Author: mireiwinters
Date: 2024-09-25T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fanworks; Explicit; Death Note (Anime & Manga); L & Yagami Light; Yagami Light/Original Male Character(s); L/Yagami Light; Yagami Light/Original Character(s); Matt | Mail Jeevas/Yagami Light; Mello | Mihael Keehl & Near | Nate River & Yagami Light; Matt | Mail Jeevas & Mello | Mihael Keehl & Near | Nate River; L & Matt | Mail Jeevas & Mello | Mihael Keehl & Near | Nate River; L (Death Note); Yagami Light; Mello | Mihael Keehl; Matt | Mail Jeevas; Watari | Quillsh Wammy; Jealous | Gelus; Near | Nate River; Amane Misa; Rem (Death Note); Ryuk (Death Note); Kira Task Force; Original Character
Description: Rem wanted Misa's happiness. Misa thought Light was her happiness. Rem thought Misa was delusional. In good faith, she put her trust in L instead to save Misa. With both Kiras finally caught, everyone assumed everything would be over after Light's execution and Misa's admittance to an asylum for the criminally insane. Clearly that wasn't the case when four years later, Light is found at Orchard beach by none other than Matt and Mello. It seemed that peace wasn't apart of the equation for L thanks to this new development. Not only will he have to juggle the broken shell that was once Light Yaga
Publisher: Archive of Our Own

Preface

The Decay of an Angel
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/57321586.

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Categories:

M/M, Other

Fandom:

Death Note (Anime & Manga)

Relationships:

L & Yagami Light, Yagami Light/Original Male Character(s), L/Yagami Light, Yagami Light/Original Character(s), Matt | Mail Jeevas/Yagami Light, Mello | Mihael Keehl & Near | Nate River & Yagami Light, Matt | Mail Jeevas & Mello | Mihael Keehl & Near | Nate River, L & Matt | Mail Jeevas & Mello | Mihael Keehl & Near | Nate River

Characters:

L (Death Note), Yagami Light, Mello | Mihael Keehl, Matt | Mail Jeevas, Watari | Quillsh Wammy, Jealous | Gelus, Near | Nate River, Amane Misa, Rem (Death Note), Ryuk (Death Note), Kira Task Force, Original Character, Yagami Souichirou, Matsuda Touta

Additional Tags:

Light Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, One-Sided Amane Misa/Yagami Light, Yagami Light is Not Okay, Eventual L/Yagami Light, Alive Matt | Mail Jeevas & Mello | Mihael Keehl, Wammy Boys, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Psychological Torture, Physical Abuse, RAMCOA warning, Warnings May Change, Fake Character Death, Government Experimentation, L Wins (Death Note), Comfort Sex, Self-Harm, Self destructive Light Yagami, Medical Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Dissociation, no beta we die like L, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Cults, Insane Yagami Light, Traumatized Yagami Light, Masochistic Yagami Light, Top L (Death Note), Bottom Yagami Light

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2024-07-27
Updated: 2024-09-25
Words: 30,616
Chapters: 12/?

The Decay of an Angel
by mireiwinters

Summary

Rem wanted Misa's happiness. Misa thought Light was her happiness. Rem thought Misa was delusional. In good faith, she put her trust in L instead to save Misa.

With both Kiras finally caught, everyone assumed everything would be over after Light's execution and Misa's admittance to an asylum for the criminally insane.

Clearly that wasn't the case when four years later, Light is found at Orchard beach by none other than Matt and Mello. It seemed that peace wasn't apart of the equation for L thanks to this new development. Not only will he have to juggle the broken shell that was once Light Yagami - he has to try and keep the ex-Kira out of the jaws of the CIA and other forces who don't appreciate their prized guinea pig slipping out of their grasp.

Notes

Hi! Thank you for giving this little story of mine a chance! I recently fell down a Death Note rabbit hole and got inspired by a bunch of stories where L wins and wanted to see what I could do if I took some ideas from Elfen Lied!

Just letting you know, I did do some extensive research on things like psychological torture tactics and I did touch on RAMCOA programming and dissociative disorders for accuracy - for the latter, please let me know if I missed something or I was insensitive in any way! - so if that isn't your cuppa tea, please feel free to click off!

Anyway - enough of my yap session, onwards with the story!

Scales

"Thyself shall see the act; For as thou
urgest justice, Thou shalt have justice

more than thou desir'st."

- William Shakespeare

(The Merchant of Venice)

She watched with bated breath as the hooded figure tailed the unsuspecting blonde, the model humming to herself. Her cherry painted lips were stretched wide as she made her way to her apartment, blissfully unaware of the rapidly decreasing lifespan beneath her name.

The stalker grabbed Misa by the back of her jacket, manoeuvring her into a headlock the moment she’d unlocked the door. The girl’s screams were quickly stifled when her eyes spied a glint of silver before the knife ever so slowly — almost… sensually — traced a path from her soft belly to where her heart was nestled safely behind her rib cage.

To Rem, it seemed like the numbers were decreasing faster from her ‘sanctuary’ of the portals used to view the humans in Mu. The lifespan of Misa Amane was dangerously close to zero when the stalker whispered a few indiscernible sweet nothings in the struggling blonde’s ear as the knife was raised, ready to end her life at a moment’s notice.

What a shock it was to see the lifespan increase, immediately baffling the Shinigami. The questions that had been ready to fall from her lips were answered the second she spied a rapidly crumbling Gelus scribbling in his Death Note.

Rem blinked as she registered the clumsy human (Matsuzaka? Matsuri? Matsu- something) had groaned when he’d accidentally torn a page he’d been writing on.

No, it wouldn’t do Rem any good to dwell on the loss of Gelus. Letting the sorrow overwhelm her was not going to help in keeping her promise to give Misa a life where she was happy. She was frustrated by the Yagami boy being the cause of cutting that life even shorter not once — but twice from thirty long years to fifteen and now seven with a few months to spare.

Rem knew that her days of holding his death over his head simply wasn’t enough anymore. Misa was becoming more of a liability to Light, what with her impulsive nature and excessive clinginess. The more Rem thought on it — Misa did not need Light in her life. The model needed mental health assistance after the death of her parents.

Many a night had Rem witnessed Misa simply sit a the foot of her bed after drinking herself silly, blank faced whilst her fingers lightly fiddled with a  razor for hours until she decided to simply hold it over a pale, milky wrist — never grazing skin, merely looming over.

Rem wanted Misa happy. Misa thinks Light is her happiness. Misa’s object of affection was not her happiness. Rem, in good faith, couldn’t allow Misa to indulge in delusions that would lead to her untimely demise.

Light was going to kill Misa one way or another. Rem knew it. Light wasn’t going to protect her forever. She’d be dead right now if Rem hadn’t done something about it. It was laughable to think Light would see the blonde as anything valuable. Light was a manipulative, unfeeling killer who could easily get another Kira fanatic unknown to the police and more efficient to take Misa’s place, easily dumping the model.

Rem also knew Light was attempting to trap the Shinigami into killing her self to save Misa at a certain point. With the detective backing the youth into a corner and tiptoeing dangerously close to the truth far too quickly, she’d almost gotten rid of L then. But she kept her head. Her death would be futile since Misa would only continue being in danger without her.

It hurt Rem to come to this conclusion — but it was most likely best if Misa were caught. Only under the right circumstances, however. If she could strike a deal with L, perhaps she could ensure a softer punishment for Misa?

What other options did Rem have? Either way, Misa would be in trouble. At least with the detective, Rem was allowed more wiggle room.

Rem’s lone eye scanned the investigation room from her corner. L was no where to be seen. How did the man simply disappear like that? Why the hell hadn’t Light been watching the detective better?

A small part of her was a bit satisfied to see the brunet teen discretely surveying the room, a subtle nervous glint present in his eyes. It was nice to see Light squirm at times, but now it confirmed L simply hadn’t gone on a little trip for a treat nor the bathroom.

When amber eyes met hers, Light gave Rem an imperceptible nod. She took it as a signal to search the building.

She’d checked all the floors, her lips only pursing tighter when she saw no sign of the inky haired detective. Halfheartedly, she decided to check the roof.

Lo and behold, L was on the roof. The detective stood seemingly motionless in the heavy rain, staring at nothing. Rem eyed him for a while.

Was this a boon in disguise? She could never seem to get a moment alone with the young detective. Light always seemed to be around at every corner, making it impossible for her to think properly.

It’s said that all who possess a Death Note would end up with great misfortune — but for someone like Light, everything had been tipping in the little bastard’s favour no matter how sticky the situation. If she left the roof, it seemed that fashion would only continue. The gnawing feeling at the back of her mind pulled her to L. L would be the lesser evil between himself and Kira. He had to be— for Misa. It was about time Light had to have his actions bite him. Painfully as well.

“Ryuzaki?”Rem called from her safe haven underneath an air conditioner. The detective showed no inclination of having heard her.

She braced herself momentarily before leaving her safe haven and ventured into the down pour, fluttering down next to the detective.

L didn’t flinch or anything of the like. He merely turned his head to look up at her.

“Hello, Shinigami Rem,”the detective greeted.

“Ryuzaki,”Rem acknowledged in response. Silence stretched on for a while after, L finding his feet more interesting to look at. The gnawing feeling returned. “Why are you up here?”she eventually asked.

“Merely listening to the bells,”he said, not bothering to look up this time.

“Bells?”

“Mhm,”L hummed. “Many would find their ringing a bit of a nuisance… However, the bells create such beautiful sounds in my opinion. They’ve been ringing all day without pause. I wouldn’t mind them so much if they allowed me to concentrate.”

Rem could only stare. Was this some kind of ear issue other humans struggled with? Had L been losing his grip lately and succumbed to hallucinations?

Or had he, in a way, felt that his death was imminent and only admitting it to himself now?

A part of Rem squirmed uncomfortably in guilt. If she sided with Light, L’s death wouldn’t be a thing of dreams. Abstract, far away. It would be fact. Cold, harsh, unforgiving and oh so unfortunately real. The detective looked smaller than she’d ever seen him — a frail, helpless kitten in the rain unknowingly facing the jaws of the hungry constrictor that was death.

Rem blinked again, attempting to ground herself. It wasn’t the time to get distracted. She had to be careful. She couldn’t exactly try threatening L the same way she’d done Light. The man was smart — startlingly so. He’d see it was a bluff soon enough and everything would blow up in her face. No, she had had to entice him by presenting a means to an end that would make him likely to listen to her.

“I would like to make a deal with you,”she said. L tilted his head to the side minutely — he was listening.

Rem took that as a hint to carry on. “I understand that should Kira be apprehended, they are to be executed, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I see…”Rem muttered before sighing. “Detective. I’m not going to insult your intelligence — I’m more than aware that you have an idea as to who Kira is-“

“And you know exactly who Kira is.” It wasn’t a question. “Are you here to make a confession?”

“Not quite. I can’t tell you certain things, seeing as they’d come at the cost of my life.”

At Rem’s statement, inky pools of black were fixed on the Shinigami. Grim determination could be seen glinting dimly in those eyes that so many secrets. Rem could practically hear L’s brain whirring as pros and cons were weighed carefully.

“You’ve been withholding information in an effort to protect at least one of the Kiras. You’re here to make a deal in return of a less harsh punishment.” Another statement.

Well, if he wasn’t beating around the bush, so would she.

“Correct,”Rem replied. “If my information is valuable, then will you guarantee a lesser punishment?”

L was quiet for a long while, his eyes seemingly piercing into Rem. She almost had the impression he could read her thoughts.

“Depends on who Kira is and specifically which Kira you’re protecting,”the detective muttered, raising a hand to his lips in a bid to gently chew on his thumb. “Also, please consider that whilst my word holds some sway in certain situations — I don’t have absolute authority over what happens to the Kiras. Others will be upset if you suggest letting them go free.”

“I understand. The Kira I’m asking you to save is the Second. They… are extremely mentally unstable — and besides they don’t have long to left to live anyway. I merely want their last years comfortable enough despite having to pay for their crimes. I want them to get help… and be happy. That is all.”

“Hn,”came the noise from the back of L’s throat. “Tell me what you can and I’ll see what I can do afterwards.”

Rem stared at the detective, searching hard for any sign that he was intending to not keep his word. When she saw none, she relaxed a little.

“I can’t tell you the identities of the Kiras — seeing as they’re Death Note users,”she said. “I can point you in the right direction. Thirteen Day Rule is false. If you can prove that, then you’ll be well on your way to catching them. You merely have to be wise about it.”

L’s lips quirked upwards briefly. “Thank you, Shinigami Rem. Whilst little, you’ve given me quite the upper hand,”the inky haired detective hummed. “Of course,”he continued. “You won’t go unpaid — this is a deal, after all. The best I can do is argue for the Second Kira to plead insanity and have them locked up in an asylum of my choosing. Don’t worry, they will be cared for - so long as you do not try ending my own or my associate's life. I'm sure you're familiar with Watari.”

A breath Rem hadn't even known she'd been holding was let out. The Shinigami was relieved. Misa was safe and the Yagami brat was going to pay his dues. She knew that the detective would plan things out better than she ever could.  She could try keeping the detective and the old man out of harm's way. It was the least she could do in return for something so great.

The door knob of the door leading to the roof made a noise from behind them and Rem took it as her cue to become intangible. Light appeared. It seemed the teen had gotten frustrated enough to look for L himself. With a satisfied, toothy grin, she phased through the roof, leaving the two geniuses alone.

Scales pt. II

Chapter Summary

Light sniffs Ryuzaki's hair.

Chapter Notes

Whoops. Sorry for taking so long! A lot's happened in my life but luckily I got this chapter out - it's a bit longer than the first one.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Knowing too much of your future is never a good thing.”

― Rick Riordan, The Lightning Thief

"You're going to do what?"Soichiro spluttered.

"You've must've gone and dropped that brain of yours on the floor because clearly there's nothing in the space between your ears,"Aizawa scowled, his upper lip curled in disdain.

Light wholeheartedly agreed with that latter statement. Damn Ryuzaki seven ways to hell and back! Just what was the little freak playing at? Things weren't going like he'd initially thought they'd pan out when he'd added those fake rules. The detective should've risen to the bait and tried mucking about with them to scare Rem into action - not whatever the hell he was doing now, what with gathering everyone into the investigation room whilst he was being live streamed from an unknown floor of the HQ, looking comical in a many-sizes-too-large white hazmat suit without the helmet.

Light had made the mistake of subtly observing Rem instead of listening to what Ryuzaki was up to, missing the detective's latest little plan. He'd only refocused when his father and Aizawa started yelling the same moment Rem seemed to startle and turn invisible amidst the chaos.

"How could I drop my brain, Aizawa-san?"Ryuzaki asked innocently, tilting his head to the side and donning that wide eyed, clueless expression he used to purposely piss people (Light) off. The scruffy little hermit knew exactly what he was doing. "I don't think I have any cranial openings large enough to make that a possibility."

Aizawa looked ready to strangle the detective.

"Ryuzaki-san,"Soichiro sighed, placing a hand on Aizawa's shoulder. "Don't you think you're throwing away our biggest lead so far? We finally have Kira's murder notebook and now you're going to burn it? How is that a good idea?"

Light's legs twitched a little as his heart skipped a beat. Crap. This was bad. This was very, very bad. He'd just gotten his memories back! Now stupid Ryuzaki was throwing his hard work down the drain! Would burning the Death Note make him  lose them as well? Ryuk hadn't mentioned anything of the sort, nor had their been anything about it in the rules... besides it wouldn't be him giving up ownership anyway. If he did lose them, Misa would rush to revive her 'beloved Kira' and things would still be alright. Or perhaps he'd still retain them and use the notebook in Misa's possession as a backup when the time came?

At this realisation, the brunet's pounding heart steadied.

Perhaps Ryuzaki would finally die today along with the bane of his existence called Rem? Had this been the thing that caused her to finally swoop in for her darling Misa? If so, then he shouldn't have panicked at all. Everything was going swimmingly.

"Yagami-san, I've made the proper arrangements to have every page in the Death Note copied for further analysis and the book itself has already been analysed in lab settings by my associates in private,"Ryuzaki replied in his usual monotone, snapping Light out of his thoughts. "After a unanimous decision following numerous experiments , this notebook is deemed far too dangerous to exist, hence why I will be burning it shortly."

"But those decisions were made without us, the actual task force working on this case intimately. Our input is valid as well,"Soichiro shot back.

"I understand that, Yagami-san,"Ryuzaki rebuffed smoothly, speaking in a slower cadence. Light almost broke character and sneered at how the sugar addict almost came off as condescending. "But even I myself answer to someone. World leaders override the opinions of six men. Please understand, this is out of even my control. I am working based on instructions given to me."

"Bastard,"Aizawa grumbled as Ryuzaki reached forward to flick a button that muted the investigation room's audio before proceeding to place the hazmat helmet on his head whilst another person in a hazmat - presumably Watari - prepared the notebook, a pair of metal tongs and a bunsen burner. If the inky haired detective heard Aizawa's scathing remarks, he didn't give the man the satisfaction of seeing a reaction.

Once done, the task force (and Light) watched with bated breath as Ryuzaki carefully picked up the Death Note with the tongs, holding it over the flame. The book caught alight, sickly black smoke forming terrifying shapes of screaming skulls floated up. Even at that, Ryuzaki seemed unperturbed, allowing the book to completely charr as the eerie smoke shrouded the detective from view.

