#+misa

The rules of the death note were simple.

1) The human whose name is written in this note shall die. 2) The note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected. 3) If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds of writing the person's name, it will happen. 4) If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.

And you—who are you? The answer depends on who’s asking. To the public, you’re a celeb. People admire you from a distance. To them—you're an object to appreciate and put on a pedestal nothing more, nothing less. Every expression is rehearsed, every word is calculated with purpose. 

You live a double life. They think they know you…the truth is they don’t. Because when you go deeper than the studio lights, formulated scripts and staged emotions there's something else. Something real.

Recently, news about a ‘god of justice’ has been going around. Some sort of phenomenon has been killing all the criminals. They call ‘him’ Kira. 

You’re Kira. Not the one the world fears though. Not the name whispered with equal parts reverence and terror across every news channel. But you’re close enough to it that the line barely matters anymore. 

You’re the second Kira. It didn’t begin with ambition, or even an obsession with justice, or even desperation if you're honest. It began with curiosity. A notebook, dropped into your life like a mistake. Rules written in plain language, almost laughable in their simplicity. Anyone else would have dismissed it. A prop, or maybe a prank. It’s common on television. So, you picked it up. 

You didn’t think this was a prank so you read every line, you understood every condition, and instead of turning away, you tested it. A name along with a face. You jotted it down, what's the worst that could happen? 

Worst case scenario it's a prank. But,  40 seconds later, someone died. And you felt it, it wasn't guilt, it wasn't fear, but it was certainty. You figured out the weapon the government couldn't. You figured out what your saviour used.  Kira, the real one—he killed the murderers of your parents. To you, he was your savior, your knight in shining armor. You didn’t care if some people found his work heartless. To you, he was a messiah. Your messiah. 

The world argued about him endlessly—whether he was justice or cruelty, salvation or destruction. Panels of experts debated his morality like it was something that could be measured, something that could be understood. They were all wrong. Because they weren’t there. They didn’t feel what you felt when you saw those headlines. When you saw the names of people who deserved worse than death finally meet an end that was too quick, too merciful. 

They didn’t understand what it meant to lose everything—and then watch someone, somewhere, take revenge on a world that never cared. Kira was justice. And now, you weren’t just watching anymore—you were part of it. At first, you followed his patterns, carefully and precisely. You watched the timing, the selection, the way criminals fell one after another like dominoes set in motion by an unseen hand. You didn’t rush, you didn’t get greedy, but you learned him, you studied him and matched his patterns.

Two Kiras, moving in sync without ever meeting. It felt almost…perfect. Until it didn’t. Because curiosity, no matter how controlled, always grows into something else, something deeper, something dangerous and something like the flame of desire that even water can extinguish. 

The deal came soon after. You didn’t hesitate when the shinigami appeared—towering over you, he was unnatural, mostly skeletal of sorts with purple markings on his face. He was called Rem. He was something that should have terrified you. But fear never came, especially not when it offered you something more.

Eyes that could see beyond the surface—those shinigami eyes allowed you to see names and lifespans. The key to killing people was right in front of you. With them, you could finally be useful to the real Kira. But, in exchange? half your lifespan.

Your shinigami, Rem, was rather confused by your actions.  “Doing all this for someone who doesn't know you exist?” He said, leaning down closer to your face, “It’s irrational, isn't it? What if he uses the note against you?” You leaned in closer, a smile spreading across your face, “It’s alright, I’m sure Kira is kind to those with pure hearts, and if it came down to that, I'm still stronger than he is because I have the eyes.” It was a simple trade, you accepted without a second thought. Because time had never meant much to you anyway, not after everything you’d already lost. And suddenly, the world changed. People weren’t just people anymore, they were numbers. Counted down to their end. 

You remembered what Rem told you, “You can see the lifespans of everyone but Kira. You can’t see Kira's lifespan as he's an owner of a deathnote, with another shinigami of course.”

And finally, one day, in the middle of a crowd you barely paid attention to, something didn’t appear. You almost missed it…almost.  Because for the first time since making the deal, someone walked by and….there was nothing. No number, no lifespan. Just him and three red question marks displayed above his head. Your gaze lingered, sharper now, more focused. You looked again, slower this time, as if the answer might reveal itself if you were patient enough.

It didn’t and that’s when it hit you. It wasn't confusion or doubt. It was a certainty. You finally found him. Your Kira. He wasn’t just a voice hiding behind screens and speculations anymore. He was a person. A real one, standing just a few feet away from you. 

In that moment, everything else faded away. The noise, the people and the world that had been so loud just seconds ago…gone. Because all that mattered to you now, was him. A small smile crawled upon your lips, barely noticeable, almost instinctive. You weren’t going to expose him, question him or walk away. After everything, you found the person who served you justice and understood you. Why would you let that go? 

You took a step forward, and then another. Closing the distance like it was inevitable, like it had always been leading to this. You tapped the boy on the shoulder. You still remember seeing his face clearly when he turned out. Brunette hair, eyes bright—almost too pure to be those of Kira, he smelt faintly of aquatic and citrusy perfume. 

The boy’s voice was deeper than expected, “Yes?” he said, leaning towards you. 

“I don’t see a number above you.” You said, your tone velvety with a smile. That's all you had to say. 

One sentence, that's all it took. He knew immediately. The way your doe eyes looked at him, they were practically shooting stars at him. That confirmed it more. “Why don't I take you to my place?” He said grabbing his stuff Who were you to say no? Not when this was the moment you had been unconsciously waiting for since the day you first picked up that notebook.

You followed without hesitation, of course you did. The walk was quiet—almost too quiet for something that felt this significant. The world moved around you like normal, people passing by, cars rushing past, conversations blending into meaningless noise. It all felt distant. Irrelevant. Because right beside you walked the one person who mattered. You didn’t speak, you didn’t need to. Your gaze flickered to him every so often, subtle but curious, studying him the same way you had studied his patterns before. Up close, he didn’t look like what you expected.

