie on military documents or the lines of whiteout on school assignments.

As if the one who placed it wanted to erase something but couldn't bring themselves to do it.

If it weren't for the two letters peeking above the tape, it would raise the question of whether a name was even written on it. Still, the possibility remains that it is a collection of letters, a smattering of concepts, rather than the solidity of an identity.

The video is grainy, taken on a camera that should have been put down years ago. Even the audio is difficult to make out. The voices sound more like gurgles than words, the sounds a baby makes as it tries to speak.

A man with dark hair and glasses stands behind a child. He—the child—is sitting on the floor between stacks of colourful blocks. The boy is no more than one, with a concentrated look on his face as he continues morphing the blocks into towers. His father smiles at the camera, and his mother, behind it, giggles.

There are hints of stains along the armrests of the couch behind them and a collection of blankets nestled in the cushions.

The boy turns, gripping the fabric of his father's work pants. Slowly, he rises to his feet. He sways like grass in the breeze, digging his toes into the carpet beneath him.

His father's eyebrows raise, and his eyes widen behind his glasses.

"Oh," his mother says, the camera shaking.

"Mama," he coos. The boy stretches his hands forward and wobbles forward, his father close behind him with his hands in a similar position.

"Oh my God, Soichiro, he's walking!"

"Be careful, Light," his father chides. "It'll hurt if you fall."

"He's walking! I got it on video. He's walking!"

Light stumbles into his mother's legs, wrapping his chubby hands around her calf. The camera pans to Soichiro, who's fighting back tears.

"Guess this means we'll have to put him to work, huh?"

"Oh, shu—"

She's silenced by Soichiro leaning behind the camera.

The Christmas tree is covered in fluorescent lights, matching the wrapping strewn across the floor. Atop it sits an angel, pristine and glowing against the flower wallpaper. Beneath it, there's a baby, a bow fit snugly on her thin hair and wrapping paper over her legs. The camera blurs around the movement of her arms, Christmas confetti suspended in the air.

An aged sheep sits next to a folded apple-patterned blanket with tissue paper stuck to its tag. The girl is paying them no mind, instead watching the fall of confetti with the tree lights reflecting in her eyes. Her cheeks are rosy, and her mouth is formed into an O.

The card beside her reads: Misa's first Christmas-Birthday!

It's a photo of far lower quality than one could produce with any modern or semi-modern camera. The woman in the photo is smiling; the wrinkles around her eyes and lips creasing. She's holding a boy against her hip, and his sprawl of dark hair splays thickly on her blouse.

He is not smiling, but he is not frowning either, more wincing at the camera like the thought of being immortalized in a photo hurts him. Though babies aren't able to form such complex thoughts. He was likely defending himself against the barrage of the sun, reflected in the windowpane behind them, alongside the figure of a woman.

The woman, presumably the boy's mother, is holding her fist at the pair, signalling the end of a countdown. Her hair is dark like the boy's, though it tapers at her neck.

It must have been taken in the early summer, somewhere between the rainy periods of the United Kingdom's spring and the sweltering warmth of an incoming heat wave.

A stack of books: crosswords, Sudoku, logic puzzles; all penned with markers, the type you buy in bulk that smell like plastic and can't stain clothing. The handwriting is scrawled, the writing of a child, but the answers are undeniably correct.

1, 5, 6 - 2, 3, 8 - 4, 7, 9 and Heroic Knight of Medieval Spain: El Cid and Dana-Red-October

On some pages, the marker bleeds through, numbers over numbers and letters over letters until they become a jumble of meaningless characters. Yet, still, the owner remains in control. The answers, when they can be deciphered through layers of coloured marker, are correct.

The Sudoku book is flat on the table with the numbers 7,5,2 - 3, 1, - 6, half-heartedly marked on the last page. Only a few characters from completion, though the ink is dry, and the covers of the books are dusty.

He's smiling at the camera, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and he's wearing a freshly laundered school uniform. Light swims in the bag on his back, which dwarfs his figure.

The building behind him is brick and fenced. There is a swarm of children crawling along a play structure in the distance, and some are drawing in the sand a stone's throw from his feet. He's gripping a lunch bag in his hand, blue with little dinosaurs.

His hair is cropped, surely recently cut, and styled so it sits by the sides of his face. Light holds a hand in front of his eyes to shade against the morning sunlight.

Misa steps back from the camera with her hands in the air. She's wearing a pearl necklace, and behind her, a girl around her age is twirling in a sequined dress.

"Come on, Kaori, strike a pose or something!"

Kaori stares at the camera and scratches her head. "I thought this was just for fun."

"Well—all the cool, big girls dress up like this. And they always pose!"

Misa curtsies at the camera with a giggle, dragging Kaori to bend with her.

"I feel silly."

"That's because you aren't wearing any jewelry." She steps outside the camera's view. "There should be some…here!"

Misa returns with a collection of bracelets. Slowly, she slips the bracelets over Kaori's wrists, adjusting them with huffs and sighs.

"Show the camera!"

Kaori smiles and jingles the charms of the bracelets in the viewfinder. Most of them are plastic, the type won from an arcade or the machines that eat coins and spit out cheap toys. Except one.

On Kaori's right wrist is a golden bracelet with a cross charm. Misa's overhead bubble light glints off its reflective surface.

"Not so bad, right?"

Kaori laughs. "Can we get a snack now?"

The dictation machine kicks to life, the tape whirring inside its plastic casing.

"Is this even on?"

The tape shakes in the audio.

"Looks on." L pauses. "Today is May 12th, 1996. It's currently—this doesn't matter. I don't need to know this."

The shifting of fabric, the creak of a chair.