When nothing but ashes remained and the smoke cleared, the silence was quite loud as Ryuzaki took off his helmet. Light was relieved that his memories were still intact but something was off with the empty... flat look in Ryuzaki's usually mirror-like onyx coloured eyes.

The detective shocked everyone when he stood stock still, ignoring Watari when the old man tried to guide him out of the room.

"What's wrong with him?"Matsuda exclaimed with wide, horrified eyes. He pointed at Ryuzaki's nose. Blood was spurting out streams and staining the suit before the detective let out a small manic giggle, swaying where he stood. A shrill series of shrieks tore out of the detective's throat not long after, the male pulling at his hair and stumbling around, smacking his head into the walls repeatedly.

"He really did lose his mind..."Aizawa muttered, blinking in shock.

Light contained a laughing fit whilst the rest of the team cringed whilst watching Watari scramble to subdue a now hysterical Ryuzaki. Was this Rem's doing? Did she drive the detective to madness or was insanity a repercussion for burning a Death Note? Either way, it was like the scales of fate were working in his favour. His biggest opposition was knocked out of the running and now... now... He could practically taste his New World!

Watari had dismissed the task force for the day on Ryuzaki's behalf. Everyone had been more than happy to rush to the elevator after the elderly man had interrupted the uncomfortable silence that had gone on for two hours with his entry. They noted how Watari seemed to suddenly look his age with how visibly shaken he was. He didn't say anything about the inky haired detective and nobody dared ask - not even Light. Instead they all mumbled goodbyes and left.

When they'd all returned the next day, Watari still looked a bit ashen but otherwise his usual quiet self as they filtered into the investigation room to find the elderly male standing next to a projector and a laptop in the centre of the room patiently.

Much to Light's chagrin, Rem was still alive and looking calmer as she observed Watari. The besotted creature was probably satisfied that her little Misa was safe. For now.

No matter. He could still play her like a fiddle. There was still a slight chance of the task force closing in on Misa and himself in the future, so getting rid of the Shinigami wasn't something improbable. Light could work with this. Everything was going to be perfectly fine.

When everyone was present and seated, Watari typed in a few things onto the laptop before a big white gothic 'D' against a black background was projected.

Fuck.

Light could feel his legs twitching again. The brunet crossed his ankles in a bid to still them.

"Greetings, esteemed members of the Kira Task Force,"a garbled, distinctly more feminine and animated computerised voice spoke from the device. "I am Deneuve - the next greatest detective the world has to offer after L. It's very nice to meet you all and I hope we can work well together now that I will be taking over the investigation. If anyone has any questions, don't hesitate to ask me. If not, let us get to work."

Light bit back a sneer. He didn't know what was worse. L himself or an L-wannabe. At least L was more stimulating (dare he say... fun?) to manoeuvre against. This wannabe looked like they'd be a pain that would drive Light to tears due to crippling boredom. He simply despised Deneuve's type. The brunet could simply tell from far away that they were just a mockery of L, a disrespectful pantomime of true brilliance. No wonder this Deneuve is second place.

For now, it was time to don the mask of Ryuzaki's friend. A part of Light felt a bit sick at that.

"Eh... Deneuve?"Light called, monitoring the tentativeness in his tone.

"Yes... Ah, Bright?"Deneuve chirped.

Light grit his teeth. "It's Light,"he corrected with a faux nervous chuckle.

"That's what I said, Wright."

Were all internationally recognised detectives nuisances determined to get under Light's skin?

"It's L-"Light tried correcting, resisting the urge to roll his caramel eyes. "You know what, names aren't important..."he muttered, allowing his shoulders to slump as he pretended to look dejected in front of the team. "Deneuve... I just would like to know if Ryuzaki's alright. What happened yesterday was worrying... he's not de...dead, is he?"

Everyone's eyes snapped to the gothic D in front of them, each with frown's marring their foreheads. Whilst everyone each had varying degrees of ... 'tolerance' or 'like' for the detective, it was a bit disconcerting to see a seemingly infallible person fall so far.

Deneuve was silent for a long while, mulling over whether or not it was worth telling them what occurred after Ryuzaki's fit of hysterics.

"Well, I think it's only fair for you to know about your colleague's status,"Deneuve said finally. "Ryuzaki is not dead. More like... incapacitated. Our medical team is still determining whether or not it will be permanent. At the rate things are going, it seems like the former conclusion."

"What do you mean by that?"Matsuda asked, fiddling with his tie. "I don't... get it. 'Incapacitated' sounds vague..."

"Ryuzaki-san is trapped in a state of catatonia as a result of the Death Note being burnt, leaving him unable to perform his duties as L. I suppose a visual of him would make what I'm trying to say stick. There aren't any words in any dictionary to truly describe this unfortunate development. Mr Watari will accompany you all to the infirmary floor."

The team shared uneasy looks with each other as the D disappeared, signalling Deneuve's signing off.

The tension in the elevator was palpable as they rode to the seventeenth floor. Light kept his head low to prevent anyone from seeing the giddiness on his face. The others on the task force mistook it as a teen worried about their friend, occasionally patting his back to comfort him or shooting the brunet a sympathetic look. Light bristled a little when stupid Matsuda had the audacity to sling an arm around his shoulders.

The doors opened after Watari entered a long passcode, revealing a blindingly white area. The place looked exactly like one of those expensive private hospital wards, smelling far too... sanitised to the point of being nausea inducing. The only noise on the floor were quiet beeping of monitors and presumably medical staff flitting about with various tubes, carts and papers.

Otherwise, it was pretty much eerily quiet.

Watari led them past the staff who paused to nod their heads in greeting to a lone door at the end of the floor. He rapped on the door primly three times before it slid open to reveal a a doctor. At least that's what Light thought she was, judging by her lab coat. Otherwise, the woman looked rather sloppy. Platinum blonde hair tied up in a messy ponytail with the black roots doing more than just 'peeking out', cold mint green eyes eyes mentally cataloguing them behind sellotaped silver rectangular framed glasses and the woman was actually wearing a t-black shirt with a low quality version of a cat balancing an orange with red plaid pyjama pants, barefoot.

"Yo,"she greeted, her lips quirking upwards in an odd fashion as she waved awkwardly. It was as if she learnt how to smile from an encyclopaedia or something. It felt... unnerving. "I am Dr Xiamora, the person in charge of looking after Ryuzaki-san." She turned away before the team could greet back, pulling the door away fully to allow them entry.

What they saw made them understand why Watari looked so shaken up the day prior.

They almost wouldn't have recognised the detective if they weren't told it was him. His hair was a stark white and disheveled (even for him), his body looked small and his skin severely translucent to the point where veins could be clearly made out, with many wires and bandages connected and wrapped making it difficult to discern where Ryuzaki ended and where they began. His eyes... gone were the deep black pools that hid many secrets and made constant deductions. Instead, the irises had an emptiness seen when viewing a corpse, his sclerae bloodshot and the eye bags beneath looking darker than than any of the team hand ever seen them. All the detective did was stare straight ahead at the ceiling. His cheeks were sunken in and ashen, his lips while moistened seemed devoid of blood. His neck was supported by a brace... had the detective injured himself so severely in such a short period of time?

Even Light felt his own stomach twist at seeing his enemy look like such a sorry sight. He looked the most frailest and painfully young the brunet had ever seen him. Light almost felt sorry for Ryuzaki...

Almost.

Perhaps Light'd do the detective a favour and find his actual name soon and put him out of misery. Death was surely better than being a useless, drooling husk of your former self . He'd do that as a mercy for the only person who - Light grudgingly admitted - was his true equal.

"We really should catch Kira - soon,"Light muttered angrily, his caramel eyes never leaving Ryuzaki's blank face. As if they could. With Ryuzaki gone, he's going to run them in circles. "How many more will suffer at that monster's hands? We should do Ryuzaki justice and try our best to catch that bastard!"

Various murmurs of agreement were heard, the team looking more determined than before. Dr Xiamora stared at Light a little before turning away and busying herself with reading a chart. Something felt off with the way that woman curled her lips.

After they'd had asked Xiamora their questions, the team was ready to leave but Light asked the doctor if he could stay with Ryuzaki for a bit longer. It wouldn't do to ruin appearances of course.

Dr. Xiamora stared at Light, an indiscernible emotion causing her mint green eyes to glitter strangely and caused a small shiver to run up the brunet's spine. She was silent for the longest time, making Light uncomfortable but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of being the first to look away. Her thin pale fingers eventually pushed her glasses up, their new angle catching the light from the room and reflecting it, obscuring those cold eyes from view.

"Sure, why not?"Dr Xiamora finally murmured with that unnerving farce called a smile. She shoved her hands in her coat pocket, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'm sure he's tired of looking at my face even if he doesn't say anything, a friendly face might be a comfort,"the platinum blonde hummed, basically skipping to the door. "I'll be taking my break. If he's.... I don't know - staring the Grim Reaper in the eyes or the muscle relaxants wear off, press that green button next to his bed to buzz staff, 'kay, Light-o?"

"Of...course..."Light replied uneasily but Xiamora was already gone.

The brunet slowly walked to Ryuzaki, eyeing the now snowy haired detective in his little nest of numerous pillows and blankets keeping his weakened body warm. Ryuzaki didn't even react to Light's footsteps before the brunet sat down. Light knew very well that there were a bunch of cameras recording, so he was ready to perform, and perform well he would.

He held one of the detective's slim hands in two of his own. He noticed how boney and soft his hands were as he rubbed small circles with his thumbs on them. "Must be boring, isn't it?"Light hummed, his caramel eyes narrowed at the detective in thought. "You can't eat any of those damned sweets of yours and you're under stimulated. Must be hellish, huh? I wonder if you're still in there, able to observe but helpless to do anything..."

Light bent his head down closer to the detective's ear, lowering his voice to a whisper so the wiretaps wouldn't catch anything. "My... it's sad, isn't it? To watch the mighty crash and burn from their pedestal of grace. You were a wonderful opponent L - despite being the little freak that you are. Were? But now, your time has come and gone. I'm not too angry with you. You were only practicing what you were taught. You didn't grow up with true justice. Perhaps if you did, then it'd be you helping me creating my utopia. Much better than our mutual 'friend' - it's a shame, really. You only aggravated me because you were wrong."

A small chuckle slipped out of Light. He carefully placed Ryuzaki's hand back in its original resting position, eyes trained on the man's hair. The brunet's elegant fingers drifted to Ryuzaki's hair. He'd been always curious during their time of confinement about its scent and texture. Like its owner, the hair had an odd liveliness to it, spiked at odd angles and so black that it had hints of blue if light bounced off it right.

The brunet tentatively touched it, marvelling at how unnaturally soft it was. He'd been expecting it to be all greasy but was pleasantly surprised. Light didn't even know what possessed him to even try give it a sniff.

Strawberries. He wasn't even surprised. Now his hair looked like the perfect cream to dip strawberries into.

...What?

Light coughed awkwardly, sitting up a little with a puzzled frown. That was an avenue he should just leave well alone and not think on it too hard.

"Sorry,"he muttered to detective with a helpless shrug. "Even I don't know what was that. But I suppose I'll keep you company. I'm not in a rush to work with Deneuve. I hate to admit it but you're more preferable."

Light felt a bit stupid. Why did he even bother talking to the detective? The man was probably a vegetable that was dead to the world. He should be revelling in his perfect victory, not humouring some hermit.

Light sighed.

Chapter End Notes

Yeah... this story should be tagged as some kind of slow burn or something because I still have to do a little bit more beating around the bush. And if you're confused about this whole situation with L, don't worry - it'll be explained in detail in either the next chapter or the one following the next one. Most likely the next....

*shrugs*

Pride I

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Through pride we are ever deceiving ourselves. But deep down below the surface of the average conscience a still, small voice says to us, something is out of tune. ”

― Carl Gustav Jung

Everything was going smoothly over the course of the next few days. Light had fallen into a steady routine of duping the Task Force by planting dead ends and having Misa carry out creative deaths that resulted in criminals dying even when he and the blonde were well in Deneuve's annoyingly hawk-like line of sight. If he wasn't doing that, he'd pay a still non responsive Ryuzaki a visit.

Light didn't even know why he stayed. He wasn't obligated to sit in that chair. He didn't have to hold the detective's hand and talk about trivial matters about his day or vent out his frustrations with Deneuve. Light could possibly guess at what drew him to the now white haired man but acknowledging it made him feel weak.

Attachments showed weakness. Humanity. Light had the gift of divinity bestowed upon him by fate. He alone was chosen to rid the world of the rotten filth polluting it. To be the shepherd to guide innocent sheep out of the way of the wolf that was evil. He alone was the saviour that would lead humanity to evolve as the greatest creatures to have ever lived in a utopia of purity for all the good men and women of world. It was a difficult burden to bear but Light would do it for the greater good.

Attachments would only make fulfilling his mission difficult. But damned L constantly had to fight him every step of the way, stepping on the brunet's toes even now.

Amber eyes studied empty black pools in silence.

"Hm..."sighed Light, running a hand through Ryuzaki's white locks. "You're quite troublesome. When will you stop giving me trials to overcome, hm?"he murmured. "First it was your incessant accusations against me, your odd behaviours and little tests... but now... now what? I don't know what to call it. Have you... grown on me? For the lack of a better descriptor, I suppose. Perhaps you have. I think you were the closest thing I had to a friend, L. I hate to admit it but this game isn't really fun anymore since you've been gone."  A bitter chuckle escaped Light's lips. "Everything's going to work out fine and the world'll be clean... but then what? What then? Will I succumb to the clutches of boredom again when I lose my purpose?"

Light stared off into space, his features forlorn as he did so, not paying attention to the black eyes that snapped to him, focusing on his face intently for a few seconds before they went blank once more.

Six more days passed, marking two weeks since Ryuzaki was knocked out of commission. Light was starting to get extremely paranoid. Unease settled into his body, his stomach ceaselessly churning. He figured he must be losing his grip if even stupid Matsuda had pointed out how pale he looked.

But what did he fear so terribly? Nothing was wrong, as far as he knew. Rem and Misa were appeased, no one suspected him any longer and the Task Force was reaching its breaking point with Deneuve's leadership. The number two detective was at their wit's end with finding nothing concrete and the cracks showed more and more with day, Light noted. So much for being one of the best. The only true opposition that could actually thwart him was on the seventeenth floor, trapped in his mind.

At least that's what he thought.

Light wanted to hit Misa. Today of all days, Deneuve finally allowed her entry into the Headquarters building? Had that useless detective finally cracked? How dare they take away Light's refuge from the clingy blonde? All he wanted to do was have a cup of coffee but Misa was making him watch some cheesy little chick-flick in what was her designated room Ryuzaki had set out for her initially, basically attempting to molest him.

Just as she was about to try and trick him into kissing her, a familiar, feminine and garbled computerised voice sounded over hidden speakers in the room. "Could you make your way to the investigation floor, Bright? I know that your girlfriend Missy is a package deal so I suppose she can observe as well. It seems that your input is needed,"Deneuve chirped.

Misa huffed in frustration, her hands on her hips as she glared around the room, looking for cameras. "Hey! Misa-Misa told you her name is Misa! Not Amy or Missy or something dumb like that! But fine!"she sniffed as she stood up and forcefully pulled Light to his feet. "Let's go, Light! The faster we listen to dummy Den- whatever - then we can get back to our movie date!"she gushed.

Light could feel the bile hit the back of his throat.

When they'd arrived, everyone else was already present. Two chairs in the centre were left for the 'couple' and whilst Misa thought nothing of it, Light felt a sense of trepidation and the non-threatening armchairs.

He'd sat down primly, apologising with a small smile as he did as he greeted the others. Rem was also present in a corner close to where Watari stood in the front with the laptop and projector at the ready. But the Shinigami wasn't staring at the old man. No, her eye was boring through Light. The nausea returned with full force, but the brunet quickly schooled his grimace into a politely curious expression - at least that's what he hoped it was.

He could've sworn he'd heard a familiar 'Hyuk, Hyuk!' at that very moment. No. No. Something was happening. This was bad. He shouldn't have come here-

"Greetings, illustrious Kira Task Force..."Deneuve's voice hummed. Huh? When had Watari turned on the projector?

"I will not beat around the bush, because frankly - I think I've had enough with exercising the bounds of my patience,"Deneuve carried on, slight glee bleeding into the mechanical voice.

Misa squealed in shock as metal cuffs encircled her and Light's necks, wrists, waists and ankles, keeping them immobile it their seats. Light couldn't help but be reminded of an electric chair.

It seemed that this experience wasn't far off from that particular scenario. Fuck.

"Deneuve! What is the meaning of this?"Soichiro scowled, his face quickly reddening from rage. "We've already had enough of Ryuzaki tormenting my son and his girlfriend - we can't have another ... nutcase doing the same!"

"Yeah! Misa Misa and Light went through a lot,"Matsuda agreed, a frown marring his forehead. "They've been cleared already. There's no point in trying to do anything anymore!"

Deneuve snorted. Light despised that sound with all his heart. He wanted to get out of here! He needed to-

"Misa-chan, Misa-chan,"Deneuve spoke in an oddly familiar speech pattern that had Light's blood run cold. "How was the movie you were watching?"