There was no darkness clinging to him, no visible cruelty, no sign of the god the world feared. He looked…normal. That almost made it more fascinating. He noticed your gaze.

“You’re staring,” he said casually, not even looking at you.

You smiled slightly. “I’m allowed to, aren’t I?”

That made him glance at you—eyes narrowed sharply. “You’re very bold,” he replied.

“And you’re very calm,” you countered softly. “For someone who just got found out.”

He stopped in his tracks, he was amused but didn't say anything. He just continued walking.

By the time you reached his place, the air had shifted. The moment the room door shut behind you, the silence changed. It wasn’t empty anymore—it was heavy.

He set his bag down, turning to face you fully now, his expression unreadable. “You’re not normal,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. He knew. 

You tilted your head slightly, as if considering it. “I could say the same about you.”

His eyes narrowed just a fraction. “You have the eyes,” he concluded.

You smiled again, a little brighter this time. “And you don’t have a lifespan.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. There wasn't any fear in the room. The room only contained two people, standing on opposite ends of the same truth, finally meeting in the middle.

“Why didn’t you report me?” he asked.

You stepped closer,  “Because,” you said softly, looking straight into his eyes, “I like you.” That—caught him off guard. “I know what you’re doing,” you continued, your voice steady, almost reverent. “I understand it. More than anyone else does.” You could see it—the shift behind his eyes, his eyes showed interest but his face? Stone cold. 

“I can help you,” you said.

He studied you for a long moment, silent, weighing every word, every expression, every possible outcome.  “Why would you?” he finally asked.

You came closer and looked up to catch his gaze, “Because I like you.”

Something about your bluntness, something about how easily you said and how certain you sounded shifted something within him. You weren’t supposed to matter to him—obviously. He’s Kira. A girl would just serve as a distraction. You should’ve been just an object that he could trash anytime. But instead—you were standing in front of him, offering yourself willingly. There was no fear, doubt or ulterior motives behind your words. And for the first time since this all began—Juhoon didn’t immediately see you as a problem. He saw you as an investment.

“…Fine,” he said finally. “You’ll work with me”

Your eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly—something shifting in your expression so suddenly that Juhoon noticed immediately.

“What?” he asked.

You turned your head away from him, breaking eye contact.  That alone was enough to throw him off. 

“What’s wrong?” he said, leaning slightly, trying to catch your gaze again.

“I don’t want to work with you.” Your voice was calm. Firm.

Juhoon blinked once, caught off guard. “…What?”

You crossed your arms, finally looking back at him—but the softness from before was gone. No more admiration, no more quiet devotion. Just something stubborn. Almost childish.

“I said I liked you.”

There was a pause on his end. “We just met,” he replied flatly.

“But I really like you!” you insisted, stepping closer, like that alone proved your point. “I don’t want to be just some partner you use.”

“I don’t work like that,” he said.

“I know,” you cut in immediately. “That’s why I’m saying it now.” Your voice softened again, but only slightly. “If I’m going to help you… if I’m going to stay, then it’s not like that.”

Juhoon studied you carefully now, maybe you weren't as naive and stupid as he had assumed. On the contrary, you knew exactly what he was…and for some reason you were still there. Asking for something so irrational. You wanted to work with Kira? He knew you were a celeb, you had money and fame. What possibly could you get from this? It was almost absurd.

“…You’re serious,” he said.

You smiled. “Completely.”

Another pause, longer this time. He should’ve said no. Logically, he should have. This set up was unnecessary and risky. Being involved with you could bring unwanted attention towards him. But, his inner voice said otherwise. 

“…Fine,” he said.

He didn’t agree because he wanted you to help him, not because he trusted you but because keeping you close in a way was a smart move. You had the eyes.

Your eyes lit up again with that familiar glimmer, “So you’ll be my boyfriend?” “Well, yes but to ensure our meetings don’t seem suspicious, I will still meet other girls.” Something inside you shifted. A small drop in your stomach, a tightening in your chest. The words registered immediately. He’s going to meet other girls?

“What? Are you seriously going to date other girls?” ‘Yeah, more or less.” This was it. “I don't want you to!” You yelled, standing up so abruptly the chair scraped harshly against the floor. You grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer without hesitation, without thinking. “If I see you with another girl, I’ll kill her.”

Juhoon just stares at you for a second. Internally, he's analysing. If she's willing to do anything for me—I mean she's possessive, impulsive, obsessive and she has the eyes. It really is just an advantage for me.

“Okay, I'll be your boyfriend.”

Days passed. And just like that—you became part of his life, it wasn't natural or natural but more seamless You showed up when you wanted. Texted him constantly. Clung to his arm in public like you belonged there. Like you’d always belonged there. And Juhoon let you. Because every time you smiled at him, every time you looked at him like he was something divine—he was reminded of one thing.

You were useful.

It started small, subtle tests. Names mentioned casually in conversation. Criminals he wanted confirmed. Situations where he watched you carefully, observing how you reacted, how fast you understood, how far you were willing to go. You never hesitated—not once. And that alone told him everything he needed to know.

Then came the moment that changed everything. Juhoon was walking across campus, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed—but his mind, as always, was several steps ahead. Beside him walked James, at least that was the name he’d introduced himself with.

The man investigating Kira, the man who was getting too close.

They spoke casually, like two students passing time, but underneath it—every word was calculated, every step measured. And then—you appeared.

“Juhoon!” Your voice cut through the space, bright, familiar.

He turned. And there you were—walking toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You smiled, slipping easily into place beside him. “I was nearby for a shoot,” you said casually, like this wasn’t the exact moment he’d been trying to avoid.

Juhoon’s eyes flickered just for a second. Because you weren’t supposed to be here. Not right now. You could ruin all his plans. God, Yn you're so stupid.

“This is James,” Juhoon said smoothly.

You turned to look at him and smiled. “Hi, James.”

But the second your eyes met his—something didn’t match. Because that wasn’t the name you saw. Above his head, clear as day, was something else.