"The local police reached out to Wammy House, and Quillsh decided I would be the best fit for the case. I've never done this—actually done this. Quillsh thought it would be good for me to expand my horizons. I can't say I'm not enjoying myself, if that's the appropriate way to approach this."

L sucks in a breath.

"The police came to me with the details. A man was murdered in his apartment shortly after the death of his father. There were no fingerprints at the scene, nor any physical evidence, which suggests premeditation. Still, his death was not violent, which also suggests to me his murderer didn't act out of hatred. It was pretty clean, actually. Quillsh wanted to keep the photos away from me, but I convinced the police officers that it was integral to my case for me to see them. Not the point. Anyway, the man was murdered by a gunshot wound to the back of the head. So, premeditation, lack of hateful motivation, and someone who isn't experienced in this realm. Or at least, I assume they aren't. If I were to murder someone, Quillsh if you're listening to this, which I know you will, I am not going to murder someone, I would want to make it look accidental.

The man has one sibling, an estranged sister. She's ten years younger than him, and they never had a strong relationship in their childhood. Recently, she found herself in extreme gambling debt. I could imagine she was betting on the money from her father's will, but once she found out she wasn't getting it, well…I believe his sister murdered him. Not believe, I know she did, I just need to convince the police officer, though they seem hesitant to believe the opinion of a child."

He rolls 'child' over his tongue vitriolically.

"Which is ridiculous to me because they essentially enlisted my help, but I digress.

After reading some novels, whose names I will not disclose for my ego's purpose, I discovered that talking to yourself can help you better conceptualize ideas. I'll have Quillsh help me put together a case brief later."

L shakes the recorder.

"Now, how do I turn this thing off?"

Light is, well, to put it honestly, scowling on the couch with a bow in his hair. His sister stands next to him, her hands permanently caught in his hair through the flash of the camera. She's beaming, a mischievous smile creasing the corners of her lips. It looks as if she's about to speak, and Light seems thoroughly unamused by the idea.

He has a line of shakily drawn eyeliner around his eyes, which resembles more a raccoon than a model or whatever Sayu was intending. His hands are gripping the couch cushions with what could only be considered vitriol.

It's evening, evident from the setting sun seen through the window behind them. Light's still wearing the pants of his school uniform, and his bag is leaning against the cushions next to him. He had to have been there for hours if it isn't clear by the annoyance on his face. Sayu seems to be going in for a grab of his cheeks, lipstick dangling loosely from her fist.

The night is not finished.

The magazine is creased along its spine, with some of the pages sticking awry from where they have been torn and shifted. There are lumps where images have been glued in or where pages with especially creative outfits have been dog-eared.

The largest page is a collage of sorts. A girl with a short fringe is smiling into the camera, a Vivienne Westwood necklace pasted to her neck and a frilly skirt drawn onto her legs in Sharpie. It still smells like it, the pages reeking of glue, markers, and hope.

One of the pages near the middle, a spread of "pieces," is cut into slices, parts of outfits scattered along the rest of the magazine. A pair of cross earrings is circled with the characters for love these!! written next to them in glittery gel pen.

There's a note next to a model with platinum blonde hair reading, check prices and another next to a Victoria's Secret Fashion Show saying sooo cool!

The final page of the magazine serves as a vision board. Misa has written her full name, characters bold against the background. Around her name, she's glued, stapled, drawn, and written pieces, ideas, and statements. In large lettering, it says Dream big, Misa.

The girl on the box is smiling at the camera, her fist resting beneath her jaw, with a red headband in her blonde hair. Her face is so smooth it looks illustrated. Above her head is the distinct logo for Palty Bubble hair dye in the cafe au lait chiffon shade.

The box is cracked open; the cardboard torn eagerly. On the counter next to it are a stain of bleach, wet instructions, and a photo of Paris Hilton.

The desk is covered with pencil marks. Some pressed through layers of paper; others scribbled accidentally. There's a paper to the side, Light's name written neatly in the top corner, the edges of characters veering off the edge onto the wood.

The marks aren't unique to a single study session. There're the remnants of a math problem in one corner and half an essay in the other.

Mixed in with the markings is a report card. The grades are stellar, as they always are, but the comment is less so.

Light is a brilliant student and a pleasure to have in class, but he struggles to thoroughly engage with the material and appears disinterested.

On the table are an assortment of candy wrappers and a few coins, as if someone had dumped the contents of the bottom of their bag and called it a day.

Gushers, Sherbert Straws, Flying Saucers, and Wham bars mixed in with 20p coins.

The wrappers themselves are licked clean, sticky remnants pulled from their interior. There's not a crumb in sight. The stack of wrappers is so large it seems excessive, the work of several children, but it's the work of one.

L, who is stewing over case files, while grinding gushers between his teeth rather than mashing them together. L, who wouldn't eat a single thing of substance, were it not for Quillsh forcing nutrient-dense foods down his throat.

Another Wham wrapper joins the pile.

Misa stares at the clouds shifting through the sky. She is sixteen years old and just secured the role of her dreams, advertising for a company she doesn't care about. But none of that matters. She was going to model. Amane Misa was going to be on TV, on billboards, in magazines: on store shelves. She was becoming a household name.

Misa took in a breath of the cool air, allowing it to sweep through her dyed hair. She recently stopped using box dye and got herself into a real salon, so the roots are no longer a lingering reminder of who she was. It's freeing; it's kind of her brand.

She bites into the popsicle melting in her fist and smiles at nothing. The weather isn't great. It never is this time of the year, but she's so happy. So happy. For the first time, she's carving out a slot for herself in the world.

The concrete is cold beneath Light's shoes. His tennis racket swings in his hand. He had just won the national championships, though he felt very little. Winning, succeeding, all of it, is what Light does. There's no world where he isn't in first place. It feels as natural as breathing.