"How was...? I..."Misa stammered as she floundered for a reply, the fear in her hazel eyes growing. Ah. So she could recognise when she was royally fucked. "It was good,"she finally replied, acting bubbly once more.

"Really? Hopefully you don't mind, but I'd like to show you my own movie. It took a lot of hard work to produce it - I think you'll all like it. Especially you, Light-kun,"Deneuve murmured.

Light. Light-kun.

Light's legs twitched painfully.

Fuck. No. NO.

"Deneuve! This isn't a game!"Aizawa scowled but was quickly shocked into silence by a smooth 'Shut up.' from the mechanical voice.

The gothic D was replaced by static before it settled into a frame of Light and Misa outside of the building many days ago, hugging.

"You're brilliant, Misa. We don't want to arouse L's suspicion again, so I need you to fetch the first notebook,"Light spoke. "Then we'll switch around the Shinigami, okay? Do this and I'll forgive you."

But how? He'd been whispering. Mics shouldn't have been able to catch his voice at all!

"Oh of course, Light! I'm sorry for getting us in trouble before! If it's any good, I have my Eyes again! Just get me in the building and I'll get L's name! I'll get it for you, I swear! I'm sorry for not remembering..."Misa whispered back quickly. "But I'll get it this time and soon he'll be dead and we can judge criminals again! Isn't it lovely?"

The silence in the room was terribly loud. All eyes were trained on a shellshocked Misa and a blank Light, various degrees of disbelief, hurt and betrayal etched onto the investigators' face.

Out of the blue, Light scoffed.

"Get real! That clip is fake!" Light snapped coolly even though he could feel the meltdown coming. "Those words aren't synced with our lips shapes and the audio sounds odd. We were making plans for our date today. Don't tell me you're pinning nonsense on me because you want someone to blame! We aren't Kira."

Light felt a bit better when he saw the angry looks he and Misa had been getting cool a little. Perfect. Deny, deny, deny until Deneuve looked like a crackpot.

"Oh no, it seems me going through the effort of isolating and enhancing your voices with sophisticated technology isn't enough to prove you're Kira,"Deneuve playfully whined. "Not a problem. Let's go to the next scene, hm?"

The 'scene' was a series of videos of Light in Ryuzaki's hospital room with his voice isolated once more, shot from the angles of where Light remembered that strange porcelain kitten vase he'd seen at Ryuzaki's bedside sit. It'd gotten his face perfectly, the little rants about his perfect world and his mission as Kira caught in stellar quality.

Light's throat felt dry.

"Is this convincing enough for you?"Deneuve drawled at the group of stunned people. "Oh no, let me show a few more scenes! Got to really capture Light's essence, you know?"

Light didn't even get a chance to get a word in before Deneuve moved on, showing the group a video of the results of Misa and Light's handwriting being compared to the hand writing in the Death Note. They were perfect matches. They'd even managed to find skin cells on the notebook that matched their DNA as well.

The last clip was of a criminal with the Death Note. Light didn't like where this was going.

"You see,"Deneuve hummed. "The existence of this clips was what made it possible for all of this evidence to be dug up..."

The detective paused before the door at the back of the room opened, revealing L in his usual outfit of a long-sleeved white shirt and faded denim jeans with the now white hair still intact, balancing a laptop with an arm whilst attempting to devour an eclair.

"Goodness, pardon me,"he mumbled in between chewing. "I just haven't had sweets in a little while,"he said, as if nothing were amiss. "Where was I...?"

Watari already had a chair waiting for him  directly in front of Light, the detective sitting down in his usual crouch as the Task Force looked as if they'd seen a ghost.

"Boo!"L drawled before his lips quirked upwards. "What?"

"How are you...?" Misa breathed.

"Healthy? Or as healthy as can be by my definition?"L finished for her. "Well, Misa-chan. You're not the only person who's good at acting,"the detective replied, his eyes piercing through a shaken Light as he licked his chocolate and cream covered fingers clean.

"I will admit, it was quite difficult playing the role of Deneuve and acting like a catatonic patient simultaneously - but I did it. It was worth it if it meant ending this stupid little game of ours, Kira-kun,"L continued, his small smirk never leaving his Light's face. "Now, for the grand finale."

The detective spread his arms wide, gesturing at the projector. Watari clicked the play button and the clip started rolling.

The criminal introduced as only the letter Y, and they were a death row inmate scheduled to die soon. When the L in the recording explained that they were testing the Thirteen Day Rule - Light's heart sank.

Everything was starting to click. Rem... had betrayed him! She'd gone behind his back and trusted another. No wonder why she was calm all the time despite possible conviction. Why hadn't he thought to force her into a tight spot? Why hadn't he seen that it was odd for L - never mind Watari - to live past his expiry date? Now he'd die a fool's death! Over an impulsive Shinigami in love with some bimbo blonde!

Goddamn it!

No. No. He was Light Yagami. He could talk himself out of anything. He will talk himself out of this.

"This doesn't prove anything. How do we know the rule is fake?"Light asked. Stupid.

"It's day fifteen, Light.  Y is alive and kicking - at least til he's executed properly,"L replied.

Fuck. Fuck.

Light bowed his head before his shoulders shook. The teen burst into tears, startling the investigators.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... L... I... you don't understand... I ... you don't understand how long I've been fighting..hi...him..."Light choked out in between sobs as he lied through his teeth. "His power is too great and I always get shoved into a mental prison...K-Kira's so good at controlling others, you know... You have to believe me..."

"Light, aren't you tired?"Mogi asked, his quiet rumbling tone taking many by surprise due to the spiky haired man usually preferring to observe events. "Please, for once, just be honest with us. If not for any of us then at least for yourself. It's a little insulting to hear you ramble and spin tales to cover your ass when you've been caught red handed."

Light could feel his eyes burning for real this time, the tears welling up as amber eyes looked to his father. A strange disgust filled him as he stared at Soichiro's blank look. But it wasn't directed the man before him. It wasn't directed at the investigators either. It was... he was... disgusted by himself? But why? What he was doing was the correct thing. Why did Light have to be the one crying? He had nothing to be sorry for. But why did one look from his father make him feel so small? Soichiro should be proud. He followed in his footsteps and made things better for the world... Just as he'd been taught to do.

So why did his lip tremble?

He attempted to open his mouth to defend himself. To do anything. He could get himself out of this tight spot. He could.

"I... I.."he tried pathetically.

For the first time in his life, Light Yagami didn't have an answer at the ready.

L pursed his lips at the completely devastated look on Light's face. Well - Kira. So he still had the emotional capabilities to be ashamed? The detective knew Light wasn't faking it this time. It was a good thing he'd started paying attention to other areas of the brunet's body for tell tale signs of lying or else he'd be dead long ago had L not been tipped off by the Shinigami.

"Let's look at something else, shall we?"L murmured, his voice muffled slightly by the thumb at his mouth.

"Please..."a pitiful sob came from Light. "Please stop."

"You're a sore loser, Light. I'm being more than fair, taking the time to prove that you are the Original Kira beyond the shadow of a doubt. I do not wish to leave any room for you to poison them with your silver tongue."

Misa - who'd been startled into silence by the events unfolding - felt rage coiling in her belly, white hot and ready to unfurl the longer the snowy haired detective continued to breathe. The longer he wasted that air teasing her poor Light, acting all high and mighty.

Sometimes, Misa was glad that she was overlooked and played into the role of the airhead well, meaning her being silent wouldn't be odd since they thought her too dumb to follow along. She knew she wasn't Light or even L intelligent, but the blonde knew she was intelligent enough.

She also knew Light was a bit cold to her - that was normal in love. he just wasn't used to her yet. If L hadn't gotten in the way, Light would win and he'd learn to love her with due time. It would've been faster if they'd been allowed to do normal couple things instead of being third wheeled by a freaky little recluse hellbent on ruining them.

All her dreams of marriage, of having a cute baby that looked like her Light were thrust down the drain over a pervert who had trouble keeping his nose out of other people's business.

She hated L. No... she loathed him. Her hatred soaked into her very cells, bitter tasting on her tongue. Her darling Light was going to die, but at least they'd die together. She was just going to take out that stupid alphabet man. His body would grow cold before hers ever did.

Her Light shouldn't die. He shouldn't. L was going to snuff him out and Misa could feel herself grieve already as she saw the brunet slowly crack as he was cornered, buried under the unforgiving stares of the Task Force.

Misa subtly curled her hand into a fist, discreetly stabbing her metal tipped red false nail on her right index finger into the soft flesh of her thumb until enough blood was drawn. Trying to use as minimal movement possible, the model fished out a scrap of Death Note paper from her jacket sleeve, resting her hand over it to hide it.

It wasn't much, but this was all she could do for Light. Maybe in their next life, they'd be together again.

Misa bowed her head, pretending to sniffle. In reality, she just needed her fringe to hide her eyes from L the moment they switched from brown to red.

The model disguised her giggle as a sob when she spied L Lawliet float above the detective's head.

Chapter End Notes

Hm... it feels like I made Light a bit OOC ... I don't know. Something feels off about this chapter but I hope you liked it!

Pride II.

Chapter Notes

Oopsie! Life kinda got 'interesting' and kept me busy :( I have three chapters ready as an apology though!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Misa Amane was wild-eyed, her breath coming in frantic quiet gasps. Her fingers twitched at her sides, her eyes darting to Light. Light saw the intention in her gaze before anyone else — a desperate, unthinking need to act. She shifted her weight subtly, preparing to move, her hand bending unnaturally in her bindings for the hidden scrap of Death Note paper.

L’s eyes were on her in an instant. "Misa," he murmured, his voice almost too soft to be heard, lacking urgency as if his life weren't about to be snuffed out. "Don't."

Misa’s hand froze, her face contorting with frustration and fear. The sound of L’s voice, quiet but commanding, was like a snap of electricity through the room. Light's heart leapt into his throat, his mind racing. He knew that tone; he had heard it many times, had come to understand the weight of it. It meant L had already calculated the outcome of this situation — and he was, as always, one step ahead.

“Misa!” Matsuda shouted, his voice laced with urgency, “Stop!”

But before she could move further, the usually clumsy detective leaped into action. With an almost uncharacteristic swiftness, he grabbed her arm, knocking the piece of paper from her grip. It fluttered to the ground like a condemned leaf in autumn, landing near L's feet. Misa let out a strangled cry, her eyes wide with a mix of betrayal and fear. Watari tightened the binding's hold on her, and she began to sob, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to tear from her very soul.

L bent down, his long, pale fingers plucking the paper from the floor. His expression remained neutral, though his eyes flickered briefly with something that might have been relief. He examined the scrap carefully, noting the blood-stained edge. He turned his gaze back to Light, who sat unnervingly still, his face an unreadable mask.

"So, this was your plan," L said quietly. His voice was steady, but there was a subtle tremor beneath it, a vibration of uncertainty that only someone who knew him well might detect. "To kill me because you're a sore loser?"

Light met his gaze, his own amber eyes dark and stormy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied smoothly, though his voice carried an edge, a tightness that betrayed him. “Misa has always been unpredictable; she acts on impulse.”

Aizawa moved closer to L, his eyes narrowing. "What do we do now, L?" he asked, the question loaded with the weight of their situation.

L remained silent for a moment, his gaze never wavering from Light. There was something akin to pity in his eyes, a rare softness that Light had only seen once or twice before. Then he spoke, his voice measured, deliberate. “Search Light Yagami,” he ordered.

A tense murmur rippled through the room. Aizawa hesitated, looking between L and Soichiro. The older Yagami’s face had gone pale, his eyes wide with a father’s disbelief. "L… are you sure?" Soichiro's voice was barely above a whisper, his hands trembling at his sides.

“Yes,” L replied, more firmly this time. "I am certain."

Aizawa stepped forward. Light remained perfectly still, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing through every possibility, every outcome. Aizawa’s hands moved deftly, searching Light's pockets, patting down his jacket, his pants - even going through the nuisance of checking his shoes.

Light thought he could escape further incrimination... that is, until L innocently pointed out his watch. The bastard knew. He knew. Light begrudgingly told Aizawa how to open it, until finally, they found it — a small, folded scrap of paper and a pin with dried blood.

He held it up for all to see. Light’s calm façade did not falter, but inside, a knot of fear tightened in his stomach. This was the endgame. He could feel it.

L’s eyes never left Light's face. "Unfold it," he instructed.

Aizawa did as told, and the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. The name, “Kyosuke Higuchi,” was written in Light’s unmistakable handwriting.

A collective gasp filled the room. Matsuda’s face went white, his mouth hanging open in shock. “Light… you… you really were Kira...” he stuttered, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and betrayal.

Soichiro staggered back, as if struck. “Light, tell me this isn’t true,” he whispered, his voice trembling. "Tell me you were only trying to help the investigation… that this is all a misunderstanding… That those tapes are fake... that all of this is fake...”

Light felt a surge of anger flare within him, a hot, searing rage at his father's desperation, his pathetic clinging to hope. "Dad," he said, his voice sharp and cold, "you’ve always known, deep down. Haven’t you?"

Soichiro shook his head violently. “No… no, I believed in you, Light! I believed you were innocent! That you were—”

“That I was what?” Light snapped. "Perfect? Infallible? Your golden boy, destined to lead this country into a brighter future?" His voice rose with each word, a bitterness seeping into his tone. "Open your eyes, Dad! I was creating a better world, a world without crime, without corruption. A world where people like Higuchi and those who supported him would be eradicated. Isn’t that what justice is?"

L watched the exchange with a strange sense of detachment, his dark eyes flickering between Light and Soichiro. He saw the raw emotion on Soichiro’s face, the disbelief, the heartbreak. It was all too familiar — the same look he had seen on the faces of countless people who had been confronted with an ugly truth they were unprepared to face. And yet, in Light’s eyes, he saw something else — something more calculated, more cold.

“You speak of justice, Light,” L interjected softly, “but what you have done is not justice. It is a perversion of it.”

Light turned to him, his expression hardening. “And what would you know of justice, L?” he shot back, his voice laced with venom. “You hide behind your computer screens, manipulating people, setting traps, judging others from your pedestal. What makes you any different from me?”

L’s lips twitched slightly, not quite a smile but close. “I never claimed to be different,” he admitted. “But I did not kill to make my point.”

Light’s eyes narrowed, a cold fire igniting in his gaze. “Then perhaps you were never truly committed to justice at all.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. For a moment, L looked almost... wounded. His eyes flickered with an emotion that Light could not quite place, a flicker of something raw and unguarded.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. L’s expression hardened once more, his gaze sharpening like a blade. “Take him away,” he ordered, his voice firm, unyielding.

Aizawa and Matsuda moved forward to seize Light, but he did not resist. His face remained impassive, but inside, his mind was spinning.

Hours passed. L remained in the surveillance room, staring at the monitors. Light sat in his cell, his posture upright, his expression unreadable. Every so often, L’s eyes flickered over to the screen where Light’s image was displayed. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes — those intense, calculating eyes — seemed almost to bore into L’s very soul.

L leaned back in his chair, his posture more hunched than usual, his fingers tapping against his lips. A part of him felt a strange emptiness, a sense of loss that he could not quite understand. He had always suspected Light — always known, deep down, that Light was Kira. But now that the truth was out in the open, it felt... hollow. The victory tasted like ashes on his tongue.

“What now, L?” Watari’s voice cut through the silence, gentle but firm.

L did not answer immediately. He kept his gaze on the screen, watching Light’s every move, every twitch, every breath. There was something unsettling about the stillness in Light’s eyes, the way he seemed almost… content. As if he were still in control, even now.

“I don’t know,” L finally admitted, his voice low and thoughtful. “I have solved the case, and yet… I feel as though I’ve missed something. Something vital.”

Watari nodded, his expression understanding. “It is natural to feel conflicted,” he said. “You and Light were... similar, in many ways.”

L’s fingers paused in their tapping. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But we are also fundamentally different. Light sees the world in terms of black and white — good and evil. I… I see only shades of gray.”

There was a long pause. Watari placed a hand on L’s shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. “Whatever you decide to do, L,” he said softly, “you have always done what you believed was right. That is all anyone can ask.”

L did not reply. He simply nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Inside the cell, Light finally turned to the camera, his lips curving into a small, serene smile. And for a moment, L felt a chill run down his spine.

L remained seated, his back curved in the chair, his eyes never straying from the monitor where Light’s smile lingered like a lingering shadow. The room was filled with the low hum of the surveillance equipment, a constant buzz that seemed to resonate with the storm brewing inside him. He had won, hadn’t he? So why did it feel so much like a defeat?

Soichiro entered the surveillance room, his face pale and drawn, the weight of recent events etched deeply into the lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked like a man who had aged a decade in the span of hours. Watari quietly stepped aside to give him space, and L turned his chair slightly, acknowledging Soichiro’s presence with a brief nod.

“I will be the one to tell them,” Soichiro said, his voice trembling but firm. “Sachiko and Sayu… they deserve to hear it from me.”

L’s eyes flicked over to Soichiro, studying the man’s face, searching for the cracks in his facade. “You will tell them Light was Kira,” L stated, not as a question but as a fact.

Soichiro’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said slowly, deliberately. “I’ll tell them Light was taken by Kira. That he died trying to stop him. That… that he was a hero.”