Zhao Yu—

Juhoon moved fast. His hand came up, blocking your line of sight so naturally it almost looked accidental, his body shifting just slightly between you and James.

“Isn’t that interesting?” he said lightly, his tone casual—but his eyes locked onto yours for just a fraction too long. A warning. Then, just as quickly— his expression changed, he smiled. “Why are you here again?”

You blinked once, the moment slipping past as easily as it came. “Oh—my shoot wrapped up nearby,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “I thought I’d come see you.”

James watched the interaction quietly. Observing, always just observing.

“Right,” Juhoon said. “We were just heading somewhere.”

You nodded, smiling again like nothing had happened. “Then I won’t interrupt. I’ll see you later?”

“Of course.”

And just like that—you left. But Juhoon didn’t miss it. Not the way your expression had changed for that split second. You saw it, his real name. You saw it. And for the first time, Juhoon finally thought you were useful. It was an opportunity. Because if you could see what no one else could— if you could access what even he couldn’t—then you weren’t just useful. You were essential. 

From that moment on, everything changed. He began using you more deliberately, more precisely. He had you confirming identities from a distance, brought you into situation he needed clarity and let you observe people he couldn't risk getting close to—you were ‘the Yn’ no one would not want to be around you. He was at a clear advantage.

And you? You followed without question every time. If he asked, you did it. If he needed something, you provided it. If it helped him, you didn’t hesitate. And Juhoon never stopped you—never told you to slow down, never questioned how far you were willing to go. Because the truth was simple. You made his perfect plan…even more perfect. He was justice, and you made it effortless.

It didn’t take long for him to notice. Not just your obedience—but the consistency of it. The way you never wavered, never second-guessed, never asked for reasons he didn’t offer. It wasn’t calculated, there was no reasoning behind it—at least none that mattered. You just chose him, every single time, like nothing else mattered to you.

And that was exactly what made it worth testing.

Juhoon didn’t intend for it to mean anything. It was just a test—one quick way to see if you were as predictable as you seemed. Something that would either prove you useful or disposable.

He leaned back slightly, scrolling through his phone as if the conversation held no weight. “They reopened an old case,” he said, voice even, detached. “The prosecutor’s being reassigned.” A pause followed, normal enough to go unnoticed. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Eom Seonghyeon.”

He didn’t look up immediately, there was no need to rush. If you were who he thought you were, you’d understand. And you did.

“When?” you asked.

His thumb stilled for the briefest second against the screen. Not why, not who, no hesitation whatsoever.

When.

Juhoon lifted his gaze slowly, studying you now with a level of focus he hadn’t allowed himself before. Your expression hadn’t changed. There was no confusion, no moral weight pressing behind your eyes, no trace of doubt. Just clarity and readiness. Like the outcome had already been decided the moment he spoke. Something in his mind shifted—not dramatically, not enough to show, but enough to register.

So she would do it, of course she would.

The realization settled cleanly into place, almost expected. You weren’t aligning yourself with Kira out of ideology, not in the way others debated justice or morality. It wasn’t about the world for you. It was about him, you would do anything he asked. Not because you understood him fully but because you chose him anyway. That, more than anything, made you lethal…and useful.

“Tonight,” he said, tone returning to its usual calm. “Make it look natural.”

You nodded once. No questions followed, no lingering curiosity. The conversation moved on as if nothing significant had passed between you. But Juhoon didn’t miss it, didn’t dismiss it. He had his answer.

The next morning, the news confirmed it. Eom Seonghyeon—dead. Sudden cardiac arrest. No suspicion, no deviation from the established pattern. It was clean—natural. Juhoon watched the report in silence, eyes scanning the details not for confirmation of the act itself—but for imperfections. There were none. Timing aligned, cause of death consistent with his medical records, no unnecessary variables. You had done exactly as instructed—no hesitation or mistakes. 

Later that day, when he saw you again, he didn’t bring it up immediately. Instead, he observed. The way you approached him, the ease in your posture, the absence of tension in your movements. There was no guilt in you, no lingering weight of what you had done.

“You didn’t hesitate,” he said finally.

You tilted your head slightly, as if the statement itself didn’t require much thought. “You told me what to do.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A small smile touched your lips. “I never hesitate.”

It wasn’t arrogance, it wasn’t a challenge…it was simply true. Juhoon held your gaze for a moment longer before looking away, thoughts already adjusting, recalculating. You weren’t just obedient but you were also consistent. And consistency could be built into something far more valuable.

Days passed, and with them, the pattern deepened. He no longer needed to disguise his intentions. Names were given more directly now, spoken in quieter tones, often followed by silence—not because he expected resistance, but because he was observing how naturally you filled that space.

You never questioned him. Not once. If anything, you anticipated him.

“Tell me who,” you said one evening, leaning slightly forward, eyes fixed on him with quiet certainty.

Juhoon watched you carefully. “You trust me that much?”

“I don’t need a reason,” you replied. “If it’s you.”

That answer lingered longer than it should have. Not because it moved him—but because it simplified everything. Trust like that removes complications. And Juhoon valued nothing more than control without resistance.

The first time you saw him with her, you understood immediately. You didn’t need context, didn’t need explanations. She stood too close. Her hand rested against his arm like it belonged there, her laughter light and easy in a way that suggested familiarity.

You stopped a few steps away, something tightening faintly in your chest. Not sharp enough to hurt…just enough to be noticed. But you didn’t react, at least not outwardly.

Your expression shifted almost instantly into something practiced—something bright, effortless. “Juhoon,” you called, walking toward them with a smile that didn’t falter.

He turned at the sound of your voice, expression unchanged. “Yn.”

The girl glanced at you, polite curiosity flickering across her face. “Hi.”

You smiled at her just as easily. “Hi.”

You stayed long enough to make it normal. Long enough to ensure there was no suspicion in your presence. Your voice stayed light, your posture relaxed, your attention evenly divided. Nothing about you suggested anything was wrong. And then you left.