He supposes he should be excited, so he puts on a smile and ignores the coldness soaking through his t-shirt.

When he won, his mother smiled at him, and his father clapped him on the back. He wishes Sayu could've been there, but she was busy studying for an upcoming exam, and it's not like he expected her to throw away her responsibilities for him.

Before he could squeeze into the car and answer his parents' incessant questions, he asked to walk home. The cold air was a way to relax his muscles, he said. His parents believed him.

Really, he just wanted a moment of quiet. Sure, he valued his success, but the people around him put far too much emphasis on it. It became tiring after a while, being the best. And eventually, the praise meant very little, especially when he knew he could've done better.

He missed saving an easy shot. Served the ball incorrectly. Fumbled over his own feet.

To anyone else, it was nothing. To him, it meant he shouldn't have won.

He takes a deep breath. It's fine playing on repeat in his mind like his parents' cheering.

The hotel room is far from Wammy House. As a grown man, L knows he should be moving out. People his age did that. They moved on. But he never saw a purpose in it.

L also knows he should appreciate Santa Marta, but his stress makes it difficult to do so. The city is beautiful and cool from the coastal wind, reminding him of mornings back home in England.

Today, it's rainy, less pleasant, but it's still beautiful. He could be outside, could be researching, could be doing anything other than wallowing over a dead end.

The local police had been useless in his investigation, but he was hoping, praying, more like, the locals would be willing to help.

They weren't.

It wasn't that they were impolite, but everyone in the town he visited pretended the murder never happened. It's like their lives were stuck in the moments before blood splattered across dewy grass.

L finds it difficult to imagine acting the same afterwards. You'd think there would be talk. He thought that in small towns, everyone knows everything.

L was at a loss. The crime scene itself was washed away by the frequent showers, and it's not like he could just stroll into the police department, declare himself king, and demand evidence. As much as he wanted to. Quillsh convinced him out of it.

He huffs, resting his arms on the windowsill. The rain was coming down hard, rebounding off the glass in fat globs. It annoyed him to no end that the world continued while he stagnated.

Damn.

At the age of eight, L Lawliet found himself at the front entrance of Quillsh Wammy’s study. The room, which was relatively large, had bookshelves lining the walls and an oak desk in the middle with neatly stacked paperwork.

Quillsh Wammy himself was a large, quiet man. To a young L, his presence and awkward demeanour filled the room so that he felt cast astray. Mixed with the boredom of being dragged across England and the hole in his chest where photos of his parents and the soft arms of his grandmother sat, L was quite uncomfortable.

“Sit down.” Quillsh gestured to the chair in front of him.

L crept up to it as if the floor would swallow him whole and folded his body in on itself when he sat. Quillsh did not chastise him on it as his grandmother would have, though he longed to hear her voice.

“I’m sure you’re having a difficult time understanding the situation right now. It must be hard for a child your age to go through such loss in so little time.”

He nodded along, but barely understood what was being said. L scarcely remembered his parents, being placed under his grandmother’s care at the age of four following an unnamed tragedy that made her tear up whenever he asked.

It didn’t take long for him to discover the newspaper clippings: a late-night accident following heavy rainfall. A car hydroplaning (a word he promptly searched in a weathered copy of the Cambridge Dictionary) off the side of a bridge under construction.

And by the definition of ‘hydroplaning,’ he assumed his parents were dead, though he didn’t quite know what that meant. The nurses at his grandmother’s bedside insisted it was painless and like sleeping, but L couldn’t imagine why his parents (and grandmother) were gone forever if they would just wake up. It all confused him horribly, and even when he asked for an honest explanation, the nurses would pat him on the head and tell him they’re terribly sorry.

He guessed Quillsh was speaking about death. L supposed he must seem upset, though he didn’t feel it, other than the occasional pang to hold his grandmother’s hand.

“You’re a smart boy, L, and I’m hoping to make you feel at home at Wammy’s House. Would you like to choose a room?”

L nodded again, still not understanding why he wasn’t allowed back at his grandmother’s or why he needed to be comfortable in a place he had no intention of staying at.

He ended up in a room facing the back garden. At night, the tree outside would shudder against his window, and L struggled to fall asleep with the noise.

Though he rarely saw them, there were two other boys around his age in the house. One had a peculiar interest in bugs and small animals, and the other rarely spoke, instead turning his attention to the library.

As the seasons changed and L’s room gradually filled with the belongings he left at his grandmother’s, it became clear to him that he would not be leaving. He thought briefly of escaping, but decided it wasn’t worth the struggle and worked on the puzzle books Quillsh gifted him.

His childhood at Wammy’s House wasn’t awful by any standards. He was fed, clothed, housed, and Quillsh Wammy was a kind man, but as an adult, he often wondered how he would have turned out exposed to the real world. It was really a nature versus nurture debate.

When he turned thirteen, after growing increasingly bored with the simple puzzle books, and even the ‘complicated’ ones, Quillsh gave him his first proper case alongside the moniker L.

Solving it, which he did in under a month (the man’s sister murdered him for a greater inheritance in the will), gave him a rush which felt like a sugar high, or stimulants, as he discovered later in life during downtime between cases.

Detective work, as L would soon uncover, was a nasty business. Establishing himself meant abandoning his identity as L Lawliet, the orphan boy who liked his grandmother’s sourdough bread and could barely remember his mother’s voice, and becoming L, the prodigy.

He never felt lonely being nothing more than a letter, though Quillsh became increasingly concerned with his ‘antisocial’ behaviour as a teenager. All the children he housed were different, but he encouraged them to engage with society, which L found dreadfully boring.

It wasn’t that he was maliciously antisocial; rather, tepid conversation with stupid people was mind-numbing, and none of the other children had any interest in speaking to him.