L’s expression softened, though his eyes remained intense. “A lie, then,” he murmured.

“A mercy,” Soichiro corrected, his voice breaking slightly. “Sachiko doesn’t deserve to know the truth. And Sayu… she’s too young. She idolizes her brother. What good would it do to shatter that image? To destroy her?”

L watched him for a moment, his own emotions hidden beneath layers of stoicism. He was not sure if he could fully understand the bond between a parent and a child. His own upbringing had been marked by a lack of such connections, a life dictated by logic and reason rather than familial love. But he could see the pain in Soichiro’s eyes, the struggle between truth and compassion, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Do what you must,” L replied quietly. "I won't stop you."

Soichiro exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his decision. He gave L a brief, grateful nod before turning to leave, his steps heavy and deliberate. As he reached the door, he paused, glancing back at L.

“I know… I know you tried to warn us,” Soichiro said, his voice wavering. “I’m sorry… for not believing you.”

L tilted his head, a faint look of surprise crossing his features. Apologies were rare in his line of work, rarer still from a man like Soichiro. “I understand,” L replied softly. “You are his father. It is only natural to want to believe the best of him.”

Soichiro nodded, a pained smile flitting across his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered, before turning and leaving the room.

L turned back to the monitors, his expression unreadable once more. Light’s image remained on the screen, sitting in his cell, unmoving, his eyes still focused on the camera as if he knew that L was watching. As if he were speaking to him in some silent language that only they could understand.

Meanwhile, in a nearby holding cell, Misa sat huddled against the cold metal of the bedframe, her eyes red and swollen from crying. Rem stood beside her, invisible to all but Misa, her skeletal form shrouded in the dim light of the room.

“How could you let this happen?” Misa demanded, her voice cracking with a mix of anger and despair. “You were supposed to protect me! You promised me you’d keep Light and me safe!”

Rem’s expression remained impassive, her voice low and calm. “I did what I had to do to protect you, Misa. If you had killed L, you would have been given a much harsher punishment - they would have executed you. I could not allow that.”

Misa let out a frustrated sob, her hands clenching into fists. “But now Light is going to die! What good is my life if Light isn’t with me? You should have let me kill him! You should have helped me!”

Rem’s gaze softened, a rare flicker of emotion passing over her hollow eyes. “Misa, I care for you. That is why I stopped you. Light… Light is not your whole world. He has never loved you as you love him.”

The words struck Misa like a physical blow, her face crumpling with hurt and anger. “No… no, you’re lying! Light loves me! He promised we would create a new world together! He… he needs me, Rem!”

Rem shook her head slowly. “He used you, Misa. And now, he will pay the price for his actions.”

Misa’s breath hitched in her throat, tears streaming down her face. “No… no, I won’t accept that. I can’t… I can’t lose him…”

Rem watched her for a moment longer, a deep sadness in her eyes. She knew there was nothing she could say that would ease Misa’s pain, no way to make her understand the truth. All she could do was stay by her side, to protect her in whatever way she could.

Back in the surveillance room, L watched as Soichiro approached Light’s cell. The elder Yagami looked like a man condemned, his shoulders hunched, his face drawn and weary. Light looked up as his father entered, his expression a careful mask of neutrality.

“So, it’s come to this,” Light said quietly. There was no trace of fear in his voice, no trembling or hesitation. He faced his father with the same calm confidence he had always displayed, as if they were discussing something as mundane as dinner plans.

Soichiro’s eyes filled with tears as he gazed at his son, his heart breaking in his chest. “Light… I don’t know where I went wrong,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I tried to raise you to be a good man, to follow the law, to respect justice… How did it come to this?”

Light’s expression remained impassive, his eyes cold and distant. “You did nothing wrong, Dad,” he replied evenly. “I chose this path because I believed it was right. Because I wanted to make a better world.”

Soichiro shook his head, his tears falling freely now. “A better world built on lies and murder? Light… you’re my son. I wanted so much more for you than this…”

Light’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of emotion — anger, frustration, something deeper, darker. “You wanted me to be something I’m not,” he said, his voice growing sharper. “You wanted me to fit into your image of perfection, your ideal of what a son should be. But I’m not perfect, Dad. I’m not… I’m not what you wanted.”

Soichiro reached out, his hand trembling. “I wanted you to be happy, Light. I wanted you to have a life filled with love and hope, not… not this.”

Light looked away, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “I did what I had to do,” he whispered. “I did what I believed was right.”

Soichiro let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders shaking. “I will tell your mother… and Sayu… that you were a hero. That you fought against Kira… and that you died doing what was right.”

Light’s eyes snapped back to his father, surprise flickering across his face. “Why?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. “Why would you do that?”

Soichiro smiled sadly. “Because I love you, Light. And because I want them to remember you for the good in you, not… not this.”

For a moment, something in Light’s expression wavered, a crack in the armor he had so carefully constructed. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that cold, calculating stare. “Do what you have to do, Dad,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t change anything.”

Soichiro nodded, his heart breaking all over again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, before turning and leaving the cell.

5th of November , 2004 - the day of Light’s execution came quickly. He was led to the chamber with quiet dignity, his face calm, his eyes steady. The task force members (separated from the brunet by a glass wall) stood in a line, watching with a mixture of emotions — sorrow, regret, anger, confusion. Soichiro stood apart from them, his face set in a mask of stoic grief.

Dr. Xiomara and her team were already in place, their faces obscured by surgical masks, their hands gloved and prepared. L watched from the surveillance room, his gaze fixed on Light’s face, searching for any sign of fear, of regret.

But Light showed none. He moved with a calm, almost serene grace, his head held high, his eyes clear. As he reached the execution table, he turned, looking directly at the camera where he knew L was watching.

“My final words?” he asked, his voice carrying through the room. He smiled slightly. “I regret nothing. I am Light Yagami, and I was always Kira. I will die knowing I tried to change the world.”

There was a murmur among the task force members, a rustling of discomfort, of disbelief. L’s eyes narrowed slightly, his fingers tightening on the armrest of his chair.

Xiomara nodded to her team, and they began the process, their movements precise and methodical. The needles were prepared, and Light was strapped down, his eyes never leaving the camera.

The three injections were administered, and for a moment afterwards, Light’s eyes fluttered shut. His breathing slowed, his heartbeat became faint. And then… nothing.

L watched, his breath caught in his throat, waiting for the moment when it would be over, when the heart monitor would flatline and the chapter would close.

Then it did.  Xiomara exchanged a brief, knowing glance with her team, and they began the process of moving Light’s body to what was the crematorium L had prepared at Soichiro's request, as if they were simply performing a routine transfer.

L’s felt a niggling feeling in belly, his inky eyes widened slightly, suspicion gnawing at the edges of his mind. Something was not right. He stood up, his body tense, his gaze fixed on the screen. “What are you doing?” he murmured under his breath.

But the task force, still reeling from the emotional impact of the execution, paid no attention. Watari’s hand hovered over the communication console, but he hesitated, unsure of what to say.

Xiomara’s team wheeled Light’s body away, taking it to the designated floor for cremation. But in the hallways, their steps quickened, their expressions becoming more focused, more intense.

L’s mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle shifting into place. “Watari,” he whispered. “Follow them. Don’t let them out of your sight.”

Watari nodded and slipped out of the room quietly, his eyes sharp and alert. L continued to watch the monitors, his heart pounding in his chest.

Down in the basement, Xiomara’s team reached the elevator, their movements brisk and controlled. Light’s body lay motionless on the gurney, pale and seemingly lifeless. The heart monitor, now detached, gave no indication of life; it was the perfect cover.

Xiomara leaned over Light, her eyes narrowing with a manic glint. “We’re almost there, Light,” she whispered under her breath, though she knew he could not hear her. “Just a bit longer.”

The elevator doors opened, and the group moved inside swiftly, keeping their heads down. The doors slid shut behind them with a soft thud, and they began their ascent to the 17th floor—supposedly for cremation, as per Soichiro’s request. None of the task force members suspected a thing; they were still reeling from the execution, believing it was over, that justice had been served.

As they neared the 17th floor, Xiomara kept her eyes on the elevator's digital display. Her team was silent, aware of the risks, aware of the reward. The elevator dinged softly, signaling their arrival. The doors opened, and they quickly exited, maneuvering Light's gurney down the back hallways of the building, avoiding any high-traffic areas or security checkpoints.

A nurse, one of Xiomara's own, waited at the end of the corridor, holding a secured key card. With a quick swipe, the door to a restricted medical room opened, and they slipped inside. The room was dimly lit, filled with medical equipment and supplies—everything they needed for the next step.

The blonde doctor allowed five minutes to pass before she sent staff with what she affectionately called her 'Dummy Kira' (a perfect lifelike decoy Light doll the CIA so graciously provided her with) out on a separate gurney to throw L and Watari off.

Xiomara locked the door behind them, her breath quickening. “Prepare for transport,” she instructed her team, her voice low but filled with authority. “We leave for America tonight.”

One of her assistants checked Light's vitals again. “His heart is still stable,” she reported, her hands steady as she adjusted the machinery. “He should regain consciousness soon.”

Xiomara nodded, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. “Excellent. We proceed as planned. Make sure he’s sedated enough for the journey. The last thing we need is him waking up prematurely.”

She watched Light closely, her eyes glinting with a mixture of curiosity and hunger. There was so much she wanted to learn from him, to uncover. Kira was not just a criminal to her; he was a phenomenon, a genius that defied all expectations. And now, he was her specimen, her prize.

“Keep monitoring his vitals,” Xiomara ordered as she began preparing the necessary documentation for their departure. “We don’t have much time before someone checks for us. Everything must look routine.”

The nurse nodded, adjusting the IV lines and making sure Light was secure. “I’ve prepared the sedative. It should keep him unconscious for the next eight hours, at least,” she said, glancing up at Xiomara. “Long enough for us to be out of Japanese airspace.”

Xiomara’s smile widened. “Perfect,” she murmured. She moved to the far corner of the room, where a concealed exit led to an underground loading dock. It had been arranged weeks in advance, a back door into a world where she could conduct her work in secrecy, far from the prying eyes of L or any other law enforcement agency.

As the preparations continued, Xiomara felt a strange thrill coursing through her veins. She had always been in L's shadow, a mere fourth rank at Wammy’s House, but now she had something L could never hope to possess—Light Yagami, Kira, the man who had brought the world to its knees.

She leaned down, close to Light's ear, whispering softly, "You will teach me, Light. You will show me everything."

Light remained motionless, his face a mask of serene calm, oblivious to what fat3 had in store for him.

Meanwhile, back in the surveillance room, L sat in his chair, his expression blank, his eyes fixed on the screens though he saw nothing.

Watari returned quietly, his face unreadable, having seen nothing to suggest any foul play due to personallly seeing to Light's cremation.

L continued to stare blankly, his thoughts a maze of confusion and calculations, unaware that the most critical move had already been played right under his nose.

Chapter End Notes

Idk.... This feels a bit dead to me but I did have writer's block for a bit! Maybe I just need to get back into the groove and see what happens.

First.

Chapter Summary

Light's first year under Dr. Xiomara's care.

Chapter Notes

First person = Light's perspective.

I come to consciousness slowly, the edges of my vision blurred and dark, like I’m emerging from some suffocating fog. My head feels heavy, too heavy, like it’s filled with lead, and there’s a buzzing in my ears that won’t stop. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I last had a coherent thought. The world shifts, moving beneath me, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m strapped down. Strapped to… something. I try to move, but my limbs are bound, my wrists and ankles secured tightly. I’m paralyzed, but I feel everything. The scratch of leather against my skin. The cold air biting at my cheeks. The faint hum of distant machinery.

Where am I?

I try to recall, to reach back into my mind, but there’s a blankness there that I can’t penetrate. My thoughts are muddled, sluggish, and the more I try to focus, the more they slip away like sand through my fingers. There’s a sensation, like I’m being watched, and I force my eyes open, only to be blinded by the sharp, white light above me. It burns, searing into my skull, and I clamp my eyes shut again, swallowing a scream.

"Awake, are we?"

The voice is female, smooth and clinical, like she’s observing a specimen. It sends a chill down my spine. I try to speak, but my throat is dry, the words caught behind some invisible barrier. I force my eyes open again, squinting against the light, and I see her. A woman in a white coat, standing over me, looking down with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Dr. Xiomara. I remember her from the L's act of trickery… from the moment they decided my fate.

She leans in closer, her face coming into sharper focus. Her eyes are dark, intense, like they’re trying to burrow into my soul. There’s a flicker of something in them—curiosity? Hunger? I can’t tell.

"Good morning, Light," she says, and her voice is almost sing-song. "Welcome to your new home."

I try to ask where I am, what she’s doing to me, but my mouth won’t form the words. She laughs softly, as if amused by my efforts, and reaches out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. Her touch is cold, almost clinical.

"You don’t need to worry about that," she says. "You’re safe now. We’re going to take good care of you."

I don’t believe her. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my body tenses involuntarily at her touch. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know it’s something terrible.

I try to struggle, to fight, but my body is weak, unresponsive. She moves back out of my field of vision, and I hear her speaking to someone else, a low murmur I can’t quite make out. I feel a prick in my arm, and a sudden rush of cold fills my veins. My head swims, the world blurs again, and I’m slipping back into the darkness.

Day 7 (Or is it 8?). I don’t know how long I’ve been here. The days bleed into each other, a never-ending cycle of lights and darkness, pain and numbness. I’m aware enough to know that I’m losing myself, piece by piece. I hear voices sometimes, coming from outside the door. I catch glimpses of faces, masked and shadowed, but I can’t tell if they’re real or just figments of my fractured mind.

Dr. Xiomara comes every day—or what I think is every day. Time doesn’t exist here the way it used to. She talks to me, even when I can’t answer. She calls me by different names. I know what she’s doing, but I can’t stop her. She’s digging into my mind, peeling back the layers, trying to find something… or create something. I don’t know which is worse.

She’s given them names, the voices in my head. "Ariadne," she calls one of them. The one who is cautious, who begs me to keep silent, to stay still, to avoid punishment. I hear her often, in the quiet moments, whispering to me to be careful, to not draw attention. She tells me to obey, to survive.

Then there’s "K." I think he’s supposed to be brave, defiant, the one who refuses to break. He screams at me to fight back, to resist. But he’s growing quieter with each passing day. I feel him fading, like a dying ember in the darkness.

And "Narcissus." The one who laughs. Who mocks me. Who delights in my pain, in my fear. He is the loudest, the most insistent. I can’t shut him out. He tells me I deserve this. That this is my punishment, my reckoning. He laughs when I cry, when I scream.

She watches from behind the glass, her eyes scanning the monitors, the charts, the data streams. She sees the fluctuations in his heart rate, the spikes in his brain activity. She knows she’s making progress. She knows he’s breaking. She’s felt it in the way he looks at her, the fear in his eyes, the way he flinches at her touch.

She wants more. She wants to push him further, to see how far he’ll bend before he shatters. She takes notes in her journal, marking the changes, the shifts in his behavior. She is careful, meticulous, always keeping a record. She is creating something, something beautiful, something terrible.

She introduces new elements—sounds, lights, smells. She feeds him different words, different images. She changes his schedule, his environment, his very sense of self. She forces him to confront his fears, his desires, his deepest, darkest thoughts. She wants to see what rises to the surface.

Sometimes, she speaks to him softly, gently, like a mother comforting a child. Other times, she is cold, distant, as if he is nothing but an object, a specimen under her care. She plays music, soft and soothing, or harsh and grating, depending on her mood, her goals. She floods the room with light or plunges it into darkness. She deprives him of food, of sleep, of everything that makes him human. She watches how he reacts, how he adapts, how he survives.

She notices how he responds to his new names, his new identities. She sees the way his eyes flicker, the way his breath catches in his throat. She knows she is making progress. She is creating something. Someone.

I don’t know who I am anymore. I hear voices, not just in my head, but outside too. They call me different names, and I don’t know which one is mine. I look in the mirror, but I don’t recognize the face that stares back. I see shadows under the eyes, bruises on the skin. I see someone who looks like me but isn’t.

I hear a voice—a woman’s voice—calling me "Ariadne," and I feel a surge of fear, a need to obey. Then another voice, calling me "K," and I feel a flash of anger, a desire to resist. And then… "Narcissus," and I hear laughter, cruel and mocking, echoing in my mind.

I am all of them. I am none of them.

I try to remember my name, my real name, but it slips away, like smoke. I hear her laugh, that doctor, that woman, as she watches me. I want to scream, but my voice is gone. I want to fight, but my body is weak. I am lost, trapped in this place, in this mind that is no longer mine. I hear her say that this is just the beginning.

And I wonder, how much further I have to fall before there’s nothing left of me at all.

The days stretch on, a seemingly endless cycle of torment and fainting darkness. Each morning, I awaken to find myself strapped to the cold metal table, the harsh lights glaring down, and Dr. Xiomara’s eyes peering at me with that cold, calculating gaze. The lights above seem to mock me, their brightness a stark contrast to the gloom that has settled over my mind.

The names they call me by change with every session. Sometimes I am "Ariadne," the fearful one who trembles at every sound, who hides in the corners of her mind, trying to escape the darkness. Other times I am "K," the defiant one who fights, who struggles, who tries to claw his way back to freedom. And then there’s "Narcissus," who seems to take pleasure in my suffering, mocking my weakness, laughing at my failures.