The shift came after. Alone, the quiet settled differently. The image replayed in your mind with uncomfortable clarity—the way she had touched him, the way he hadn’t moved away. Your jaw tightened slightly, you had told him, you had been clear. If you saw him with another girl, you would kill her. It hadn’t been a joke. And now— you had everything you needed.

That night, your notebook lay open in front of you. The pen rested lightly between your fingers, unmoving for a moment longer than usual. You could still see her face, her name lingering in red above her head. Still remembering the way she had smiled.

Your grip tightened, this wasn’t a test. He hadn’t told you to do this…but that didn’t matter. Because you didn’t want her there. The pen touched the page. You didn’t hesitate, you just wrote her name.

Within the next 40 seconds? She was gone.

Juhoon knew immediately, he was with the girl when she dropped dead. The pattern was wrong. The timing didn’t align with anything he had planned, the selection too specific, too personal to be coincidence. There was only one explanation. 

He found you later in his room that day, “You killed her,” he said. It wasn' t a question and you didn’t deny it either.

“She was unnecessary,” you replied, tone calm.

Something in his expression tightened. “Unnecessary?” His voice sharpened slightly. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”

You frowned, stepping closer. “She was with you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” your voice rose, frustration slipping through. “You said you’d meet other girls—”

“For appearances,” he cut in, irritation clear now. “For the plan.”

“I don’t care about your plan if it means—”

“Will you shut up and do as I say?” he snapped. The words landed hard. “She was a pawn,” he continued, voice colder now, controlled again but edged with anger. “A piece in a strategy you clearly don’t understand.” Your hands curled into fists. “And you just removed her,” he added, gaze narrowing. “Why?” There was a brief pause. Then— “Are you jealous?”

Something in you snapped. “Yes,” you shot back immediately, the word leaving you without hesitation. “Yes, I am.” The silence that followed was heavier this time. “I told you what I’d do,” you continued, your voice steady despite the tension. “I meant it.”

“I didn’t give you permission.”

“I didn’t need permission.”

“And now you’ve interfered with something bigger than you understand,” he said, stepping closer. “Do you think this works if you act on impulse?”

“I don’t care about anything else if it’s you.”

“That’s the problem,” he said sharply. “You don’t think.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. “I think about you.”

That made him pause, only for a moment. But it was enough.

“And that’s why I did it,” you added, quieter now. “Because I don’t want anyone else near you.”

Juhoon exhaled slowly, frustration still present but contained. “You don’t get to make those decisions,” he said. “Not unless I tell you to.”

You didn’t respond, didn’t agree. But you didn’t argue further either. And that told him everything. You were unpredictable. Impossible to fully control. But still—completely loyal. And loyalty like that, no matter how irrational, no matter how flawed—was not something he could afford to lose. He just needed to make sure it stayed directed.

Juhoon’s mind was full of thoughts—but none of them showed on his face.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching you, not in the way someone looks at another person—but in the way someone studies something they haven’t fully figured out yet. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t tried to justify yourself further. You just stood there, waiting. That was the problem. 

He turned away first, walking past you toward his desk like the conversation had already ended. It wasn’t dismissal—it was control. If he let this stretch any further, it would turn into something unnecessary. Something emotional. And that was exactly what he couldn’t allow. You followed him, of course you did—you always did.

The room settled into a quiet that felt heavier than before. You stayed near the desk for a second, watching him, trying to read something off his expression. There was nothing to read. Juhoon set his bag down slowly, his movements deliberate, precise. His thoughts had already moved ahead of the moment, lining themselves into something structured.

She’ll act without thinking, that much is clear now. Not out of stupidity—but because she doesn’t need a reason. Because for her, I am the reason.

The realization didn’t surprise him anymore. If anything, it simplified things. You weren’t operating on logic, which meant you couldn’t be guided by logic. You had to be guided by something else. You were guided by emotions. He had to control you, he had to direct you. Because if left alone, you would act again, you would interfere again. And next time, it might not be something he could correct.

His gaze flickered toward you briefly. You were still watching him, waiting for him to speak, to say something—anything that would tell you where you stood now.

She’s useful. 

There was no denying that. The eyes alone made you valuable beyond measure. You could see names instantly, confirm identities without effort, eliminate uncertainty from situations that would otherwise require planning and time. You made everything faster.

But—she needs to be controlled.

That was the only conclusion that mattered. And control, in this case, didn’t mean limiting you. It meant removing your ability to act without him.

Juhoon turned to face you fully now, expression calm, as if nothing significant had shifted at all. “Yn.”

You straightened slightly at the sound of your name. “Yeah?”

He held your gaze for a moment, measuring, finalizing. “Give me your Death Note.”

The words landed without warning. You blinked, confusion flashing across your face almost instantly. “What?”

“Give it to me,” he repeated, tone even, leaving no space for misinterpretation.

Your brows furrowed, the confusion shifting into something sharper now. “Because of what I did?” Your voice lifted slightly, disbelief creeping in. “You’re taking my note away?”

Juhoon exhaled quietly through his nose, already expecting this. This wasn’t refusal—it was reaction. There was a difference. “Yn, can you just fuc—” he stopped himself, irritation flickering for a split second before he forced it down. “No. Listen.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly at the slip, but you didn’t interrupt. Good.

“Yn, darling,” he continued, tone smoothing out, softer now, controlled again. “This isn’t about punishment.”

“It sounds like it is,” you shot back.

“It’s not.” His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it became calmer. “It’s about efficiency.”

You didn’t respond immediately this time. You just looked at him, trying to understand where this was going.

Juhoon stepped closer, just enough to close the distance slightly—not threatening, not soft either. Just deliberate. “It’s more efficient for me to work with two notebooks than one,” he said. “Right now, we’re operating separately. That creates gaps, it creates delays. Unnecessary risks, you know?”

Your expression shifted, confusion still there—but now mixed with hesitation.