Despite L’s attempts to convince Quillsh of this fact, he still worried, ensuring he was working on the latest case and not researching “Top 10 Ways to Commit a Murder and Hide the Body” or “Serial Killer-ing 101.”

Detective work, L also discovered, was particularly dramatic. Once he really broke into the scene, and by really, Quillsh was no longer scouting cases for him, rather local police agencies and eventually international ones were searching for him, he found himself between two fighting detectives.

Eraldo Coil and Deneuve.

It was in 1999, shortly before L’s twentieth birthday, in a cold airport in France, that he heard of the detective wars. Quillsh sat beside him, snuggled in a winter coat, and held an email up to his face to read.

By now, Quillsh no longer worried about the possibility of L becoming a serial killer, accepting his eccentricity as, well, being eccentric, and nothing too dangerous to society, which proved useful in getting his permission (and company) to travel internationally.

“Hmm,” L shrugged.

He didn’t care much for the internal workings of his “job.” People left the field and they entered it, but none were as good as him. Still, the idea of a competition, one he could surely win, piqued his interest.

“What are the stakes?”

Quillsh frowned. “You can’t be seriously considering it.”

“You showed it to me knowing I would consider.” He leaned in closer, poking his finger at Quillsh’s brick of a cellphone. Though at the time, it was revolutionary to hold a computer in your back pocket (or front jacket pocket for Quillsh). “Reschedule our flight. I believe I would like to stay in France for a while to discuss this further.”

And that’s how L ended up in detective drama, fighting for his title and right to pursue a career in the field.

Coil and Deneuve were far more experienced than he. Though he never knew their ages, the information from their previous cases led him to believe they were in their late-forties and fifties, respectively.

The case itself was rather complex, and L spent nights wondering if he had made the right decision. He was intelligent in his own right, but he was young, and frankly, thinking back on it, incredibly naive.

L was risking the possibility of his entire livelihood, more than his livelihood, his reason for living, on the bet that he would best two of the world’s greatest detectives on a 50-year-old cold case with no leads.

Eventually, a month after he turned twenty, L had a breakthrough.

He was lost in a small town on the border between France and Monaco, the people speaking only their native Monégasque and not a hint of French. It was the most draining experience of his career at the time, driving him to the brink of giving up.

Until he discovered, by coincidence, a young girl with rusty French who directed him to the nearest roadway, where he found a train station and made his way back to Quillsh.

It was then he considered the possibility of the murders themselves being coincidences.

Against his better judgment, he followed the theory, uncovering the lives of three students in Nantes: an international student from Switzerland, a Belgian on a school trip, and a local, who all murdered townsfolk in similar ways, only weeks apart each time.

It was ridiculous and thrilling and possibly the best moment of L’s life.

L bested the world’s two greatest detectives with half of their experience and became them.

He was no longer L or L Lawliet or the prodigy; he was now Eraldo Coil and Deneuve as well, claiming years of experience and lives which were not his own.

Quillsh warned him about the path he was following, that he was getting caught up in identities that did not belong to him, but L didn’t listen.

An alias was an alias was him.

There was no him without the rush of solving a puzzle, though regular cases bored him after the detective wars. He needed something complex, something challenging.

Which pushed him towards Beyond Birthday and eventually towards Yagami Light.

Kira was brilliant, by L’s standards, but also incredibly naive. It—he—reminded him a lot of himself, before he became a letter on a screen and the person to call when there was no solution.

In all honesty, L idealized Kira. Not because he agreed with his ideology—L didn’t particularly care for anything Kira believed in, but because he was different. Kira dared to do what others didn’t, and L admired that.

He admired it enough to set up a new headquarters in Japan, Quillsh becoming Watari, and L becoming Rue Ryuuzaki, a tribute to his (second) favourite serial killer to date.

Every new discovery about Kira was riveting. A student in the Kanto region, a young man, a genius: someone of L’s calibre. He grew antsy waiting to meet him.

Watari, reasonable as always, advised him against it, but L had a hunch, and more than a hunch, he had a desire. When L wants, there is little stopping him from fulfilling his craving.

So, he put on a new identity, one that would not get him immediately killed by Kira, and met Yagami Light at the To-Oh University Entrance Exams as Hideki Ryuuga.

And eventually introduced himself as L, though the identity he held matters less then than it did when he was young. It was only done to shock Light into confession, though his stunned silence said enough.

Then, he invited Light onto the Task Force. Like solving a case, Light actually accepting the invitation sent fire through his veins.

The second Kira proved less interesting, and by the third, L was worn out.

He was Hideki Ryuuga, Rue Ryuuzaki, L, and Eraldo Coil once more. L grew bored with identities and wished for something new.

With Light and Misa in captivity and the Task Force stewing with doubt, L was forced to confront himself.

He couldn’t be wrong. L has never been wrong. The problem was convincing those below him that he was right, pushing them out of his way so he could continue with his plan.

If the Task Force had been there during the detective wars, he would have lost, and there’s nothing L hated more than the taste of loss on his tongue, sour like salad greenery.

So he pushed forward, ignored their pleas, watched the murders stop and start again, watched the Yotsuba Group rise and fall, predicted his own death.

Once Yagami Light touched the Death Note, once L touched it and saw the Shinigami, he knew it was over.

He was no longer naive, though as his end ticked nearer, he felt incredibly young, and knew what this meant.

L continued his work, forced himself to ignore the clock ticking in his mind and wondered which name of his would be written in the Death Note.

Wondered if he was still the same L Lawliet as he was seventeen years ago, alone and confused and struggling to conceptualize death.

Wondered what it all meant, living in a jumbled identity, where he became a new person until he was so many people he was none.