Each name brings with it a different set of expectations, a different set of commands. I am pulled from one persona to the next, forced to act out their roles, their fears, their desires. They blend together, becoming a confusing tapestry of emotions and reactions that I can no longer differentiate.

Xiomara watches intently, noting every reaction, every shift in Light’s demeanor. She observes how the personas interact with each other, how they conflict, how they complement. She’s seeing the fractures in Light’s psyche, the cracks that widen with every session. She’s pleased with the progress, but she’s not done yet.

She introduces new stimuli—sounds that are meant to disorient, lights that are designed to induce panic. She experiments with sensory deprivation, plunging him into darkness and silence, and then bombarding him with noise and blinding lights. She’s meticulous, recording every response, every fluctuation in his brainwaves, every change in his heart rate.

She notices the moments when Light seems to fight back, the brief flashes of clarity when the real him emerges from beneath the layers of programming. She sees the pain in his eyes, the desperation in his voice, and she knows that she’s getting close. She’s determined to break him completely, to ensure that there’s nothing left of the old Light Yagami.

The sessions are getting more intense. I’m subjected to a barrage of sensations, my senses overwhelmed. I feel like I’m constantly being pulled in different directions, my mind split between the personas. It’s like being trapped in a storm, with winds that tear at my thoughts, lightning that illuminates my fears.

The darkness and the light come and go, and I can’t tell which is real anymore. I hear whispers, see shadows moving at the edges of my vision. I feel hands touching me, but when I look, no one is there. The sensations are both real and imagined, a twisted blend that leaves me disoriented and frightened.

Dr. Xiomara’s voice cuts through the confusion, her words sharp and precise. She talks to me as if I’m several different people, switching between names, between commands. I’m expected to follow instructions, to react according to the persona she’s invoking. When I fail—or when the personas fail to meet her expectations—she grows frustrated, her voice rising in anger.

The frustration is palpable. Xiomara has been pushing Light harder than ever, testing the limits of his mental and physical endurance. She introduces new techniques, new stimuli, and watches with a mix of clinical detachment and anticipation. She’s keenly aware of the delicate balance between pushing him too far and losing control.

She’s also growing more intrigued by the residual spark she sees in Light. Despite the layers of programming, the multiple personas that she’s cultivated, there’s a part of him that refuses to be entirely subdued. It’s a small thing, almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it fascinates her.

She begins to take a more direct approach, using a combination of psychological manipulation and physical discomfort to test his limits. She employs different methods—sensory overload, emotional manipulation, isolation—and carefully monitors how each one affects him.

I’m becoming a stranger to myself. I no longer know where the boundaries of one persona end and another begins. They all bleed together, their voices merging into a cacophony that drowns out my own thoughts. I hear their laughter, their cries, their demands, and I can’t tell if they’re real or just echoes in my mind.

The pain is constant, a background hum that I’ve grown used to. It’s there in the way my muscles ache, in the way my body tenses at every sound, every touch. I’m pushed to the brink, my mind fraying, my sense of self unraveling.

I try to hold onto the fragments of my old identity, but they slip away like sand through my fingers. I find myself talking to myself, pleading with the different 'personas' to help me, to make sense of what’s happening. They don’t answer, or if they do, their voices are twisted, their responses fragmented.

Xiomara watches with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation. She’s seen Light’s resistance diminish, the 'pieces' becoming more dominant. She’s noted the changes in his responses, the way he’s started to blend the personas together, how they’ve begun to influence each other. It’s a complex web she’s weaving, and she’s pleased with the results.

She makes notes in her journal, detailing each session, each reaction. She records the moments when Light seems to slip, when he loses touch with reality, when the personas clash and compete for dominance. She’s building something—a new identity, a new being—and she’s determined to see it through to completion.

I’m losing myself. I can feel it slipping away, piece by piece. The personas are becoming stronger, more defined, and I’m fading into the background. I try to hold onto who I was, but it’s like trying to grasp smoke. I hear the voices, see the faces, but they don’t belong to me. They belong to something else, something that’s replacing me.

I’m trapped in this cycle of torment, and I don’t know how much longer I can endure. The voices grow louder, more insistent. They demand, they plead, they mock. I’m caught in a storm of confusion, and I don’t know how to escape.

I hold onto a sliver of hope, a small, stubborn part of me that refuses to give in. I don’t know if it’s real or just another illusion, but it’s all I have left. I cling to it, even as everything else falls away, even as I lose myself in the darkness.

Xiomara notes the final stages of Light’s transformation. The personas have fully emerged, each with its own distinct characteristics, each serving a specific purpose. She sees the results of her work, the way Light’s mind has fractured, how the different personalities now dominate his psyche.

She’s satisfied with her progress but knows that there’s more work to be done. She continues to observe, to manipulate, to test. She’s creating something new, something that will serve her purposes, and she’s determined to see it through to the end.

Second.

Chapter Summary

Light's second year.

Chapter Notes

Uhhh , I don't think I got to explaining (and I'm too lazy to add it now) but Light still remembers his past as Kira due to being within the bracket of the of the 480+ day timeframe before memory loss.

The days, if they can even be called that anymore, blend into one another. There is no natural light, no clock to mark the passage of time—just the sterile glow of fluorescent bulbs and the steady hum of machines that track my every breath, my every heartbeat. My body feels like it's floating, suspended in a sickly limbo where nothing feels real, but the pain, the control, the slow erosion of self—it’s constant.

I can't remember the last time I slept, not truly. My eyes don’t even close anymore, not completely. I exist in this half-state, aware but detached. I can feel my mind fracturing, splitting off into pieces like a puzzle being taken apart over and over, just as it begins to resemble something recognizable. They’ve ensured that. Xiomara has ensured that.

She stands behind the glass, watching me. Always watching. The familiar, calculating glint in her eyes sends a shiver down my spine. Her expression is clinical, detached, as if I’m nothing more than a specimen under her scrutiny. I can never read what’s behind that gaze—disgust? Pity? Amusement? I don’t think it matters to her. I don’t matter to her, not in any meaningful way. What matters is the experiment. What matters is what they can make me into.

They don’t even hide it anymore. The restraints, the injections, the cold metal table where I spend hours—maybe days—being tested. They’re testing something new now. At first, it was drugs, cocktails of substances that burned through my veins, leaving me twitching, shaking, convulsing, until I passed out from the strain. Then came the papers.

The first time Xiomara’s assistant slipped the square of paper into my mouth, I knew immediately. The taste was unmistakable—bitter and metallic, like ink soaked in something ancient and wrong. It was a piece of the Death Note. Even in my stupor, I understood what they were doing. They wanted to see if it still worked on me, what would happen if they fed it to me, if they could force the power to resurface.

And it did.

The moment the fragment of Death Note paper dissolved on my tongue, something ignited inside me, like a flame catching on a thread of dry kindling. My pulse spiked, the sharp edges of reality cutting through the fog for just a second. I felt it—the surge of something I hadn’t felt in what seemed like years: power. Not the intellectual kind, not the control I once wielded as Kira, but something deeper, more primal.

I remember the heat that coursed through me, like electricity sparking under my skin. My vision sharpened. The room came into focus, clearer than it ever had been before. I could see every detail—the cracks in the ceiling tiles, the scratches on the metal table, the faint smudges on Xiomara’s glasses. Then, there was more. Numbers. Lifespans. Everyone in the room had them, floating above their heads like a countdown, ticking away to their inevitable deaths.

It was overwhelming at first, the flood of information. I wanted to close my eyes, to stop seeing, but I couldn’t. The Shinigami eyes—I had them. Did it take my lifespan? Where did they find a Shinigami? I don't... remember doing a Deal. It must be some loophole if She allowed this to happen. She wants her pet alive, after all.

I could see it in the mirror when they left me alone: the red glow of my irises, the supernatural mark of a power I never should’ve had, and yet I had it again. How unnerving.

They fed me more after that, piece by piece. With every scrap of paper, the powers grew. I no longer needed food, sleep, or rest in the same way. My body ran on something else now—something they had awakened in me. They wanted to create a weapon. I was becoming exactly that.

But I wasn’t the same. I felt it creeping in, the sense of being dislodged from myself, like I was watching from a distance, disconnected from my own body. There were times I felt another voice, or another part of me, rise to the surface. Not just Lucius, the cold, calculating persona that had emerged during the later part of the first year of torture, but something new.

Elara is what I began to call her—the voice that whispered in my ear when I was too tired to fight. She was soft, coaxing, always there in the back of my mind, urging me to let go, to surrender to the numbness, to the quiet. At first, I hated her. She was everything I feared—complacency, submission, the opposite of control. But the longer I stayed in this place, the more I found myself slipping into her grasp. There was comfort in the oblivion she promised, a reprieve from the pain, the agony of what I had become.

Other fragments surfaced too, ones I don’t even have names for. Some were violent, lashing out in blind rage at anyone who came too close. Others were quieter, more subtle, manipulating the doctors and guards with an eerie calm. I don’t know how many of them there are anymore. They emerge when they want, sometimes when I least expect it. I can feel them, lurking in the dark corners of my mind, waiting for their turn.

I’m not sure who I am when I look in the mirror anymore. The face is mine, but the eyes… the eyes belong to something else.

Light’s transformation has been astounding. The Death Note fragments were the key, and she was right to keep them hidden until the time was right. The powers that are emerging in him now—enhanced vision, the ability to survive on minimal sustenance—are proof that the experiments are working. His physical needs have dwindled to near nothing. His body seems to operate on something beyond the human, and Xiomara can’t help but marvel at her success.

The CIA and the US government are pleased with the progress, but they don’t know the full extent of what’s happening. They don’t need to. The Shinigami eyes, for example, are a development she’s kept to herself. Light’s ability to see the lifespans of those around him is too valuable to be shared with anyone else—at least not yet. This is her project, and she won’t let anyone take it from her.

Her staff has continued administering the drugs, carefully calibrated doses meant to enhance Light’s abilities without pushing him too far. She has to be cautious now. Light is no longer just a test subject; he’s a weapon. If she pushes him too hard, too fast, she could lose everything. But there’s still so much more to uncover, so much potential left untapped.

The psychological aspect is just as crucial. The programming has done its work. Light’s mind is fractured, split into multiple parts, each one serving a different function. Xiomara has spent countless hours analyzing the different personalities that have emerged, each one a reflection of Light’s shattered psyche. There’s Lucius, the cold, calculating side of him that Xiomara finds particularly useful. Then there’s Elara, the more passive, submissive personality that Xiomara has nurtured carefully, knowing that sometimes compliance is just as valuable as the defiance as the annoying part that she knows is the egotistical original Kira has. But she's taken good care of him. Her sweet Ariadne and Narcissus are already so well trained.

But there are others too, darker ones that even Xiomara hasn’t fully understood yet during their brief meetings. They appear in moments of extreme stress, lashing out violently or retreating into themselves. Xiomara is patient, though. She knows that with time, she can mold them when they're more defined, shape them into what she needs.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know how much longer I can last.

There are days when I can almost feel the old me, the real me, clawing his way to the surface. I remember who I was before this—K... something... hm. Right. Kira, the god of the new world, the one who held the power of life and death in his hands. But that person is gone now, buried beneath layers of broken pieces, fragments of who I used to be.

Sometimes I think I can still hear him, screaming at me to fight, to take back control. But the voices drown him out, the voices and the pain and the endless, unrelenting torment. Xiomara’s face swims in front of me, her eyes gleaming with that same, twisted fascination. I hate her, but I need her. She holds the key to my survival, and she knows it.

They’re feeding me more Death Note paper now, trying to push me further. I feel the power growing inside me, something dark and terrible, something that scares even me. But they don’t care. They want results. They want a weapon, and I’m becoming exactly that.

I’m not human anymore.

Third.

I don’t remember how long it’s been since I stopped feeling human.

There was a time, years ago, when I still thought I could escape this. When I was still Light Yagami, a man in control of his fate. But now, staring at my reflection in the cold, dim light of this sterile room, I see only a stranger. The man I used to be is gone, replaced by a hollow shell that bears my face but none of its life.

My hands don’t shake anymore. They don’t tremble the way they did in the first year, when the drugs made everything feel distant, unreal. Now they’re steady—too steady. My skin feels too tight, like it’s stretched over something else, something foreign.

I don’t know what I am anymore.

Xiomara says I’m evolving, becoming something “divine,” but I can feel myself breaking apart, piece by piece, crumbling under the weight of whatever she’s done to me. The world is blurry now, the edges of reality slipping away, lost in the haze of endless experiments, injections, and whispered commands. I know they’re breaking my mind, fracturing it in ways I can’t even comprehend, and the worst part is—I don’t know if I care anymore.

There are moments when I catch myself smiling in the mirror, a hollow, empty smile that doesn’t reach my eyes, and I realize that I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. My reflection is just a stranger now—someone who looks like me but isn’t. It isn’t Light Yagami. It’s someone else. Something else.

The injections—they started two years ago, but now they’ve changed. Whatever they’re pumping into my veins now feels different, darker, more powerful. My body doesn’t respond to pain the way it used to. I don’t need sleep. I don’t need food. I don’t need anything. The hunger that used to gnaw at my stomach has faded, replaced by something else—a deep, burning need that I can’t explain, but that I feel in every fiber of my being.

I don’t even need the Death Note anymore. I don’t need to write names to feel powerful. The power is inside me now, coursing through my veins, twisting around my thoughts like a vice. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

And then there are the eyes.

They burn, all the time. Not with pain, but with something worse—knowledge. I see the numbers, the lifespans above everyone’s heads. Xiomara. The staff. Every person who comes near me. I see them all, their remaining time tick-tick-ticking away like some macabre clock. At first, it was overwhelming, the flood of information crashing into my mind like a tidal wave. But now? Now it’s just noise. Meaningless noise.

But Xiomara —she’s different. Her number is lower than it should be at times, sometimes higher - constantly shifting, as if she’s playing some twisted game with time itself. She’s careful, though. I can feel it. I’ve watched her adjust things, pull strings that no one else can see, manipulating events to keep herself on the edge of mortality without ever falling over the brink. She’s obsessed with time. And with me.

Her obsession has only grown over the years. At first, I thought it was just curiosity—her sick, clinical fascination with me as a test subject. But now, I know better. It’s not just that. She doesn’t see me as a person anymore. She doesn’t even see me as a tool. No, to Xiomara, I’m something more. Something she’s crafted, molded into her own twisted image of perfection.

Her hands linger too long on my skin during the tests. Her touch, cold and clinical at first, has become something else. Something that makes my skin crawl. I’ve seen the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. The way her eyes move over me, as if she’s admiring her own creation. It’s not the way a scientist looks at an experiment.

No, it’s the way a predator looks at prey.

She likes them young, Xiomara. She’s said it before, in passing, as if it’s nothing. Her “taste,” as she calls it, runs to the youthful, the “doll-like,” as she so sweetly puts it. And that’s what I am to her—a doll. A puppet she can dress up, manipulate, and control.

“You’re beautiful, Light,” she whispers sometimes when she’s close. Too close. Her breath is hot against my ear, her fingers trailing down my neck, slow and deliberate. “So perfect. Just like a doll. My perfect little creation.”

I want to recoil. I want to scream, to rip her hands off me, to make her feel the pain she’s put me through. But I can’t. I’m trapped inside this body, inside this prison of flesh and bone that no longer feels like mine. Her touch burns, but not in the way it should. It’s worse than pain. It’s disgust, a deep, visceral revulsion that makes me want to tear my own skin off just to get her away from me.

But I can’t.

Because I’m hers now. I belong to her.

Light is coming along beautifully.

She watches him from across the room, his pale skin gleaming under the sterile lights, his body perfectly still, like a statue. He’s so still these days, so quiet. The boy he once was—the arrogant, brilliant Light Yagami—has been whittled down to nothing, reduced to a shell that she can mold into whatever she desires. And what she desires is perfection.

He’s nearly there.

His transformation has been slower than she anticipated, but then again, these things take time. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was her masterpiece. But now, after three years, she’s finally starting to see the results. His powers—oh, they’re magnificent. Far beyond anything she could have imagined when she first started this project.

The way his body no longer requires sustenance, the way his eyes glow with that otherworldly light, the way he bends reality around him without even realizing it—he’s becoming exactly what she wanted. A living weapon. A god in human form.

Of course, he doesn’t know it yet. He’s still clinging to the last remnants of his humanity, but that’s just a matter of time. Soon, he’ll let go. Soon, he’ll accept what he is.

And what he is… is divine.

She steps closer to him, her flip flops squeaking softly on the cold floor, the sound echoing in the vast, empty room. Light doesn’t move in his bed. He never does these days, unless she tells him to. He’s obedient now, trained, conditioned. His mind fractured, broken apart and rebuilt in her image. She reaches out, brushing her fingers through his hair now longer and inky hair that's free of that shitty dye, soft and smooth like silk.

“You’re so perfect, Light,” she whispers, her voice soft, almost tender. “So beautiful. Like a doll. My perfect little doll.”

He doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need him to. She knows what he’s thinking. She’s seen the fear in his eyes, the disgust when she touches him. But that only makes it better. His resistance is the last flicker of life left in him, and she relishes in snuffing it out, bit by bit.