“And if I have both,” he continued, “those gaps disappear. Moreover,” he added, voice quieter now, almost persuading, “I’m sure Rem and Ryuk won’t have any issues with each other. It won’t be hostile.”

At the mention of Rem, your expression changed. That was it, that was the point of resistance. “But…” you hesitated, the first real hesitation he had seen from you in a while. “If I give up ownership… I won’t be able to see Rem anymore.” There it was, not the notebook, not the power. Rem. 

Juhoon didn’t react immediately, but something in his mind registered. You weren’t as thoughtless as you seemed. You understood the rules…not just the surface-level ones—but the implications. That meant you were paying attention. That meant you were capable of understanding more than he initially gave you credit for. For a brief moment, that shifted something. Not enough to change his decision—but enough to adjust how he saw you.

So she does understand…interesting.

“Once you give up ownership,” he said, tone steady, “I’ll let you touch the notebook again.” You looked at him, listening carefully now. “You’ll still be able to see both Rem and Ryuk,” he continued. “And you’ll retain your memories.”

That wasn’t entirely standard…but it didn’t need to be. What mattered was that you believed it—and that it worked in his favor. You stayed quiet for a moment, processing. Juhoon didn’t rush you, he didn’t push, because he didn’t need to. Your decision had already been made the moment he asked. You just needed to catch up to it.

“…So I won’t lose anything?” you asked finally, quieter now.

“Nothing that matters,” he replied.

You nodded slowly, the hesitation fading as quickly as it had appeared. “Okay.” Just that same quiet acceptance finally creeping back into your tone.

Juhoon watched you carefully as you reached into your bag, pulling out the notebook. Your fingers lingered on it for a second—not out of doubt, but something else. Something softer.

Then you stepped forward and held it out to him.

“Here.”

Just like that—no conditions, no hesitation. You gave it to him. 

“I give up my ownership.”

That's all it took. Those 5 words. Juhoon took it without a word, his fingers brushing against yours briefly as he did. The moment the notebook changed hands, ownership…transferred.

You blinked once, your expression going distant for a split second, like something had slipped out of place. It was quick—barely noticeable—but he saw it. Then you looked back at him. The same, still you.

Juhoon opened the notebook slowly, his gaze scanning the familiar pages before closing it again. His grip on it tightened slightly—not out of emotion, but certainty. This was better…he had control. 

His eyes lifted to meet yours again. “Come here,” he said. He placed the notebook lightly against your hand. “Touch it.”

You did. And just like that, your eyes flickered slightly, awareness settling back into place. Not confusion—recognition. You looked up at him again.

“See?” he said calmly.

You nodded. You had no questions or complaints. Juhoon watched you for a moment longer, something in his gaze more focused now—not softer, not warmer—just certain. Everything had aligned again. You were still useful, still loyal. But now—you were under his control.

Exactly where you needed to be.

Time passed, and with it, something subtle began to take shape—so quiet, so precise, it almost escaped notice. What had once been two separate forces moving in parallel had folded into something singular, something far more lethal in its unity. There were no longer two Kiras acting in distant alignment. There was only one will now, one design, sharpened and executed without fracture. And at the center of it, Juhoon stood exactly where he had always intended to be.

Control had never felt this absolute.

The world outside grew louder in response. Panic disguised as debate, fear dressed up as morality. They spoke of Kira as if he were evolving, as if something about him had changed. They weren’t entirely wrong. The rhythm of death had shifted—faster, cleaner, more deliberate than before. There was no hesitation in it anymore, no irregularity to grasp onto. It was no longer a pattern that could be studied. It was something that adapted before it could be understood.

What they didn’t realize—what none of them could see—was that the difference wasn’t Kira.

It was you. Not beside him, not above him—but like a gun in his hand. You didn’t choose where to strike, you didn’t question the target. You simply followed through. And in a world where hesitation meant failure, you became something he could use without ever needing to doubt.

At first, Juhoon had accounted for you as a variable. Unstable, impulsive, driven by something far too emotional to be trusted on its own. You had proven that yourself. But variables, when observed closely enough, could be understood. And once understood, they could be controlled.

There were moments, rare and fleeting, where even he acknowledged you. Not outwardly, never in a way that could be traced back to anything resembling reliance—but internally, in the quiet spaces of his own reasoning where truth existed without performance.

This is more efficient.

That was how he justified it, not because he needed you. But because removing you would create inefficiency. That distinction mattered.

It had to.

Because dependence was a flaw…a weakness. Something that could be exploited, something that could unravel everything he had built if left unchecked. Juhoon did not make mistakes like that. He did not allow himself to need anything beyond what was necessary for the outcome he had already decided upon. And you— you were necessary. Nothing more, nothing less.

Still, there were moments that lingered longer than they should have. Moments where your presence was no longer just part of the plan—but part of the process itself. Not something added, but something integrated so deeply it became difficult to separate. He noticed it in the way his thoughts moved now. Faster, sharper, but also—adjusted. Calculations no longer accounted for whether you would act, but how quickly. Strategies didn’t include you as a risk factor, but as a constant. A fixed point…a certainty. And certainty, to someone like Juhoon, was invaluable. It didn’t mean anything beyond that.

It couldn’t.

Because the moment it did, the moment it became something else—something less logical, less controlled—it would compromise everything. And Juhoon did not compromise. Not for anyone, not even you. Especially not you.

If anything, that was exactly why he remained as composed as he did. Why his voice never softened beyond what was necessary, why his gaze never lingered longer than it should. Every interaction, every word, every calculated pause—it was all deliberate. Maintained.

Because you, by nature, were not.

You were devotion without restraint, action without hesitation. A force that moved without needing reason, without requiring justification. And while that made you effective, it also made you dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with the world outside.

You could disrupt him. Not his plans but his control and that was the only thing he refused to lose. So, he kept you where he thought you belonged. Close enough to use but distant enough to contain.

It was perfect.

That’s what he told himself. Because perfection didn’t leave room for error and Juhoon didn’t make errors, he created outcomes.

