Why don’t you go home and get some rest?
Yeah, we can finish up here.
He understood at last, the level of annoyance L had displayed with the Task Force, their whole hearted eagerness to take any and everything said to them at face value not simply classified as a boon, but a hindrance when it came to the lies of others. They couldn’t be trusted to see through his enemy’s ruse and, like a child first learning to walk, must always be guided. Thankfully, their trusting nature played in his favor, falling for the age old trick of feigning exhaustion. At least by the end of the night, he wouldn’t be faking it. That certain someone had that effect on just about anyone interacting with him for longer than a few minutes and Light… Well, he’d taken to gloating for hours over who had won their showdown.
The matter of moving Misa out of the apartment hadn’t been easy but even with the addition of his living trophy, the relief he gained from her lack of presence brought him peace of mind he’d been missing since he met her. Just him. That’s the way he’d wanted it from the start.
Which begged the question he posed to himself regularly on these mild walks between work and home, just why he’d chosen to spare the only man who had consistently kept in step with him each phase of the plan. Back then, it had been a matter of wanting to savor that moment of watching Ryuzaki’s expression plummet from his perch on his mountain of Justice. He had deserved what would have come to him, if not for Yagami’s intervention. Regrettably, the old man had to go, either way. He wasn’t particularly innocent, but the fact that he had funded a sanctuary for brilliant minds which produced his greatest enemy was something Light was too petty to forgive.
But L. The bane of Kira’s existence and the sole obstruction of a perfect world still lived on, drugged to induce a minor heart attack. Seemed borderline suicidal to spare the man who wanted nothing more than your life as forfeit for your great and numerous crimes and yet here he stood, eager to return home to gloat yet again over his superiority.
The satisfying click of the front door’s lock echoed far into the empty home, proving by lack of summoning an over-exuberant blond that he was well and truly alone again.
Slender frame, gaunt from undernourishment yet not so dangerously close to being classified as such, rested against the sturdy wood of the abode’s only entrance, taking in the quiet for as long as he was allowed. No hum of computers, no idle chatter, no high pitched squealing calling his name and claiming it as ‘affection’. Just him. His thoughts. And his prisoner. A floor below, squirreled away in his most private of places, dressed in only the finest of bindings to force him to atone for the embarrassing restraints used on him during his own confinement.
At long last that itch beneath his skin drove him forward, discarding briefcase and jacket in their proper placings by door and desk, soft padding of socked feet carrying him towards his bedroom, fingers tracing over the handle of his closet to pull the shuttered doors open and part the clothes hanging on the rack like the red sea. The center panel provided him a keypad when pressed, fingerprints, retinal scan, hair sample, and voice activated security a necessity to not only keep L himself in check, but any who might seek to uncover his deepest darkest secrets. Incidentally, where he kept anything in relation to Kira that was essential only.
A small panel to his right released its air tight seal, providing a mildly musty gust of air through the small compartment, and a crack large enough for him to wiggle his fingers in and pry it open. The new joints still stiff from the factory resisted minutely as he swung the door ajar, pushed his way through the open walkway, and tapped the panel on the opposing side to close it. With how often he came down here, it was a matter of time before they became accustomed and wore down.
The spiral steps he traversed now were narrow but so spaced that they provided an easy slope downwards without consuming much room themselves and straining the legs. At the base of the stairs lay his trophy room. Occupant: 1. A man with eyes as vacant as a daydreamer’s, hair as rumbled as if he’d never brushed it a day in his life, and horrid bruises beneath his eyes that did nothing to reinforce the fact that he performed any sort of self-care.
For the redemption of the world, would Light be willing to risk the same?