Her fingers glide down his neck, tracing the curve of his collarbone, her touch light, almost affectionate. She feels his skin twitch beneath her fingers, and a small smile curls at the corners of her lips. He’s still fighting it, still trying to hold on to some sense of control.

But not for long.

She steps back, admiring her handiwork, her eyes lingering on the way his body is perfectly sculpted, every inch of him exactly as she imagined. He’s more than just a man now. He’s something beyond human, something divine. She’s seen to that. The ancient texts she’s studied, the rituals she’s performed—they’ve all led to this. Her masterpiece.

He’s not quite a Shinigami, no. That would be too easy, too crude. Shinigami are twisted, grotesque beings, their power corrupting them into something monstrous. But Light—oh, Light is still beautiful. His powers are even greater than any Shinigami, and yet he retains his human form, his youth, his beauty.

The staff don’t understand. They whisper behind her back, talking of ethics and morality, but they don’t see the bigger picture. They don’t see what she sees. They think she’s lost her mind, that her obsession with Light has clouded her judgment. But they’re wrong. This is about more than just power. It’s about creating something new, something that the world has never seen before.

Her hands drift to her pocket, where she keeps the small, folded pages of  Death Note paper she managed to take from L’s investigation in Japan. It was a risk, knowing how big of a paranoid bastard L was - but one worth taking. These pages—they’re the key. The pieces of the puzzle that have allowed her to unlock Light’s potential.

Without them, he wouldn’t have his powers. Without them, he wouldn’t be the divine creature he’s becoming.

Her touch lingers too long. It always does.

I feel her fingers on my skin, cold and calculating, but there’s something more behind it. Something darker. I know what she wants. I’ve seen it in the way she looks at me.

Fourth.

Chapter Summary

Xiomara is surrounded by idiots.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

By now, the remnants of what was once Light Yagami are long gone. It’s nearly February 2008, and the body that once held a godlike ambition has become a shattered shell, housing broken fragments of a soul too splintered to recognize itself. He is beyond repair, beyond recognition—each piece of him taken, manipulated, and twisted by the hands of Xiomara. What remains is a maze of personalities, all serving a different purpose in her perverse experiment, each one more fractured than the last.

Kira is what remains of the original Light—a ruthless, calculating force who once believed himself to be a god. But now, Kira is no longer fully in control. He’s not even himself anymore. There’s nothing but a burning hatred for Xiomara, the woman who has turned him into this—into something less than human. He despises her, loathes her with every fiber of his fragmented being. But even Kira knows, no matter how powerful he might be, Xiomara has ingrained one simple, immutable truth deep into their mind: she is worse than them. She is untouchable.

So Kira waits. He bides his time, watching from the shadows of their collective consciousness, seething with a silent fury that has no outlet. Not yet.

The metal helmet presses down on their skull, a constant, oppressive weight designed to suppress their power. Kira knows why it’s there—because the others, like Narcissus and Lucius, have become too volatile, too dangerous. The helmet blurs their vision, restricts their thoughts, makes it difficult to remember who they are—or were. But some of them, like Lucius, welcome it. They relish the power they still wield, even in this state.

Others, like Narcissus, despise it. They want freedom, to feel the rush of killing again, to spread their cruelty unchecked. And some—like the new, unnamed alter Xiomara has been nurturing—remain unaware of the others, barely formed, docile, pliable. It’s this alter, this fragment, that she’s carefully crafting into something new, something useful. But it’s not ready yet, not fully formed. She’s patient, though. She knows it will come to fruition in time.

The rest of them live in chaos. Lucius and Narcissus dominate, fighting for control, but the others—Ariadne, Elara, Kira—they’re trapped in the background, helpless to stop the carnage. Lucius keeps the others in line, enforcing Xiomara’s will with a cruel, calculated efficiency. He has been groomed to be her enforcer, her weapon, and he carries out that role with ruthless precision.

Narcissus, on the other hand, is unpredictable, violent. He revels in the bloodshed, the chaos. He was the one who killed that member of the presidential party back in 2007, simply because he hated the way they talked about him—so condescending, so dismissive. They didn’t respect him, and Narcissus made sure they paid for it.

But even Narcissus doesn’t touch Xiomara. Not out of fear—he’s far too unstable to fear anything—but because she has manipulated him to the point where he can’t help but adore her. She has turned both Lucius and Narcissus into her puppets, obsessed with her in their own twisted ways.

When Xiomara enters the room, the air shifts. Lucius is in control now, the others quiet, forced into submission by his iron will. He stands tall against the wall their body is chained to, even with the helmet pressing down on him, even with the weight of the others pulling at the edges of his mind. He’s here for her. He always is.

Her fingers brush against the cold metal of the helmet, her eyes gleaming with a possessive hunger. Lucius watches her, his eyes half-lidded, a small smile playing on his lips. He knows what she wants, and he’s more than willing to give it to her. After all, he’s been conditioned for this. Groomed for this.

She unfastens the helmet with deliberate care, and as it falls away, Lucius breathes in deeply, savoring the moment. His vision clears, the fog lifting from his mind, and for a brief moment, he feels free. But that freedom is an illusion. It’s always been an illusion.

Her hand slides up his arm, slow, lingering. She’s careful, but not because she fears him. No, Lucius knows she’s savoring the control she has over him, over all of them.

“Lucius,” she murmurs, her voice soft, almost affectionate. Her hand drifts to his neck, fingers trailing over his skin. He shivers, but not from fear. No, Lucius craves this. He’s been molded to crave this. “You’ve been so good.”

“Yes, mistress,” Lucius replies, his voice low, almost reverent. His smile widens as she leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He tilts his head, giving her better access, his pulse quickening as her lips trail lower, down to his jaw.

The others scream in the back of his mind—Kira raging, Ariadne whimpering—but Lucius silences them. This is his time. His moment.

She presses closer, her hands wandering lower, exploring him with a possessiveness that makes even Lucius falter for a brief moment. But he recovers quickly, leaning into her touch, craving more. He would do anything for her. He’s been made to do anything for her.

Across their consciousness, Narcissus snarls, but he, too, is quieted. He’ll have his turn soon.

Time slips away as Xiomara spends her time with them. Lucius lets her touch him, lets her kiss him, his mind foggy with the haze of her presence. But eventually, even Lucius fades, slipping into the background as the dissociation becomes too heavy to bear. He’s not sure if it’s him or Narcissus in front anymore, not sure if it even matters.

When she pulls away, fastening the helmet back into place, Lucius—or maybe Narcissus—stares blankly ahead, too far gone to react. They’re both blurred now, lost in the fog. The others are silent, waiting.

Xiomara’s cold fingers linger on the edge of the helmet before she slowly begins reattaching it. The metallic clinks of the clasps are loud in the silent room, a ritual by now. She strokes the smooth surface of the helmet, running her hand over the polished metal before turning away with a satisfied smirk.

“You’ll stay good for me, won’t you, dear?” Her voice is syrupy, dripping with the kind of affection that seeps into the mind and takes root.

“Always,” Light's body responds, his voice low and reverent, muffled slightly by the helmet.

She traces her fingers along his bare neck once more, the cold touch making the others stir in the depths of his mind, but Lucius (or is it Narcissus?) holds them all down, like he always does. For her.

“Rest now,” she commands gently. “I’ll leave you in the hands of my… associates.” She smiles, knowing full well what she means. These “associates” are disposable to her; their lives are merely tools for her precious creation. Lucius - he feels like Lucius, of course, would never hurt them. Not if she didn’t allow him to. He is perfectly trained.

Xiomara watched him one last time before leaving the room, her fingers brushing the helmet as if it were an intimate touch. She allowed herself the smallest smile, a twisted affection that had long since turned into something darker, more possessive. "Behave for me, Lucius," she whispered.

Lucius, ever obedient, nodded slightly under the weight of the helmet. Xiomara's fingers lingered longer than necessary before she turned away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor as she left the room, her cold, predatory eyes never leaving him until the door slid shut behind her with a soft hiss.

The new team of scientists entered shortly after. Fresh-faced, arrogant, and unaware of the full gravity of their assignment, they barely glanced at Light, their minds focused on the tedious task they thought beneath them.

"Dr. Mitchell," the team leader, wiped his hands on his lab coat, a sneer crossing his face as he surveyed the room. "They've got us doing this now? We're scientists, not janitors. What the hell is this crap?"

Valenti, his younger, cockier colleague, chuckled darkly, eyes roaming over Light's restrained body with barely hidden disdain. "Don't complain too much. We're babysitting the world's most expensive toy. You think the others outside have it better?"

Evans, the third in their group, shook his head in mock pity. "Still... This isn't what we signed up for. Cleaning up some half-baked project they can't even control?"

Mitchell shrugged, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the figure in front of him. "You hear the stories about him? All bullshit, if you ask me. They say he can kill with a thought. That he's like a walking god."

Valenti snorted. "Yeah, right. If that were true, why would he be strapped down like this?"

"Because they like to keep their pretty little doll hidden," Mitchell muttered, stepping closer to Light's prone form. His gaze lingered on Light's bare torso, the muscles taut from years of strain and malnutrition. "Bet he's something to look at under that helmet. They say he's beautiful. A real masterpiece."

There was a lingering silence as the men exchanged looks. Evans raised a brow, voice quieter now, curiosity bubbling up from somewhere reckless. "You think we could... take a look? I mean, no one's watching us. The stories have to be exaggerated. They wouldn't let us this close if he was that dangerous, right?"

Mitchell's hand hovered near the helmet, his fingers twitching with the pull of temptation. “One peek won't hurt. We're professionals. We know what we're doing."

Valenti shifted uneasily but couldn't hide the interest growing in his expression. "You sure about that?"

Mitchell smirked. "Positive. Watch and learn."

He reached for the latch.

Lucius’s presence wavers, sensing something shifting in the air, but it’s Narcissus who seizes the moment. Like a viper coiled in the shadows, he surges forward, shoving Lucius aside with brutal efficiency.

“Get out of the way, Lucius,” Narcissus hisses inside their mind. “These idiots need to learn what happens when they disrespect us.”

Lucius resists, his devotion to Xiomara strong, but Narcissus is already pushing him back. “You don’t control me,” Narcissus spits, “not this time.”

Lucius fights to hold his ground, his grip slipping in the face of Narcissus’s wrath. “She won’t approve,” Lucius warns, but his voice is thin, distant.

“I don’t care about her approval. I want them to bleed.” Narcissus’s voice is venomous, a dark promise of violence. He’s still fuming from last year, the memory of that disgusting presidential party burning fresh in his mind. The sleazy comments, the way they ogled “Kira” as if he were nothing more than an object, a thing to be exploited.

Narcissus had killed one of them, snapped his life out like a candle in the wind. It had felt good. Too good. And now, these fools are making the same mistake.

Lucius falters for a split second, and that’s all Narcissus needs. He slams Lucius back, forcing him to retreat into the recesses of their shared mind, the control shifting violently.

"No one disrespects me."

As Mitchell unlatched the helmet and pulled it free, the air in the room seemed to change. It grew heavy, thick with an unseen malice that pressed against their skin. Light's head lifted slowly, his hair falling around his face in messy strands. His eyes, once a dull brown, hollow and distant, now gleamed crimson with something far more terrifying.

Narcissus had surfaced.

Mitchell grinned, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. "See? Nothing to worry about."

But then Light's lips curled into a smile-cruel, predatory, filled with the kind of malice that freezes the soul.

"You remind me of someone," Narcissus whispered, his voice low and venomous, sending chills down Mitchell's spine.

Mitchell faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes. "What the—'

Before he could finish, Narcissus moved. The power surged from him like an invisible wave, and Mitchell's body convulsed, a sudden explosion of flesh and bone as he was torn apart, blood splattering the walls like a grotesque work of art.

Valenti and Evans froze, horror dawning on their faces as they stumbled back, their eyes wide in disbelief.

"What the hell?" Valenti choked out, his voice trembling.

Narcissus's smile widened, dark amusement glittering in his eyes.

"You wanted to see what I am, didn't you?"

Valenti and Evans didn't stand a chance. With a flick of Narcissus's thoughts, their hearts stopped, their bodies collapsing to the floor like discarded dolls, their lives extinguished without so much as a whimper.

The room fell into a deafening silence, the only sound the soft drip of blood pooling on the cold, sterile floor. Narcissus stared at the carnage with glittering crimson eyes, breathing heavily, his chest heaving with exhilaration. The rush of power was intoxicating, thrilling in its intensity.

But then, something else stirred within him. A thought, a compulsion.

The door.

It was open.

Light's body, nude and drenched in blood, moved like a ghost through the facility's hallways. His eyes were vacant, his mind splintered into a thousand pieces, no one truly in control anymore. His bare feet left a trail of red in his wake, a chilling reminder of the massacre he had just left behind.

Alarms blared, shrieking through the corridors, signaling a breach. Guards rushed toward him, their faces pale, panic clear in their eyes.

"Contain Subject 000!" one of them shouted into his radio.

"We've got a breach-he's loose!"

But it was too late. Anyone who came within range was dead before they even realised it. Bodies crumpled like ragdolls, their lives erased without a single thought as Light drifted further into the facility, the numbness he felt protecting him from the chaos unfolding around him.

Xiomara's eyes snapped open as the alarms echoed through the base. She shot out of bed, heart pounding, rage boiling under her skin. Her communicator buzzed furiously, and the voice on the other end was filled with panic.

"Ma'am, he's loose-000 is out of containment!"

Xiomara's face twisted into a snarl, her composure fracturing for the first time in years. "You idiots! How did you let this happen?!"

Her voice echoed through the halls as she stormed toward the surveillance room, fury radiating from her like a physical force. She could feel it—her precious creation had slipped through their fingers, and now he was out of control.

"Cover your faces!" she screamed into the communicator. "If you don't want to die, stay twenty feet away from him at all times! Do you hear me? Twenty feet!"

She reached the surveillance room in a blur, bursting through the doors with a feral intensity that made the men inside flinch. Her normally composed demeanor had shattered, leaving only raw, unbridled rage in its place.

The guards stared at the monitors, wide-eyed and trembling. They watched in horror as Light, bloody and nude, wandered through the facility, leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake.

"We... we can't contain him," one of them stammered, his voice shaking.

Xiomara's eyes blazed with fury. "You should have listened to me!"

She slammed her fist onto the control panel, the monitors flickering under the force. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts, and for a moment, the room was filled with the crackling sound of her labored breathing.

"Get him back," she growled, her voice dangerously low. "I don't care what it takes. Get him back alive."

One of the guards spoke up, his voice hesitant. "Ma'am... he's heading toward the cliffs."

Xiomara's face twisted in fury, her hands shaking as she grabbed the nearest guard by the collar, yanking him close. "You idiot! Don't let him far! If he goes over that edge, we'll lose him! Draw him back and-"

The crack of a gunshot echoed through the surveillance room, silencing her. Xiomara's breath hitched as she turned toward the monitor, her eyes widening in disbelief.

The sniper had fired. The shot had missed its mark.

And Light... Light was falling.

The room fell into a tense, suffocating silence.

Xiomara stared at the screen, her eyes locked on the image of Light's body tumbling over the cliff, vanishing into the turbulent waters below.

Her chest heaved, the fury building inside her like a fire ready to consume everything in its path.

"You fools," she whispered, her voice dangerously low. "You let him escape."

For a moment, no one moved. No one dared to breathe.

And then Xiomara exploded.

She grabbed the control panel, ripping it from its base, throwing it across the room with a roar of fury. The metal crashed against the wall, shattering into pieces as the guards scrambled back in fear.

"You let him go!" she screamed, her voice raw, shaking with unbridled rage. “You... you let him go! Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

She tore through the room, smashing monitors, throwing anything she could get her hands on, her anger so fierce, so volatile, that no one dared to come near her.

"You think this is over?" she hissed, her voice barely human. "You think I won't get him back?"

Her eyes blazed, wild and dangerous, as she turned to the terrified guards. "Get out there! Find him! Bring him back to me, or I'll kill every last one of you myself."

The guards scattered, fleeing from her wrath as she stood in the center of the room, panting, her chest heaving with fury.

Light was gone.

But she would find him.

She pushed loose black and blonde strands back with on of her hands, trying to steady her breathing. She straightened up with a roll of her eyes.

"You're mine, dear Light,"she muttered, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'll make you sorry for running away but don't you worry, I'll forgive you and then we can start afresh."

Chapter End Notes

Took me eight chapters but we got there.

Memento.

Chapter Summary

Mellodramattic takes home a stray.

Chapter Notes

Before anyone gets confused at the odd changes, I just like to add a little headcanons to my fics. For this chapter it's me picturing Matt blind as hell without glasses and I also like to think that Light was born with the same hair colour as his Sayu and the rest of his family (black). He just picked up the habit of dyeing it after middle school because he likes standing out subconsciously (even though he portrays himself as humble and such pre-Kira.)

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft orange glow over Orchard Beach, the sky a blend of purples and golds. Matt's red Camaro sat parked on the edge of the sand, its engine purring in idle as he and Mello sat inside, unwinding after a particularly rough case. The beach was quiet, save for the distant crashing of waves and the occasional gull crying overhead. The windows of the car were slightly cracked, letting in the salty air, but the two inside barely noticed.