Everything that happened from this point forward had already been decided—mapped out in a series of calculated steps that left no space for chance. The investigation tightening around him, the increasing presence of people like James, the constant pressure of being observed without being seen—it was all part of a larger equation.

One he was already solving.

Working alongside James had only made it more interesting. The proximity, the irony of it—it would have been amusing under different circumstances. The man chasing Kira, standing beside him, speaking to him, analyzing him without ever realizing how close he truly was. 

A game. That’s all it was, and Juhoon? He had never lost a game. Not once, and especially not now. With you integrated into his system, the outcome felt even more certain. There were fewer unknowns now, fewer risks left unaccounted for. You filled in the spaces he couldn’t reach without exposure, extended his reach without compromising his position.

You made him untouchable. At least—that’s what he believed. Because from where he stood, everything was working exactly as it should. Every move leading into the next, every piece falling into place with precision so clean it felt inevitable. There was no room for failure, no space for something unforeseen. No possibility that something as unpredictable as you could ever become anything more than what he had already defined.

Interesting, really. Almost like a cat chasing its own tail. The more distance Juhoon put between himself and Kira, the more convincing it became—Juhoon can’t be kira. The sharper his criticism, the easier it was for everyone to believe it. Disapproval looked like innocence, hatred looked like truth, and to everyone else, it worked perfectly.

But not to James.

Because the problem with something that perfect…was that it stopped feeling natural. It became deliberate, it became measured and it became controlled in a way that didn’t belong to ordinary people.

James had noticed it early on, long before anyone else even considered the possibility. The way Juhoon spoke about Kira—not emotionally, not impulsively, but with a precision that felt rehearsed. Like every opinion had already been filtered before it was spoken. Like every reaction had been chosen, not felt.

It wasn’t suspicion at first. Not fully formed, just something off. A detail that didn’t sit right or a  pattern that refused to disappear. And James was the kind of person who didn’t ignore things like that. He watched Juhoon more closely after that. Not obviously, not enough to alert him—but enough. Small things. Small things such as timing and reactions. The way certain conversations seemed to interest him more than they should. The way others didn’t interest him at all.

It didn’t add up.

Because if Juhoon was just another student, just another mind in the room, there would be inconsistencies, hesitation, gaps in understanding. But there weren’t. There was only control. And control, when it appeared too often, stopped looking like coincidence. It started looking like intent. James didn’t have proof. Not yet. Nothing concrete, nothing he could present to anyone else without being dismissed. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t need certainty to begin. He only needed direction. And right now, all of it pointed back to one person. Juhoon. It was almost as if Juhoon was working with something that didn’t exist—a supernatural for instance. That threw James off. He was playing a game without knowing its rules. But James? He won’t lose either. 

Juhoon knew that James knew. Not as suspicion, not as theory—but as something quietly certain, sitting between them without proof. It wasn’t enough to act on, but it was enough to wait on. And that—being watched, not exposed—was what irritated him.

You noticed it first. The pacing. The way he kept moving across the room like standing still would slow his thoughts down. You didn’t interrupt right away—you just watched, eyes fixed on him, following every turn, every shift, like nothing else existed outside of him.

“Juhoon, what’s wrong?”

He stopped, just slightly off-beat, like your voice had pulled him back a second too late. His gaze flicked to you—blank, controlled, unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing. Then— “He knows.” 

The words were quite certain. He moved toward you, slower now, like he had already adjusted back into control, and sat down beside you without breaking eye contact. “He doesn’t have proof,” he continued, voice low, measured. “That’s the only reason this is still…functional.” A pause. His jaw tightened slightly, just enough to notice. “He’s reckless though,” he muttered, irritation slipping through. “Who the fuck says it out like that?”

You shifted closer instantly, like the distance itself bothered you, your knee brushing against his, your hand finding his sleeve without thinking—holding onto him like that alone could ground him, or maybe ground you.

“Then kill him.” No hesitation, no doubt. Just certainty

His gaze snapped to you, sharper now, something cutting through the calm. “You think I haven’t considered that?”  He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers pressing together like he was containing something that refused to stay still. “If I kill him now, it confirms everything,” he said, quieter now, controlled again—but tighter. “That’s exactly what he wants.”

You frowned, your grip on his sleeve tightening just a little. “I don’t care.” Your voice dropped, softer—but not weaker. If anything, it felt more intense like that. “I don’t like the way he talks to you.”

It wasn’t about the plan, it wasn’t about Kira, it was about him.

Juhoon’s gaze flickered down to your hand for a second, resting against him, holding onto him like you belonged there—like you had every right to. “You don’t need to like it,” he said, looking back at you. “You just need to listen.”

“And if I don’t?” You didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer, eyes locked onto his like you were daring him to say it.

There was a pause. Not long—but heavy. Juhoon turned slightly toward you, the space between you closing without either of you acknowledging it. His voice didn’t rise. “Then you become a problem.”

The words should’ve created distance. They didn’t. If anything, they pulled you in further.

Your grip didn’t loosen. You didn’t look away. You didn’t hesitate. “I won’t,” you said quietly. A beat. “Not if it’s you.”

And just like that—no argument, no resistance, no second thought—you gave in again. Not because he forced you to. But because you would always choose him. And Juhoon knew it. That was the problem and the advantage. 

The shift didn’t feel dramatic when it started. It wasn’t a single mistake, not something obvious enough to point at and fix. It was smaller than that—quieter, a tightening of space, a pattern that stopped behaving the way it should. Conversations between Juhoon & James lingered longer than necessary, eyes stayed on him just a second too long, movements around him became just slightly too coordinated to be coincidence.

Juhoon noticed, of course he did. He always noticed.

At first, he adjusted the ways he had. Minor corrections, slight deviations, a change in timing, a different selection of targets, small inconsistencies planted deliberately into his own behavior to break whatever pattern James thought he had found.

It should have worked. It always worked. But this time—it didn’t. Because James wasn’t looking for patterns anymore. He was looking at him….and that changed everything.