Though, at least, if he were to die, which, as the Task Force computers shut off from Watari’s kill switch, he knew he would, L would finally have a concrete answer to what death is.

If he died in a hospital bed or at the bottom of a river, it would have been more conclusive, but a chair surrounded by a murderer of his degree and shocked faces was close enough.

“Don’t you think your costume is a little too on the nose, Light?” Ryuuk laughs, flicking the scythe lying on Light’s desk.

“It’s popular in America.” He slides his pen into the cupholder. “Plus, Sayu got it for me, and she wouldn’t let me leave the house without it.”

“Your love for the Shinigami is flattering. I think you might care about death more than I do.” 

The tassels on Ryuuk’s belt jingle as he swirls around the room, dragging his long nails through pumpkin and ghost garlands. 

Light swivels with a scowl. “My mom put those up; stop playing with them.” He shoves his homework into a black bag with a purple spider on the front, slipping a pencil into his pants pocket. “Of course, I care about death more than you do. All the Shinigami are indifferent. Some humans are, too.” 

“Killing people isn’t as fun as it seems.” The ghost charm falls from his hand and knocks against the wall. 

“I’m not killing people.” Light shrugs his cloak over his head. “There’s a difference between the Death Note and murder. I’m–”

“All you humans are so naïve.” Ryuuk interrupts. “I don’t have enough apples to listen to you get philosophical with me.”

Light rolls his eyes. “I have to go downstairs. Sayu and her friends are waiting for me.”

He tip-toes out of his door, careful to avoid the attention of Sayu’s friends giggling in the kitchen. Ryuuk trails behind him, throwing nail clippings into the carpet. Though Light knows no one else will see them, he glares at the disrespect. 

“You know, I’ve been reading some of those philosophy books you have on your shelf.”

Light nods, hoping Ryuuk will shut up. He doesn’t.

“That guy–what’s his name–Socrates?” He scratches his head. “Well, whatever his name is, he’s annoying. So human. All of you think too much for creatures who can die so easily. At least Shinigami are hard to kill.”

Light bites his cheek. The night should run smoothly if he can find some apples and maybe a pair of headphones. 

He meets his sister and her friends at the dining table, glancing at the water bottles stuffed into the girl’s purse next to him.

“You aren’t drinking, are you, Sayu?”

She guffaws and crosses her arms over her cat costume as a blush rises to her cheeks. “What!? No way. Don’t be such a prude, Light.”

“Light-kun is right,” L says, exiting the kitchen, already holding a handful of candies. “Drinking so young will make you stupid.”

“Ryuuzaki,” Light frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s a rude way to say hello to your guest.” He itches up his pant leg with his bare foot. “Your sister invited me in. Don’t you like my costume?” L smiles, wearing nothing but his regular clothing. Chocolate lines his gums. 

Light pinches between his brows. He might need to borrow a water bottle. 

“What are you supposed to be? A nuisance?”

“Light!” Sayu hits his arm. “Be nice to our guest. Ryuuzaki was just saying how helpful Dad’s been on the investigation.” She raises her eyebrows.

“Light-kun, you seem a bit—short-tempered. Is something the matter? Is it my costume?”

Like the annoying child he is, L flicks the edge of Light’s scythe. Ryuuk cackles, and Light swears a blood vessel in his forehead bursts.

“Your costume is quite fitting,” he leans in, the scent of chocolate and caramel hitting Light’s cheek. “Kira.” Light nearly combusts.

Ryuuk snorts, “Is this what you humans call reality TV?” 

Sayu’s friend, a short chubby girl who was obviously interested in Light a year earlier, laughs. “What are you two whispering about? Sayu says you’re part of an important investigation, Yagami-senpai. Is it about that?”

“Are girls your age supposed to be this nosey?” L tilts his head like he’s truly interested in the question he just asked. Itsuko, whose name Light only just remembered, flushes.

“What—no—I,” she sputters, adjusting the halo on her head. “Your brother’s friend is so mean, Sayu!”

“Light, tell Ryuuzaki to be nice. He’s upsetting my friends.”

L raises his hands defensively. “I was only asking a question.”

Light tightens his grip on his scythe. “Lay off, Ryuuzaki. You can’t barge in while you’re not even wearing a costume and act like you own the place.”

“But I am wearing a costume! I’m the world’s best detective. Like Sherlock Holmes.” He pops a chocolate into his mouth and throws the wrapper onto the floor.

Light turns to his sister, forcing a smile. “Are you ready to get going, Sayu? I saw some cool houses on my way back from school.” 

She nods, her cat ears bouncing as she hops down the hallway, arms linked with her friends.

While walking by L, Light hisses, “Behave. And pick up your garbage.”

His eyes widen, and a grin stretches across his chapped lips. Light hates him. “35%, Kira.”

“Shut up.”

“40%.”

The night is bitter, burning against Light’s cheeks. By the second block, his scythe is an uncomfortable weight in his fist. His cloak collects leaves and everything else on the ground within a metre distance.

L chews loudly on a gummy candy he pried from the hands of a little kid in a dinosaur costume. He only shrugged when they burst into tears, walking away before their mother could chew him out. 

For the smartest man in the world, he’s incredibly grating and inconsiderate. Every time he opens his weird, chapped mouth, Light fights the urge to whack him over the head with his scythe. It would probably raise his Kira percentage, whatever that means. 

“Light-kun,” he starts for the twelfth time that night. “Are you popular with kids your age?”

Light squawks. “Excuse me?”

“Well, I was just wondering since you seem to be out at Halloween with your sister instead of at a party. Now that you’re in university, I’m sure there are several parties you could go to, unless you weren’t invited, of course.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem showing up unannounced, Ryuuzaki,” he snaps.

“It wasn’t a personal insult, Light-kun. Merely a question.”