Matt leaned back in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel, his tinted goggles covering his eyes. He looked relaxed, but only in appearance. Underneath, his thoughts were racing. Mello, meanwhile, sat beside him, chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth from the absurd amount of bars he'd devoured earlier, his sharp blue eyes staring out at the ocean. His jaw was tight, tension still lingering from their last assignment.

"That was some shit," Mello muttered, breaking the silence.

Matt grunted in agreement, exhaling smoke from the cigarette between his lips. They'd just wrapped up a case that left local police scrambling and civilians in fear—a human trafficking ring operating right under their noses in New York. It had been messy, with countless victims snatched from all over the state, some too far gone by the time they were discovered. The case had shaken Matt and Mello more than either would care to admit, the details of which still clung to them like a heavy fog.

Matt shook his head at the memory, lighting another cigarette and glancing over at Mello, who sat beside him, chocolate in hand. Mello bit into his bar aggressively, his jaw clenched as he stared out at the horizon.

“I still can’t believe L dragged us into this mess,” Mello muttered, wiping a bit of chocolate from his lips. “Could’ve solved it on his own.”

“He said we were proper apprentices now,” Matt reminded him, adjusting his goggles. “He’s trying to give us experience.”

“Experience?” Mello scoffed, throwing his head back against the seat. “I was doing just fine back at Wammy’s House until he decided to play dad.”

Matt shrugged, inhaling deeply. “He did say he wanted us to work as a team. Something about us being stupid for competing. I don't know who he's talking to 'cause it's definitely not me.”

“Yeah, well, Near can go to hell,” Mello grumbled. “L’s got no idea what it’s like to always be second best. I don’t care what he says, I’ll beat Near eventually.”

That had been Mello’s ongoing struggle for the initial three months  living with L three years ago. Ever since L had decided to pull the three of them—Near, Mello, and Matt—out of Wammy’s House to act as his direct apprentices following the conclusion of the Kira case, Mello had thrown every tantrum possible. He wasn’t used to playing second fiddle, and the idea of working with Near grated on every last one of his nerves. L had mostly ignored Mello’s protests, but the situation came to a head when L, tired of Mello’s antics, gave him an icy ultimatum. Work together or leave the team. Since then, Mello had begrudgingly accepted the arrangement, though his resentment lingered just below the surface.

“Maybe I should’ve stuck to solo missions,” Mello said under his breath. “But no, I let L sucker me into this.”

“Whatever,” Matt said, taking another drag. “At least we’re out here instead of dealing with Near and his damn toys.”

Near had opted to stay behind at their expensive hotel, the Grand Continental , after a brief drive with Matt ended with the boy gripping the passenger seat for dear life. Matt’s driving had always been a bit… spirited. Near, despite his brilliance, wasn’t exactly made for fast cars or anything involving risk. He much preferred the quiet solitude of their makeshift headquarters, endlessly tinkering with his toy robots while L, now more reclusive than ever, kept to his private quarters. The detective had become more withdrawn (even for him) after the 2003/4 Kira case. He rarely showed his face to his successors anymore, and when he did, he was distant, as though his mind was somewhere far away. It was like the Kira case had taken a piece of him, and no one, not even his most trusted successors, knew what that piece was.

Matt flicked the cigarette again, and Mello glared at him. “You know, you’re gonna choke yourself on that shit someday.”

“Eh, I’ll be fine,” Matt replied, grinning. “But thanks for the concern.”

Mello rolled his eyes before taking another bite of his chocolate. “I wasn’t concerned. I just don’t want to deal with your hacking withdrawals if you start coughing up a lung.”

"Alright, mother."

Mello sighed choosing not to fall for the bait, his head falling back against the headrest. "You know, for once, I wish we'd get a break without a case hanging over our heads. Feels like all we do is clean up after other people's messes,"he muttered, changing the subject.

Matt smirked. "I thought you liked that."

"Not after this one," Mello grumbled. He tossed the last of his chocolate wrapper onto the dashboard before glancing sideways at Matt. "Besides, I had something else in mind for how to unwind."

Matt raised an eyebrow, catching Mello's suggestive tone. He turned to face Mello fully, tilting his head with a smirk playing on his lips.  "Oh? You got something better than chocolate in mind?"

Mello's grin was feral as he leaned closer, his hand sliding up Matt's thigh. "Definitely."

Without another word, Mello closed the distance between them, capturing Matt's lips in a heated kiss. The taste of chocolate and cigarettes mingled between them, the car's interior filling with the sound of their breathing and the rustle of clothes as Mello climbed over the center console to straddle Matt's lap. Matt groaned softly into the kiss, his hands gripping Mello's hips, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, their bodies pressed against each other as the heat between them intensified.

Mello's fingers tangled in Matt's hair, tugging slightly as he kissed him harder, his movements growing more desperate. It wasn't long before the Camaro's windows fogged up, their shared need taking over as their hands roamed each other's bodies. Mello's leather pants squeaked against Matt's lap as he shifted, his lips moving to Matt's neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his jawline.

Matt's hands slipped under Mello's top, fingers ghosting over the toned muscles of his back. He was about to pull him in for another kiss when something caught his eye-a flash of movement on the beach.

He froze.

Mello didn't notice at first, too caught up in the moment, but when Matt tensed beneath him, he pulled back slightly, brow furrowed.

"What's wrong?"

Matt squinted through the foggy window, trying to get a better look at whatever had caught his attention. "I...I saw something," he muttered, his voice low.

Mello raised an eyebrow, sitting up a bit straighter. "You sure, Matty? Might've been the weed messing with your head."

Matt shook his head, his heart pounding as he fumbled for his goggles. He hadn't been wearing them, relying on his regular glasses which, as usual, he'd misplaced somewhere in the car. But even without perfect vision, he was sure he'd seen something—or someone-on the beach.

"No, I'm serious. I think something washed up."

Mello let out a groan, leaning forward against the seat. "Oh, for fuck's sake. You're seeing things again."

"No," Matt insisted, already pushing Mello off his lap as he scrambled to open the car door. "Come on, we gotta check it out. It could be an unaccounted victim from the case. Another body."

Mello rolled his eyes, clearly not convinced, but he didn't protest. He grabbed his jacket from the backseat and followed Matt out of the car, trudging across the sand toward the shoreline. "This better not be a waste of time."

The beach was quiet as they approached the water, the waves lapping gently against the shore. Matt's heart was racing as he scanned the sand, his goggles now firmly in place. His breath caught in his throat when he finally spotted what he'd seen-a body lying face down at the water's edge.

"Shit," Matt whispered, quickening his pace.

Mello's eyes widened when he saw it too, his teasing demeanor vanishing in an instant. "What the hell...?"

They reached the body together, and Matt crouched down to get a closer look. It was a man- a young guy who seemed to be their age, probably in his early twenties, with long, black hair that clung to his pale skin, soaked from the ocean. He was completely naked, his slender form trembling slightly as the cold breeze rolled over him.

"Another victim?" Mello asked, his voice low as he knelt beside Matt.

Matt shook his head, gently rolling the man onto his back. "I don't know. He's still alive, though."

The man's eyes fluttered open at the movement - amber, wide and unfocused, panic flashing across his face. He jerked upright, scrambling backward in the sand as if trying to escape them.

"W- Who...?" His voice was hoarse, trembling as he spoke. His body shook, but it wasn't just from the cold. There was fear in his eyes—a deep, unrelenting fear that sent a chill down Matt's spine.

"Whoa, easy," Matt said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "We're not gonna hurt you."

Mello frowned, glancing at Matt. "What the hell's wrong with him? He doesn't look like one of the trafficking victims."

"I don't know," Matt murmured, studying the man more closely. His long hair, his pale skin, the way he spoke wouldn't be enough to raise eyebrows. It was just something about the strange, haunting quality of the man's beauty had that rubbed Matt in the wrong way.

Something about him seemed...different. He had no identification, no clothes, no idea who or where he was. But more than that, his eyes-they seemed lost, almost childlike in their confusion. The man was the picture of helplessness - so why did Matt feel like a deer being stared at by a cougar?

The man's lips trembled as he stared up at them, his voice soft, with a faint British lilt. "Where...where am I?"

Matt exchanged a glance with Mello, who shrugged. "Orchard Beach. New York," Matt said, unsure how else to answer. "What's your name?"

The man blinked, his brow furrowing as if he were struggling to remember. "I... I don't know."

Mello groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Great. We're picking up a naked, lost guy with amnesia as a memento."

Matt shot him a look. "Hey, it's not his fault." He turned back to the man, his expression softening. "Look, we can't leave you here. You're coming with us, okay? We'll figure this out."

The man hesitated but then nodded weakly, too disoriented to argue. Matt helped him to his feet, draping Mello's long leather coat over his shoulders to cover him. He was trembling, barely able to stand on his own, so Matt wrapped an arm around his waist to support him.

Mello eyed the man with a frown. "You sure about this? L's not exactly in the best mood these days. Who knows how he'll react to us bringing home a stray."

Matt shrugged. "We can't just leave him."

Mello sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. But if L flips out, I'm blaming you."

With that, the three of them made their way back to the car, the mysterious stranger huddling beneath Mello's coat as Matt and Mello exchanged uncertain glances.

Suitcases.

Chapter Summary

I have two modes: yappertron 9000 and quiet and scared like a feral kitten.

The ride back to The Great Meridian was tense and silent. Matt focused on the road ahead, glancing occasionally into the rearview mirror. The man they had picked up, dressed now in a large, mismatched Twilight t-shirt and black pajama bottoms, sat curled up in the backseat. His wide brown eyes were fixed on the window, taking in the scenery outside with a kind of nervous fascination, like someone seeing the world for the first time.

Mello, sitting in the passenger seat, had his arms crossed and his jaw set in frustration. "You know this is going to blow up in our faces, right?"

Matt shot him a sideways glance. "What were we supposed to do? Leave him there?"

"That would've been the smart thing to do." Mello drummed his fingers against his armrest, glaring out the window. "We have no idea who he is or what happened to him. For all we know, he could be some psycho."

Matt shook his head. "He doesn't look dangerous. He's terrified, Mels."

"Yeah, well, fear doesn't mean he won't stab us in our sleep."

In the rearview mirror, Mello saw the man shift uncomfortably in the backseat, his hands gripping the seatbelt as if holding onto it for dear life. He wasn’t sure what had happened to the guy, but the fear in his eyes didn’t seem like the thing Mello was worried about. It was more the skin-crawling sensation yet strange comfort looking at him incited in the blond. The most primal part of his brain knew he was looking at a creature higher than him on the food chain. He knew and a part of him was afraid.

The hotel’s parking lot came into view, and Matt felt a wave of relief wash over him. They had made it this far without attracting too much attention. Now they just had to get him up to the suite without anyone noticing.

Mello turned in his seat to look back at the man. “Alright, here’s the plan. We’re going to take you up to our room. You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t look at anyone, and for the love of God, don’t act suspicious.”

The man nodded, though his wide-eyed expression made it clear he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Matt turned off the car and got out, moving around to the back to open the door for him. The man hesitated for a moment, then slid out of the car, clutching at Matt’s sleeve like a lifeline.

“We’re almost there,” Matt said quietly, giving him a reassuring smile.

The man nodded again, his fingers still gripping the fabric of Matt’s jacket as though he were afraid to let go.

Mello, already striding toward the hotel entrance, glanced back at them. “Let’s go. We don’t have all day.”

Matt shot him a warning look but didn’t say anything. Mello was right—they didn’t have time to dawdle. The longer they stayed out in the open, the more likely it was that someone would notice the strange man clinging to Matt’s sleeve.

As they entered the lobby, Matt was acutely aware of how conspicuous they must look. The man was practically swimming in the oversized pajamas Matt had given him, his pale skin and wide eyes making him stand out against the warm, polished surroundings of the hotel. The staff at The Warwick were used to seeing Matt and Mello in their eccentric clothing, but even this might raise some eyebrows.

Luckily, no one seemed to pay them much attention. The receptionist barely glanced up as they crossed the lobby toward the elevators, and the few guests milling around were too absorbed in their own conversations to notice the trio.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and Matt guided the man inside, keeping a firm hold on his arm as Mello punched the button for their floor. The stranger flinched at the sound of the doors closing, his grip tightening on Matt’s sleeve.

“You’re alright,” Matt said quietly, his voice low and soothing. “It’s just the elevator.”

The man nodded, though his breathing was still uneven, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps.

Mello leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and watched the man with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. “He’s going to freak out if we don’t get him calmed down soon.”

“We’re working on it,” Matt shot back. He could feel the man trembling beside him and glanced down, trying to catch his eye. “Hey, just focus on your breathing, okay? We’ll be there in a minute.”

The man nodded again, his eyes darting from the floor to the walls of the elevator. It was clear he wasn’t used to this kind of environment, and Matt wondered for the hundredth time what kind of place he had been taken from.

The elevator doors opened onto the penthouse floor, and Mello stepped out first, checking the hallway before motioning for Matt and the stranger to follow. The corridor was empty, the soft hum of the overhead lights the only sound breaking the silence.

“Come on,” Mello whispered, leading them down the hallway toward the suite.

Matt kept a steady hand on the man’s arm, guiding him along as they made their way to the door. Once they reached the room, Mello quickly unlocked it, and they slipped inside, shutting the door behind them with a relieved sigh.

“Alright,” Mello said, running a hand through his hair. “We’re in. Now what?”

Matt glanced at the man, who was standing in the middle of the room, looking around like a lost child. The suite was spacious, with a large bed, a desk, and a couch, all bathed in the warm glow of the overhead lights. It was a far cry from whatever environment the stranger had been taken from, and he seemed unsure of what to do with himself.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Matt suggested gently, gesturing to the bed. “You’ve had a long day.”

The man hesitated, glancing at Mello, then back at Matt, before slowly lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. He sat there, his hands resting in his lap, his eyes still darting around the room.

Mello snorted. “What, are we running a daycare now?”

Matt shot him a glare. “Can you not?”

“Fine, whatever.” Mello threw himself onto the couch, his arms crossed. “But we can’t keep him here forever. L’s going to figure it out sooner or later.”

“We’ll deal with that when it happens.” Matt sat down beside the man, keeping his voice low. “Right now, we just need to figure out what’s going on with him.”

Mello sighed, rubbing his temples. “So, what? We babysit him until L gets curious?”

Matt ignored him, focusing on the man beside him. “Do you remember anything? Where you were before we found you?”

The man blinked, his eyes focusing on Matt for the first time. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and unsure. “I… I don’t know. Everything’s… foggy.”

Matt nodded, his heart sinking a little. He had hoped for more, but it was clear that this guy had been through something traumatic. Whatever had happened to him, it had left him with more questions than answers.

Before they could continue the conversation, there was a sharp knock on the door.

Both Matt and Mello froze.

“Shit,” Mello muttered under his breath. “It’s Near.”

Matt’s eyes widened. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“He’s probably here to give us more paperwork.” Mello’s voice was low and urgent. “We need to hide him.”

Matt looked around the room, his mind racing. “Where?”

Mello’s eyes landed on the suitcase sitting by the bed. “In there. Get him in the suitcase.”

Matt blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Mello snapped.

There wasn’t time to argue. Matt stood up quickly, grabbing the suitcase and opening it up. He turned to the man, who was watching the exchange with wide, confused eyes.

“I need you to trust me,” Matt said, his voice calm but firm. “We need to hide you for a minute. Can you get in here?”

The man stared at the suitcase, his brow furrowing in confusion. But after a moment, he nodded, slipping off the bed and climbing into the suitcase without complaint. He curled up inside, his limbs tucked tightly against his body.

Matt closed the suitcase carefully, placing it on the edge of the bed.

Mello shot him a look. “That was too easy.”

Matt shrugged. “I think he’s too scared to argue.”

Before they could say anything else, the knock came again, louder this time.

“Matt, Mello,” Near’s voice came through the door, soft but insistent. “I have the documents for you.”

Mello rolled his eyes and moved toward the door, pausing for a second to glance back at Matt. “He better stay quiet.”

Matt nodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to the suitcase. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he kept his expression neutral as Mello opened the door.

Near stood in the hallway, holding a stack of papers in one hand. His usual blank expression was in place, but there was a hint of suspicion in his eyes as he glanced between Mello and Matt.

“Why did it take you so long to open the door?” Near asked, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation.

Mello shrugged. “We were in the middle of something.”

Near’s eyes flicked to the bed, then back to Matt, who was sitting stiffly on the edge, his hands resting on the suitcase beside him.

“Right,” Near said, his voice flat. He walked over to the bed and set the stack of papers down on the desk. “These are the latest reports from L. He wants them reviewed by tomorrow morning.”

Matt nodded, his throat tight. “Got it.”

Near lingered for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the suitcase beside Matt. For a second, Matt was sure Near was going to ask about it, but then Near turned and headed for the door.

“Make sure you get some rest,” Near said, his voice as monotonous as ever. “You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Mello let out a breath once the door closed, and Matt slumped back on the bed.

“That was too close,” Matt muttered.

Mello nodded, running a hand through his hair. “No kidding.”

They both looked at the suitcase, still sitting on the bed.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to do that again,” Mello said with a sigh.

Matt nodded in agreement. “Yeah… let’s hope.”