The realization settled slowly, not as panic, not as fear—but as irritation. Sharp, precise, controlled irritation that built under his skin without ever reaching the surface. James wasn’t guessing anymore. He wasn’t circling the possibility.

He had decided and now he was waiting. Waiting for Juhoon to slip, waiting for something real. And that was the problem because Juhoon didn’t slip. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t make mistakes. So why wasn’t this ending? The thought lingered longer than it should have, and that alone was enough to make something inside James tighten. It shouldn’t be like this. It should already be over.

The first and last mistake happened in the basement of an abandoned building. Juhoon had set it up himself, confident in the system he’d built. With Mikami acting in his place—he would kill people with the death note. So, people kept dying exactly on schedule, even while Juhoon stayed beside James. It was the perfect cover, Juhoon spent sleepless nights in James’ office trying to solve a case he set up. After all, what better way to avoid suspicion than to let Kira keep killing…while you’re standing right next to the man trying to catch him?

It was late enough for the area to feel empty, the kind of quiet that stretched too wide, too hollow. Concrete pillars, dim lighting, the faint echo of footsteps that didn’t belong to just one person.

Juhoon slowed down his steps. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone watching to notice. But internally—everything sharpened. Too quiet, too controlled. Too—set. He stopped walking. Not abruptly, just enough to shift the rhythm. And then—movement. It wasn’t accidental, it was deliberate.

They stepped out almost in sync. From behind pillars, from the blind spots he had already mapped out in his head. Positions that weren’t chosen casually. Angles that closed distance instead of leaving space. It was a clean and organised formation. It had been rehearsed before.

Juhoon’s gaze flickered once—and landed exactly where it needed to—James. Somewhere far away, he saw Mikami too—he saw him running away. James was standing just far enough away to not look threatened. Just close enough to make it clear—this wasn’t a coincidence.

Silence settled between them for half a second too long.

Then—“This is the end isn’t it Juhoon, or my apologies, you are justice itself aren’t you? Let me rephrase my sentence. This is the end, isn't it Kira?.” His tone calm, almost conversational.

Juhoon didn’t respond immediately. This wasn’t suspicion anymore, this was certainty. He exhaled once, slow, controlled “…You’re early,” he said finally, voice even.

James tilted his head slightly, studying him in a way that felt almost curious. “Am I?” 

“You’ve been careful,” James continued. “Too careful.”

Juhoon’s gaze didn’t waver. “And you’ve been watching,” he replied.

“Of course.” Another step forward.  “That’s what you do when something doesn’t make sense.”

Something almost resembling a smile touched Juhoon’s expression—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And I don’t make sense?” he asked.

“No,” James said simply. A pause. Then, quieter—“You make too much sense.”

That was it, confirmation. Not evidence, not proof, but certainty. James realised he wasn’t against anything normal—infact it was anything but normal. A shinigami? A book that kills people by just having their names written in it? bizarre. For the first time—Juhoon understood. This wasn’t something he could outplay from here, not like this. Not surrounded. Not—now. The realization didn’t show on his face. But internally— everything shifted. Shifted too fast. This wasn’t a situation to win. It was a situation to escape.

And that meant one thing.

You. 

He needed you. He can’t depend on you but fuck does he need you right now. You can write everyone's names in the death note. You can save him. Save Juhoon, your Juhoon.

It happened in less than a second. A step back—misdirection, a shift in weight—calculated. And then—movement. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back, didn’t engage.

He ran.

Footsteps exploded behind him almost instantly, echoing violently against the concrete, shouts cutting through the silence he had just broken.

“Stop!”

He didn’t. He knew better than to waste time on commands that didn’t matter. His mind was already ahead, mapping routes, calculating distances, identifying the one path that wasn’t fully closed.. He moved like he had already seen it happen, like this had already been decided. The air hit him the second he broke out, sharp and cold against his skin, his breathing controlled despite the speed, despite the chase closing in behind him.

Car. Keys. Engine. Go.

The tires screeched against the pavement as he pulled out, too fast, too sharp—but precise enough to not lose control. Not yet. The mirrors.  Two vehicles, no—three. Super close behind him. Closer than they should be. He turned hard, cutting into traffic without warning, horns blaring, headlights flashing, everything around him collapsing into noise.

Irrelevant. All of it.

His grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening—not from fear, but from calculation pushed to its limit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. Not this soon. James—he adjusted faster than expected. Too fast. Which meant this wasn’t salvageable through normal means. He needed certainty. And there was only one way to get that now.

You.

The drive blurred. Lights stretched into streaks, turns taken too sharply, speed pushing past what should have been safe. The sound of pursuit didn’t fade—it stayed, constant, relentless, pressing against him like a countdown he couldn’t see but could feel.

Every second mattered, every delay narrowed his options. He couldn’t afford delay. He couldn’t afford—failure. The thought didn’t sit right. Didn’t settle, didn’t belong. Because he didn’t fail. He didn’t lose. He didn’t— The car swerved violently, barely avoiding another vehicle, the impact missed by inches.

Fuck Focus.

By the time he reached your street, the world had narrowed into something unrecognizable. Too fast, too loud.  He didn’t park properly—didn’t care enough to. The door slammed behind him as he moved, steps quick, uneven—not from hesitation, but from urgency pushed past control.

Your door.

He didn’t knock, didn’t wait. It opened under his hand, forceful, immediate— and there you were. For a second—everything stopped. Not the world, not the situation. Just—him. Because you were there. Unaware, unhurt, untouched by the chaos that had already swallowed him whole.

Your expression shifted the moment you saw him. “Juhoon—?”

He didn’t let you finish. “Make the deal.”

The words came out sharp. There was no greeting.

You blinked, caught off guard, confusion flashing across your face. “What?”

“Now.” A deep inhale “Make the deal with Rem. Now.”

Something in his voice wasn’t right. Not soft, not emotional. But— strained. Like something was slipping and he was forcing it back into place with nothing but will. He was scared.