Ryuuk grips Light’s shoulders, dangling an earring in his face. “Light,” he whines. “When are we getting apples? I didn’t come out here for nothing! Not that this isn’t pretty interesting.”

Light swats his hand backwards. L’s gaze follows the movement, calculating, deciphering. His mind works faster than any regular person could imagine. Light despises him for it. 

“Yes, I’m popular with people my age, which I’m sure you wouldn’t understand.” 

L sucks on a lollipop, nodding.

“My priorities are set on school and the investigation. I’m only here to chaperone Sayu.” Light sidesteps a child wearing a sheet ghost costume, brushing against L’s shoulder. He’ll need to take a shower later.

Sayu’s friend in a devil costume laughs, jogging down the street to a house lit with red lanterns and covered in fake cobwebs. Several children crowd around the entrance to the garage, which is lined with caution tape. 

“Light,” she calls. “Let’s go into the haunted house!”

Light shakes his head with a laugh. “You go in with your friends. I’ll wait out here for you.”

“You’re no fun,” Sayu whines as she jumps into the garage with a giggle. 

Itsuko frowns, though Light can barely make out her lips in the darkness. “Are you sure, Yagami-senpai? You have the perfect costume for it!”

“Don’t worry,” L beams, wrapping his arm around Light’s shoulders. Light shrugs him off with a grimace. “Light-kun will have fun out here with me.”

Itsuko’s frown deepens and creases around her eyes and chin. Light feels the same, wanting nothing more than to deck L in the street, but that would draw too much attention.

“Don’t say things like that, Ryuuzaki. It’s weird.” 

“Am I not allowed to spend Halloween with my best friend?” He tilts his head like a dog.

Ryuuk scratches his arm, flaking off pieces of snow-white skin. “Does this mean I’m getting that apple, Light?”

“We aren’t friends.” Ryuuk opens his mouth again, and Light whacks him with his scythe, receiving a glare and a groan.

“That’s a little insulting.” 

L whips out another candy bar from his pocket. The wrapper is melted into the milk chocolate. He licks it while making direct eye contact. God, Light hates him.

“I thought we were friends.”

It takes all of his willpower not to laugh in L’s face. 

“Huh, did you?”

L drops onto the corner of the sidewalk and leans backwards on his hands to look up at the sky. 

“I wonder, Light-kun, if this means anything.”

Light furrows his brows. “Why so philosophical all of a sudden? Did I hurt your feelings that badly?”

“Look at the sky.”

Light tilts his head up, catching nothing out of the ordinary. The moon glows softly, overshadowed by heavy clouds. Streaks of blue and purple brush the edges of stars. It’s pretty, but Light doesn’t think much of those things. It would be prettier from above. 

“Is everything alright, Ryuuzaki?”

“Light-kun,” he sighs. “Why won’t you admit you’re Kira?”

“Excuse me? Stop saying things like that while we’re in public.” Light plops down on the sidewalk, far from where L is sitting. He rests his scythe on his knees. “You know I’m not. These accusations are ridiculous.”

He frowns, tipping his head down and obscuring his bug eyes with overgrown bangs. “I guess I should have known you wouldn’t confess like that.” L chews his cheek and pulls another chocolate out of his bag. “I always liked you, Yagami Light. Even if you are Kira.”

Light clenches his fists. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” L shrugs. He takes a bite of his chocolate and holds the remainder out to Light. “Want a piece?”

“That’s disgusting. How can you go from accusing me of being a serial murderer to offering me chocolate?”

“I know a few serial murderers who like chocolate.” The candy stains the tips of his fingers brown. He brushes them on his dark blue pants, already overlaid with stains. For the second time, he’s wearing a pair of beat-up tennis shoes. 

Light rolls his eyes. Of course, he knows serial murderers. That weirdo probably is one. “I don’t like sweet things.”

“100%, Light-kun, or should I call you Kira? What type of monster doesn’t like sweets?”

Light opens and closes his mouth but decides against commenting. He inhales and looks up at the sky once more. The colours are muted, but flashes of reds and oranges reflect from children laughing and strewn candy wrappers. 

“Even if you are Kira, Light–” It’s the first time he says Light’s name with any sense of honesty– ”I would still wish you a Happy Halloween.”

“Thanks, Ryuuzaki.”

“So, do you like my costume?” He meets Light’s gaze with a wry smile. 

Light hates him, but for the moment, all he sees are bug eyes and chapped lips, so human he feels ink on his fingers.  

“Happy Halloween, Ryuuzaki. I think Sayu is calling for me.”

On his way home, Light tugs a plush apple from the tree and tosses it to Ryuuk. His mind spins with accusations as his scythe drags on the ground. Ryuuk says nothing. 

I wonder, Light-kun, if this means anything.

It means more than L could ever imagine. 

After Lind L. Tailor dies, Yagami Light and L Lawliet proclaim themselves justice. They are righteousness itself, embodying morality. 

Light believes he represents the law of the unheard. He will represent the common people and strip the world of what ails them. As a young man, he’s told he’s idealistic, but Light knows justice and divine punishment is what he searches for. 

L knows he represents the industry and the system, but in his mind, he works for his interests. He serves the people because it serves him. Every case solved, every puzzle finished, brings him a high no sugary food can. It is pure ecstasy. L does not know justice, but finds pleasure in competing against Kira. If Kira is justice, he must be better. L Lawliet must be morality. 

In the media, Kira becomes an ominous figure. To some, he is a god. To others, he is a serial murderer. Yagami Light revels in the status. Those who worship him understand what it means to be virtuous. They get his dedication and know Kira will not harm the innocent. Because that is justice, ridding the world of evil to protect the weak. Light doesn’t see it any differently than the death penalty. 

