*insert something sufficiently profound here*

Congratulations on your latest comeback.”

In an ideal world, I would walk past him with Kiyomi’s elegant strut, letting the slight breeze of my ironed shirt do the talking, and leave him with the condescending scent of fresh cotton. However, this is nowhere near an ideal world. I blink twice to find myself still firmly in the same space-time complex, where the idiot of an architect designed the hallways much too narrow, what I am wearing is an old hoodie of Teru’s and my eyes are unattractively squinting in the poor lighting. I stop because to continue now would just be embarrassing, and my suspensory ligaments are being stretched to their very limits by his voice. He taps my shoulder.

“Yagami. Light-kun. It is you, isn’t it?”

“Please go away, L.”

“So I’m not mistaken!” He looks as delighted as a serial killer who’s found their next victim and smiles like one too. “Wonderful. You see - if my eyes were failing me, I would have had to go to the opticians and proceed to look at life through two pieces of curved glass, which is really very sad. Imagine one’s lenses fucking up so badly you now have to hook plastic around your ears so you don’t get run over by a bus. Don’t you agree?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’m actually quite busy today, so I’m afraid I won’t be able to continue this delightful conversation. Some other time?”

“Liar.” L swivels himself around so I have to either look at him or risk breaking my neck turning the other way; I find myself seriously weighing the options here. “You have nothing for another hour, after which you must ‘prepare for interview’? And I’m certain that it isn’t so important, seeing that it’s a whole month away.”

“Yeah, okay. Go ahead and stalk my social media. Feel free to break into my room and rifle through my diary.” I have never once caught him at it, but I know it happens. I haven’t even told Misa about this interview yet. I have sent all my personal documents back home, along with Teru’s, because if even one scrap of paper of his disappeared he would put two and two together. Hell would go down. I plan to reassure him that my mother has his passport safe in a locked compartment only when the subject crops up, as per my normal considerate style. Change what you can and leave what you can’t.

“And you don’t have to prepare,” L continues. “The company will get you a script to parrot, and the fans will drink up whatever you say and twist it around their little heads until it looks good enough to immortalise. Send the prime minister a death threat or call for more representation in the music industry, it all turns out well on screen.”

“Since you know everything, right? I won’t say it again: I don’t want to talk about this. How come you’re the only lyricist I’ve met who is this obnoxious?”

“Here, Light, an interview of my own. How come your latest comeback is a disgrace to the name of the industry?”

I make to leave, but I won’t and I never do. L knows that too. He’s stopped with the sweet nothings swirled along the shell of my ear, fairytale fantasies Misa would die for, and is working into the more effective strategy of simply telling me what he wants and fucking me over that way. His hand is on my chest and we topple over, a pile of dirty laundry conspicuous in the corridor. It starts off differently but always ends the same. I don’t get up.

“I don’t know what you have against a generic beat and some simpler harmonies,” I gasp. “I don’t know why you work here if you’re so against it all. You’ve preached this sermon one too many times.”

“It’s more than that,” L argues. “It’s how you all use the same beats, the same harmonies, every damn release. And just so you know, it sounds terrible. Anything goes if you’re pretty enough. You rob music of a soul.”

“And people like it. We make it onto the charts. Music is all about the reception.”

“Then why are you still here,” L asks, “listening to the likes of me? You know I’m right, Light-kun. You’re smart, you know you’re not an artist, just a model, no matter what you want. And when you’re gone, there will always be another prettier young man who can scream over a backing track. Then again, maybe not.” He runs a hand down my jaw and I freeze. “Your beauty is extraordinary.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss. I wonder if his blood would taste like iron if I pounced for his lip.

“Oh dear, are we getting angry already? No matter. I’ll find you again when your lucky stars uncross and you hate yourself enough to fuel my starving sadism.”

Scowling, I grab his wrists and shove him off me. L doesn’t resist, letting himself be tackled to the floor as I stand up and brush off imaginary dust, the same singular smirk etched onto his face. Sometimes, he stops and I look and I think he is a student’s first attempt at working marble, white and unyielding and lopsided yet in which is implemented such high ideas, such depth of thought. I tell myself he doesn’t scare me, but I never willingly look him in the eye.

“Think of me,” he’s singing, “think of me fondly.” He’s still curled up, diaphragm constricted but doesn’t so much as stutter on the notes. It rubs me up in all the wrong ways, not least because Phantom of the Opera is my favourite musical and he knows that, since I did once entrust the titbits of my life to his tender mercies. L is as untender as you can get in a world where euthanasia exists. Not that I like that sort of thing, no, that was just one pathetic theory of a netizen on crack, hung, drawn and quartered within hours by my fans. I never think about it anymore.

“You need medical attention,” I announce, “and I’m leaving.” Isn’t it that, if you tell a lie enough, it becomes the truth? “I’m going to report you for repeatedly inappropriate behaviour. I’m going to file a restraining order. I’ll find out who the fuck you really are, unless you’re going to start convincing me you really are just a humble lyricist. Don’t you believe human nature is intrinsically consumerist? I’m not satisfied with one letter of the Latin alphabet and you should know that.”

“Poor Light. I would have thought you had better things to moan about.”

“In an ideal world.” Which, as I oft state, this is not. “Alas, to such devices have we descended.”

L starts to laugh. More precisely, he opens his pale mouth and sound falls out. It is something of a cross between a frog reaching orgasm and an untrained voice straining for countertenor. I am disgusted. A century ago and I would have had permission to toss him on a burning stake. It’s amazing how fast Not entirely consciously, I step back from the train wreck.