You didn’t move immediately, just stared at him. Processing and that—that hesitation snapped something.

“Why are you hesitating?” His voice sharpened, stepping closer again, too close now, hands gripping your shoulders before you could react. “Do you understand the situation right now?”

His grip tightened. “Do it.”

Behind you—Rem shifted. Silently, he was watching…waiting. Because he couldn’t interfere. He never did. You looked at Juhoon again, really looked this time. At the tension in his expression. At the way his control—perfect, unbreakable control—wasn’t gone, but cracking at the edges.

And something in you—settled.

“Will it help you win?” you asked quietly.

One second, that was all it took.

“Yes.”

No hesitation, no doubt. Just certainty. And that was enough.

“Rem.” Your voice was steady. “I’ll make the deal.”

Rem didn’t move immediately. Didn’t speak. But his presence shifted, something heavier settling into the space around you, something final. “You understand what this means,” he said finally.

You didn’t look at him. “I do.”

Your gaze stayed on Juhoon, only him. Always him.

“Then do it.”

The moment it happened—there was no warning. No buildup, no visible change. Just absence. Your body went still. You collapsed. The thud of your body hitting the cold hardwood floor echoed.  And for the first time since this began—Juhoon didn’t move.

“No, no no no.” His voice was shaking. He knelt down to your body—unmoving, lifeless.  “Rem, what happened, what went wrong?” 

“Her lifespan ran out.”

For a second, the words didn’t register. They just…hung there. Empty. Meaningless. Juhoon’s hands tightened around you, fingers pressing into your shoulders like he could force something back into place, like this was something that could still be corrected.

“What?”

His voice came out quieter this time. Controlled. Too controlled. “What do you mean her lifespan ran out?”

Rem didn’t look away. “That was the cost.”

Silence. Then—“You didn’t tell me.” It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t a shout. It was worse. Low, sharp. Each word cut clean, like he was forcing them out one at a time.

Rem’s expression didn’t change. “I couldn’t.”

Juhoon’s head snapped up, his gaze locking onto him. “Couldn’t?”

“That is not something I’m allowed to disclose,” Rem replied. “It violates the rules.”

“The rules?” Juhoon let out a short, disbelieving breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through—but there was nothing amused about it. “You’re telling me she just—dies—and you say nothing because of rules?” His grip on you tightened again, like he was anchoring himself to something that was already gone. “That was relevant,” he continued, voice rising now, cracks beginning to show through the control he had spent so long maintaining. “That information was relevant to me.”

Rem didn’t move. “It wasn’t mine to give.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Because there was no argument to make against that. No loophole, no correction. Nothing to fix.

And for the first time—Juhoon had nothing. 

The silence that followed wasn’t calm. It was suffocating. His gaze dropped back to you. You weren’t moving. Of course you weren’t, but something in him—still expected it. A breath, a shift.

Anything.

You had always responded. You always moved, always followed. You were supposed to—his fingers twitched slightly against your arm. Nothing, no pulse. He paused, longer this time. Then—something in his mind started moving again.

Fragments, not thoughts. You gave him your notebook, you followed every instruction, you didn’t hesitate, you didn’t question. You—you made the deal. For him. The realization didn’t come gently, it hit him all at once. It was unavoidable. Every step, every choice, every moment that led here—all of it pointed to the same thing. You had given him everything. And he—he had used it. Of course he had. That was the plan. That was always the plan.

So why—why did this feel—wrong? His hand stilled completely. For the first time since this began—he wasn’t thinking ahead. He wasn’t calculating. There was no next move. No adjustment, no correction.

Just—absence.

And it was louder than anything he had ever heard.

The door slammed open. The sound shattered the moment instantly, sharp and violent against the silence.

“Don’t move!”

The fast and controlled footsteps closed in. Juhoon didn’t react immediately, didn’t turn, didn’t stand. He just stayed there— looking at you.

Then— “Kira.”

That voice…right behind him.

“Hands up.”

Slowly, Juhoon’s head lifted, not fully but just enough. His mind tried to catch up, to reassemble, to rebuild something out of what was left—but it wasn’t fast enough. Not this time, not without you. His hand slipped from your arm. He pushed himself up. Not smoothly, not controlled. Just—fast. It was instinct. Move fast and get out of this 

He turned—a sharp crack cut through the air. Pain exploded through his system instantly, electricity ripping through his body before he could react, muscles locking, control ripped away in a second. He hit the ground hard, everything blurred. Voices layered over each other. Movement, hands and pressure forcing him down.

His cheek pressed against the cold floor, vision unfocused, body refusing to respond no matter how hard he tried to force it. For a second—he couldn’t breathe. And then—something broke.

“Where are you Yn—” His voice came out raw, strained. Not controlled, not calculated.

“Where are you, Yn?!”

Silence answered him. And that was worse than anything.

Later—it was quiet again. Not the same kind of quiet, this one had finality. still, unmoving.

A different kind of end. Juhoon sat there, restrained, unmoving—but his mind…his mind wasn’t where it should have been. Not on escape, not on strategy, not on winning. For the first time— there was nothing left to calculate.

A figure leaned back against the wall, watching him, grinning. Ryuk tilted his head slightly, amusement clear in his expression. “Well…Juhoon.”

His voice echoed lightly through the space, almost casual. “That was fun.” A pause. “But this?” He glanced around, then back at him. “Well, Juhoon, it's been interesting. We eased each other's boredom for quite a while. It was good while it lasted.”

Juhoon didn’t respond, didn’t move, didn’t even look at him. Ryuk hummed thoughtfully, pulling out his notebook. “I don’t really feel like watching you rot in a cell forever.” A pause, “Guess this is where it ends.”

The pen touched the page, slow, deliberate. Juhoon’s name was written first. And just like that—the game was over. He died from cardiac arrest 40 seconds later.

ptl: @amb4rluvs / @beatbymarzz / @sailuvsu / @lcvehyeon / @frizzyyo / @09zpzkeonns