L Lawliet hides in Kira’s shadow, slinking along the computer-lit walls to search for any clues leading himself to the murderer. No one knows him, truly knows him. Interpol sees him as only a black cursive L on a white screen.

Kira is young, he can tell, too idealistic and risky in his methods. Though L never cared much for fantasy, he was young once, as well, and he knows the euphoria of youth. 

There’s a reason the world works the way it does. When L was young, he thought he could change that, at least for himself. In his ever-working mind, he thought catching criminals would satiate the need inside himself, but it didn’t. He assumes Kira is similar, satisfied only by gorging himself on false realities. 

Yagami Light scans the list of criminals on death row, cataloguing their names and faces in his head. They wear guilt in their eyes as if they didn’t commit the crime. Light loathes them. There’s no guilt in criminality, and there’s no justice in forgiveness. In Kira’s world, he’ll fix all of it.

Light will fix the system with his bare hands if it means the world is free of cruelty. As he scribbles names into the Death Note, Ryuk cackles, throwing his head back with glee. He wipes a tear from his eye and tosses an apple into his mouth. 

“Yagami Light,” he beams. “You are one interesting human.”

L Lawliet spins a piece of hair around his finger, melting a sugar cube on his tongue. The night before, Kira murdered nearly all the criminals on Japan’s death row. One by one, they clutched their chests, falling to their knees as prison wardens scrambled to find the next victim. 

The last to be killed was a woman with a name L can’t remember. Her execution warrant was signed by the Minister of Justice five days earlier, but they said nothing until the day of. It’s policy, L understands. If an inmate kills themself to avoid death, no correct punishment is served. 

They walked her to the execution chamber, down a long corridor past rows of other inmates gawking and pointing. The officers even tied the noose. Before they could slip it around her neck, she collapsed, gasping for breath and holding her chest. Kira. 

“It’s immoral!” A man L knows as Yagami Soichiro, the NPA’s chief, shouts. “Our society will become lawless if we don’t follow procedure.”

L tugs on his hair. The computer light burns his eyes, and he’s forced to shut them. Stars dance on his eyelids. He imagines it will look the same when he dies. 

The American grunts in approval. “It’s Japan’s job to catch him, and they better do it soon. It’s dangerous leaving a criminal like that running around.”

When Yagami Light was young, he read a statistic in his law class. In Japan, only 1-2% of rape cases ever go punished. The rest are left to walk free, spreading their contamination and filth to the surrounding cities. 

He’s seen criticisms of Kira, that he’s killing those who haven’t been punished. His supporters understand. Kira must erase the failures of the justice system.

Light wonders, late at night when sleep fails him, if L believes in anything. He can never come to a logical conclusion. Unlike his physics problems, where acceleration for gravity is always -9.8 m/s^2, L does not follow a pattern. Yagami Light is a genius. He looks past patterns to see the full truth, that air resistance will impact acceleration because of gravity, but there is nothing logical to L. There is nothing particularly illogical, either.

He serves as a facet of the government, the same government that fails judicial justice before Light’s eyes. The thing is, L is independent. He works alongside the government to support his self-interests. As a detective, he must value justice. Light can never decipher why he attempts desperately to destroy Kira. 

Sometimes, on these nights, Light prides himself on L’s opposition. Like the story of Jesus’ crucifixion or Horus’ missing eye, one can’t achieve true godliness without conflict. 

Yagami Light’s devotion comes from his boredom, and maybe—L offers him a cure. 

L’s heard every statistic in the book, from the facts on murders in the USA to Japan’s 99% conviction rate. The people waiting in a cell, the ones Kira killed, may be innocent. They may clasp their hands together at night and pray to be released. Kira is young and naïve because he sees the justice system as an accurate entity. L is old enough to know better, though he doesn’t care.

There’s a reason for things in the world, and there is sometimes no reason at all. If it doesn’t interest him, it serves him nothing. Kira, on the other hand, interests him. 

See, L Lawliet is permanently bored: blase, apathetic, disinterested; whatever the word of the month is. There’s no reason to take every case handed to him when none of them strikes him. A serial murder with a typical solution, a murder-suicide, a theft; none of it matters. What matters is the chase. If L can’t play a game, he tosses the case aside and sends Watari to find more.

Though L would never admit it to his successors, wide-eyed and prepared to serve justice on a silver platter, he doesn’t care about honour. Punished or unpunished, what matters most to him is that, even for a moment, his insatiable hunger is satiated; that the hole building inside his chest from childhood closes to not cave him in two. 

L Lawliet is miserable without a good game, and Kira gives him that. He’s never met someone of the same calibre. Kira is like a mirror. It thrills him.

Light aces his university entrance exams as expected. The school is crowded with people, pinching the collars of their blouses and button-ups, pacing at the thought of waiting another hour in the too-bright lecture hall. 

He places himself near the front row, prepared for when his name is called to the stage. Light planned his speech days before. Some would call it cocky, just like they call Kira a fantasy, but nothing is idealism when it’s bound to be reality. 

A strange man sits next to him. His hair is unkempt, and he smells of sugar and coffee. Light hates him, but is struck with a burning familiarity. When they announce the two highest scores, Ryuuga Hideki rises with him. What a phony!

Light gives his speech like practiced, not stumbling over a single word. Ryuuga fumbles, gripping the microphone too tight and making it squeak. He coils a finger in his hair. Light’s suspicion only grows. 

When Light returns to the seats, avoiding where they previously sat, Ryuuga follows him. He draws his legs to his chest and stares at Light with those beady, wide eyes. 

“I’m L.” 

Yagami Light was bored, but not in the typical sense of disinterest. Light cared for various things: school, his parents, his sister, morality, justice. The list goes on. The thing is, life was monotonous. 

Every day, Light suffered the same idiotic ramblings of his peers. Did you hear that Aiko-chan is dating Haruto? I got so drunk at that party last night! Hey, Yagami-kun, do you have the answers to the homework?

It wasn’t limited to school. Wherever Light went, he was tortured with the knowledge of his superiority. These people wasted their time gossiping and chatting about nonsense, living out their immoral lives without a care in the world.

Maybe life was more than monotonous. It was torturous until Light saw the Death Note. 

He brushed it off as chain mail. Idiots loved those things. Forward this email, or you’ll be subjected to Reiko Kashima’s curse. Light scoffed but shoved the book into his school bag anyway. The black cover stained his hands. Call it morbid curiosity.

At his desk, Light flipped through the blank pages, fascinated and disgusted at the effort in creating the prank. He pushed it into his drawer, fighting the itch in his hands.

Light scribbled a few math problems into his workbook, glancing from his neat handwriting to the TV on his side table. He huffed and grabbed the remote. Morbid curiosity.

The news channel broadcasted the face of Otoharada Kurou, an older man hijacking a daycare. Light scowled as glee flooded his body. What depravity. 

In his seventeen years of life, he has heard several arguments against the death penalty but disagreed with all of them. Men like Otoharada deserve to die. When activists say it’s immoral to kill another human being, he nearly laughs. Is it not the pinnacle of morality to remove filth from this earth? The justice system exists to rid Japan of depraved criminals. He has never felt the urge to defend them.

Light scribbled Otoharada’s name, keeping his face in mind like the notebook said. He looked at his watch, noting the seconds ticking by. Forty seconds. In forty seconds, the world would be free of Otoharada. 

Thirty-five seconds passed, and nothing happened. Light flushed. He couldn’t believe himself, falling victim to a stupid prank like a common fool, too stuck in the emotions of it all. He shook his head, returning to his math problems.

The reporter gasped. Light swiveled, jumping from his chair to stare at the TV in horror. Otoharada died. Light killed him. Thickness welled in his throat, black like the ink staining Otoharada’s name on the Death Note’s page. Yagami Light killed a man. He wanted to vomit.

When Light picked up his pencil, his hands shook furiously. The reporter continued in the background, her words rattling between his ears. He couldn’t believe it worked. Was he a murderer?

He ran his fingers along the Death Note’s cover, sliding it inside his desk drawer. For the first time, Yagami Light was no longer bored. 

Light gripped his cram school books under his arm, slinking into the bright 7-Eleven. On his walk home, he watched the degeneracy unfold around him like clockwork. Darkness brought out the wicked, and he began believing the creatures of the night in horror films were nothing more than amalgamations of Tokyo’s midnight streets.

Drunks stumbling out of bars, harassing any woman they can get their hands on. Students around his age, hanging off the arms of older men from the club they got into with their fake IDs. People had no shame, no decency. It revolted him. While they weren’t criminals, Light couldn’t deny the world would be better off without them.

A scream sounded from outside the store. Light looked up from the rows of energy drinks, catching sight of a group of men assaulting a terrified woman. He sneered and ran his hands along the side of his bookbag.

Light pulled a magazine from the magazine stand and slid the Death Note between its pages. On the man’s lips hung his name: Shibuimaru Takuo. He scribbled a few iterations, crossing his fingers the kanji were right. Finally, he etched 渋井丸 拓男 [1] into the page next to plain characters reading traffic accident. 

The woman struggled from Shibuimaru’s grasp, starting down the street, her coat billowing behind her. Shibuimaru followed, revving the engine of his bike with furrowed brows.

Light scoffed. Of course, it wouldn’t work. He was naïve for thinking the first time wasn’t a fluke.  

He returned to the energy drinks, plucking out his favourite flavours. Shibuimaru’s gang shouted. Light stared at the scene; Takuo’s bike was crushed against the concrete. His hands shook, and he forced the Death Note back into his book bag. 

For the first time, Yagami Light killed someone who was not a criminal. Shibuimaru had not faced a trial in court, and he had not been found guilty.

Light stumbled out of the 7-Eleven, clutching his chest. He fell against the brick wall outside the store and felt dirty; his hands soiled with the death of an innocent. But that wasn’t a fair judgement. Shibuimaru was far from innocent. If Light hadn’t stopped him, he would’ve raped that woman. He would’ve been a criminal.

His body sparked with exhilaration. Yagami Light realized the Death Note was what he had been looking for all this time.

After Shibuimaru, Light spent his free nights scanning the NPA’s database and monitoring the news. Every stroke of his pen was liberating; every criminal erased from the world was a step closer to divinity.

The new possibilities unfurling elated Light. A world free of evil, free of cruelty. He held morality in his palm, and it was intoxicating. 

He understood the implications of his actions. Light was smart, smarter than the average person. He knew murder received the death penalty, but he would martyr himself if he had to. 

With the peoples’ interests at heart, Light trudged forward, correcting the NPA’s failures. He left the deaths blank but sensed the ripples of every heart attack along his spine. Light wanted criminals to know they were being punished. 

When he wasn’t studying or correcting, he spent some time on occult blogs, learning the intricacies of the Death Note. To his surprise, no Shinigami came to him. He imagined they observed him and agreed. 

The more he learnt about the Death Note, through use and reading, a strange reverence grew inside him. Not reverence for the Shinigami, but for the notebook itself. The gods blessed him with a tool to rid the world of evil. Light never wanted more. 

Light took his Death Note from his desk, placing it alongside his textbooks and a black pen. He scanned the list of names imprinted on the pages and flipped on the TV.

Morality and justice used to be concepts Light could only ever fantasize about. Now, he held the power to enact them in his fingers.

For the first time in his life, Yagami Light felt true, unequivocal love.