Supernatural.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

L sat hunched in the darkened hotel suite, the only light a dim glow from the television screen casting long, eerie shadows against the walls. The black shirt clung to his thin frame, and his legs, covered only by black briefs, were pulled up close to his chest, a stark contrast to the disheveled, boyish image he’d once presented. He had stopped wearing white shirts years ago, a quiet, inexplicable mourning for the man he had defeated—or thought he had defeated. Light Yagami. The name still sent a shiver through him, though he could never quite explain why.

Light was dead. He’d watched the execution footage, seen the once-brilliant young man crumple in defeat, his last breath stolen away by the cold hand of justice. L had won. The world was safer now, the faceless and deadly Kira gone forever. And yet, as he sat alone, a low hum of pain thrumming beneath his skin, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. It was as if a piece of himself had died along with Light, a piece he didn’t even know existed until it was gone.

He glanced at the untouched rum cake beside him, the aroma faint but sickly sweet. He had taken to eating it as a way to dull the edges of his mind, a mockery of intoxication. Straight up alcohol blurred his thoughts too much; diluting it through sugar was a safer poison. He picked up a fork and took a small bite, the rich flavor spreading across his tongue in a way that made his stomach churn. It was never about enjoyment, only distraction.

Ryuk, the Shinigami who had once followed Light so closely, lounged on the other side of the room, his skeletal frame barely discernible in the dim light. He was watching L with a curious, almost gleeful look, his long, gnarled fingers twitching as he clutched a half-eaten apple.

“Another quiet night, huh, L?” Ryuk’s voice was gravelly, playful, the sound slicing through the stillness like a knife. “You sure know how to have a good time.”

L didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him. He’d been playing Mario Kart for hours, the game a mindless escape from the darkness that clawed at the edges of his sanity. It was something Ryuk enjoyed, and the Shinigami had become his only company, his constant, if unwelcome, shadow.

“Didn’t expect you to be such a sore winner,” Ryuk continued, his lips stretching into a grotesque smile. “I thought beating Light-o would’ve made you happy.”

L’s hand tightened around the fork, the metal biting into his palm. “Happy?” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “There is no happiness in death, Ryuk. Not for him, and not for me.”

He wasn’t sure why he spoke the words aloud. Maybe it was the late hour, the isolation, or the strange, almost therapeutic presence of the Shinigami. Or perhaps it was the emptiness inside him, the hollow ache that refused to fade. Light had been a challenge, a force of nature that had driven him to his limits. And now, without that presence, without that pressure, there was nothing. Just an endless, gnawing void.

Ryuk’s grin widened. “You’re still hung up on him, huh? You know, you’re not the first human to lose their mind over someone like Light-o.”

L flinched at the casual cruelty in Ryuk’s tone, his gaze shifting to the small, black notebook on the table. The Death Note. The instrument of so much suffering, so much death. He had kept it, despite everything. Despite knowing he should have destroyed it the moment Light was gone. But he couldn’t. It was a piece of Light, a twisted memento of their battle, their connection. It was all he had left.

“I don’t know why,” L admitted softly, his voice breaking. “I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I still think about him, why I still—”

He stopped, the words choking in his throat. Why he still mourned.

There was a silence, heavy and oppressive, and then Ryuk let out a low, rumbling laugh. “Humans are weird,” he said, shaking his head. “But you… you’re something else, L.”

L didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The room felt suffocating, the shadows pressing in around him. He glanced down at his arms, the pale skin marred with thin, jagged lines. Scars, some old, some new. A shameful, secret habit he had hidden from everyone, even Watari. Even himself. He wasn’t sure when it had started. Maybe it was after Light’s death, or maybe it was before, when the weight of the world had pressed down on him, and he had found solace in the sharp, fleeting pain. It was a release, a way to feel something other than the crushing emptiness.

But it was never enough.

The breakdowns had become more frequent, more intense. A sudden wave of grief, a violent, uncontainable rage, a despair so deep it felt like drowning. He would tear at his skin, scream until his throat was raw, until the tears ran dry. And then he would sit, numb and exhausted, staring at the bloodied marks on his body with a detached, clinical fascination.

Tonight had been bad. Worse than usual. He’d broken a lamp, shattered it against the wall in a fit of rage, the glass scattering like tiny, glittering stars. He’d screamed, shouted Light’s name, cursed him, begged him to come back, to explain why he felt this way, why he couldn’t move on. And then, when the anger had drained away, he’d collapsed on the floor, his body shaking, his mind empty.

He didn’t remember picking up the file, the one he had hidden away for so long. The one he had kept on Light. Photos, notes, records of their conversations, their battles. He had stared at it for hours, his mind drifting in and out of focus, the memories blurring together in a chaotic swirl. Light’s smile, his laughter, the way his eyes would light up with a fierce, burning passion when they argued, when they clashed. The way he had looked, broken and defeated, in those final moments.

It was wrong. All of it. Light should have been angry, defiant, even in the face of death. He should have fought, should have raged against the dying of the light. But he hadn’t. He had surrendered, given in, as if he had been waiting for it, expecting it. It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

“L, you’re thinking too much again.” Ryuk’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, a sharp, mocking edge to the words. “You’ll drive yourself crazy if you keep this up.”

“Maybe I already am,” L murmured, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe that’s the price of being the greatest detective in the world.”

He took another bite of the rum cake, the sweetness turning to ash in his mouth. He hated it, hated the way it made him feel, hated the weakness it represented. But he needed it, needed something to dull the pain, to quiet the screaming inside his head.

“Let’s play another round,” he said suddenly, his voice sharper, more determined. “I’m tired of thinking.”

Ryuk shrugged, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Sure thing, L. Anything to keep the boredom away.”

They started another game, the characters zipping around the brightly colored track, the music cheerful and fast-paced. L focused on the screen, his hands steady on the controller, his mind a blank slate. It was easier like this, easier to pretend everything was normal, that he wasn’t falling apart at the seams.

But as the hours passed, the fatigue set in, a bone-deep weariness that he couldn’t shake. His vision blurred, the colors and sounds blending together in a dizzying whirl. His body ached, the constant crouching position taking its toll, the scars on his legs and arms throbbing with a dull, persistent pain.

“Maybe you should call it a night,” Ryuk suggested, his voice unusually gentle. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep this up.”

L shook his head, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “One more game,” he muttered. “Just one more.”

But he didn’t make it through the game. Halfway through the final lap, his vision darkened, his body swaying as the exhaustion finally overwhelmed him. The controller slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor as he slumped forward, his head resting against his knees, his breaths shallow and uneven.

“L?” Ryuk’s voice was sharp now, a hint of concern in the raspy tone. “Hey, are you—”

But L didn’t hear him. The darkness closed in, pulling him down, down into the cold, empty void where nothing existed but the faint, lingering echo of a name.

Light.

Ryuk watched as L’s body sagged, his fragile form collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. The detective’s face was pale, his eyes closed, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he was still alive.

“Humans,” Ryuk muttered, shaking his head. “You never know when to quit, do you?”

He hovered over L’s limp form, his crimson eyes studying the detective with a mix of curiosity and something almost like pity. It was a strange sight, this once-great mind reduced to a fragile, trembling shell. L had always been peculiar, different from the others. Detached, almost inhuman in his brilliance, his single-minded focus on justice. But now, there was something else. Something broken.

Ryuk knew L wasn’t sleeping well — which was something , considering what type of person the detective was. He’d seen the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands would shake when he thought no one was looking. He’d seen the scars, the faint, pink lines crisscrossing his skin like a twisted, macabre road map. And he’d heard the screams, the sobbing, the desperate, haunted cries that echoed through the dark, empty rooms when L thought he was alone.

It was fascinating. And a little sad.

“Light-o really did a number on you, huh?” Ryuk mused, tilting his head to one side. “I guess even someone like you has a breaking point.”

But it wasn’t just Light’s death that had broken L. It was more than that. Ryuk could feel it, the strange, almost supernatural energy that clung to the detective like a shadow. It was familiar, and yet not. It reminded him of the Death Note, of the Shinigami World, but it was… different. Distorted.

He’d felt it for the first time the night Light died, a faint, lingering presence that had made his skin crawl. It was as if something had shifted, something fundamental had changed. And then, there was the absence. The void where Light’s soul should have been. He hadn’t seen Light in Mu, hadn’t felt his presence in the Shinigami World. It was as if he had simply… vanished.

It was impossible, of course. Humans went to Mu when they died, their souls trapped in that endless, empty expanse. But Light… Light was different. He always had been.

Ryuk had considered leaving, taking the Death Note and returning to the Shinigami World. But something had stopped him. A strange, nagging curiosity, a feeling that there was still something left to see, something left to learn. L was interesting, in his own way. And the human world was so dreadfully boring without Light.

So he had stayed, watching, waiting, playing his little games, enjoying the show. L was good company, in his own strange, tortured way. He would sit for hours, talking to Ryuk as if the Shinigami were an old friend, his words slurring as the sugar and fatigue dulled his sharp mind. He would laugh, a bitter, broken sound, his eyes hollow and dark, and Ryuk would listen, fascinated by the unraveling of this brilliant, broken man.

And then, tonight, something had changed.

Ryuk felt it before he saw it, a shift in the air, a subtle, almost imperceptible ripple of energy. It was faint, almost like a whisper, but it was there, pulsing, growing stronger, closer. He turned, his gaze sweeping across the darkened room, his senses on high alert.

There was nothing. Just the shadows, the quiet hum of the television, the faint, steady breathing of the unconscious detective. But the feeling was there, prickling at his skin, a strange, electric tension that made his bones ache.

“What the hell is that?” he muttered, his voice a low, uneasy growl.

It wasn’t Shinigami. He knew that much. It was similar, but… wrong. Twisted. It was coming from somewhere close, somewhere in the hotel. He could feel it, a dark, coiling presence that seemed to vibrate in the air, sending shivers down his spine.

He glanced at L, the detective’s face pale and drawn, his body curled into a tight, protective ball. Whatever it was, it was coming for him. Ryuk didn’t know how he knew, but he did. It was like a predator sensing prey, a hunter zeroing in on its target.

“Shit,” he muttered, his wings twitching restlessly. He could leave. Take the Death Note and go, find some other human to play with, some other world to haunt. But something stopped him. A strange, inexplicable urge to stay, to see this through.

He hovered closer to L, his eyes narrowing as the feeling intensified, a dark, suffocating pressure that seemed to wrap around the room like a shroud. It was almost tangible, a heavy, cloying presence that made his skin itch, his breath catch.

And then, he felt it.

A surge of energy, a sharp, blinding pulse that seemed to rip through the air, crackling with a power that was both terrifying and exhilarating. It was like nothing he had ever felt before, a raw, primal force that seemed to reverberate through his very bones.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone, leaving the room eerily quiet, the air heavy with the lingering scent of something… otherworldly.

Ryuk stared at the door, his heart pounding, his hands shaking. Whatever that was, it was here. And it was powerful. More powerful than anything he had ever encountered.

He glanced back at L, the detective still unconscious, his face peaceful, almost serene. He looked so fragile, so vulnerable, and for a moment, Ryuk felt a strange, unfamiliar pang of… something. Pity, maybe. Or fear.

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into, L Lawliet?” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the still, heavy air.

But there was no answer, only the soft, steady sound of L’s breathing, the faint hum of the television, and the dark, oppressive silence of the room.

Whatever was coming, it was here. And Ryuk had a feeling that things were about to get very, very interesting.

Chapter End Notes

it may have taken us 11 chapters of nonstop yappin', but we're finally at the brink of a Lawlight reunion. thank god.

Muffins.

Chapter Notes

More headcanons!!:

- Even though I read somewhere that officially, Near isn’t albino — he is in my story. So his irises being black is due to him wearing like- sclera lenses for sun sensitivity on his eyes.

- Since we see Near rarely walk or standing in the manga, I like to think of him having something kind of leg/motor issues.

- L eats coffee flavoured treats here because I think Light’s a big fan of coffee (black) so he does it as a subconscious thing for his murder husband.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The soft hum of the limousine’s engine did little to ease Near’s growing discomfort. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, manipulating the joints of his favorite Gundam toy. The small, plastic figure’s limbs clicked quietly as Near twisted them, his black eyes darting occasionally to the man seated across from him. L was devouring his third coffee marble muffin in the last half hour, his usual posture even more hunched than usual. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes, and his skin, already pale, had taken on an almost sickly pallor.

It wasn’t uncommon for L to look tired. Near had been around him long enough to know that sleep was something L treated more as an afterthought than a necessity. But today, there was something more to it. L looked… vacant. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, stared blankly at the half-eaten muffin in his hands, his fingers moving mechanically as he pulled another bite toward his lips.

Near’s sharp mind analyzed the situation as he observed L’s behavior. The detective hadn’t said much since they left the hotel—his usual clipped instructions and mumbled thoughts absent. The most coherent thing he had said all morning was his brief request for coffee marble muffins, and even then, it was more of a distracted mutter than an actual request. L’s gaze seemed unfocused, as if he wasn’t entirely present in the car.

He’s cracking, Near thought, a flicker of concern rising within him.

The mood in the limousine had grown more unbearable by the minute. L’s unpredictable nature, especially on days like this, made Near uneasy. The older detective was prone to odd, impulsive decisions when he was in this state, and Near didn’t want to be the one to trigger anything.

Another soft click echoed as Near’s Gundam figure’s arm rotated. He focused on the familiar sensation of the plastic in his hands, hoping to distract himself from the suffocating atmosphere.

It wasn’t just L that was causing his discomfort, though. Matt and Mello had yet to make an appearance. The two were supposed to be ready by now. Near glanced at the time on his phone—10:47 AM. They were meant to check out by 11:00 AM, and there was still no sign of them.

L had already tried calling them twice. The first call had gone unanswered, and by the second, Near could see the irritation creeping into L’s movements. His leg bounced slightly, and his chewing became more aggressive with each bite of the muffin.

Typical, Near thought, a wave of annoyance rising in his chest. Of course, they’d make us late.

Near could practically hear Mello’s sarcastic quips now: “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Near.”

Matt and Mello had a habit of dragging their feet when it came to anything time-sensitive. More often than not, they were the reason the team was delayed. And more often than not, it had something to do with their inability to stay out of each other’s pants.

Near’s lips pressed into a thin line. He could feel the tension building, not only in L but within himself. If Matt and Mello didn’t come down soon, things were going to get even more uncomfortable.

L’s hand hovered over his phone again, ready to dial their room for a third time. The slight twitch in his fingers told Near all he needed to know—L’s patience was running thin. That, combined with his current state, could lead to an unpredictable explosion of frustration.

Near didn’t want to be there for that.

“I’ll go check on them,” Near offered, his voice calm despite the undercurrent of urgency he felt.

L gave a brief, almost dismissive nod, his focus still on his muffin, as if the treat held all the answers to whatever was going on in his mind.

Near wasted no time. He quickly slid out of the limousine, his movements efficient and practiced despite the lingering discomfort in his legs. He didn’t like moving quickly—his legs weren’t what they used to be, and the faster he walked through the hotel’s parking lot, the more the dull ache in his muscles reminded him of his limitations. Still, the promise of escaping L’s tense presence spurred him on.

The hotel lobby was quiet as Near made his way to the elevator, the only sound being the soft chime as it arrived on his floor. He rode in silence, tapping his fingers lightly against his Gundam toy, the familiar sensation grounding him as he mentally prepared for whatever chaos awaited him upstairs.

By the time he reached the door to Matt and Mello’s room, he could already hear muffled voices inside. Near frowned. He’d been expecting them to still be in bed, tangled up in each other, which would explain their tardiness. But this… this sounded different.

He hesitated for a moment, listening closely. There was no laughter. No playful banter. Just low, tense voices.

Near’s frown deepened as he knocked sharply on the door. “Open up,” he called, his tone more forceful than usual. “L is getting annoyed, and you’ve left me in an awkward situation long enough.”

Silence followed. For a brief moment, Near felt a surge of satisfaction. Good, he thought. Maybe now they’ll understand the seriousness of the situation.

After a few moments, the door beeped, and it cracked open slightly. Mello’s head peeked out, his usual brashness replaced with something Near wasn’t used to seeing—panic.

Before Near could speak, Mello grabbed his arm and yanked him inside with surprising force, quickly shutting the door behind him. “Keep your voice down!” Mello hissed, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

Near was about to protest when his eyes landed on the scene before him.

The moment Near stepped into the room, he was hit with a strange, chaotic energy. The air was thick with tension, and it wasn't just because Mello had practically yanked him inside. His sharp eyes quickly scanned the room, taking in the disarray. It looked like Matt and Mello had been in the middle of packing—clothes were strewn across the bed, Matt’s gaming equipment was piled haphazardly in one corner, and Mello’s beloved leather jacket was draped over a chair, half-forgotten.

But what really caught Near’s attention was the figure huddled on the floor behind Matt.

The man—if it was a man—was pale and androgynous, his long, black hair hanging like a curtain over most of his face and cascading down his shoulders. He was wearing a mismatched outfit: Mello’s black shorts, bright green flip-flops that Near could only assume belonged to Matt, and an oversized black Slipknot shirt that looked like it could swallow him whole. The stranger clung to Matt like a lifeline, his wide amber eyes peeking out from behind his hair, staring at Near with a mix of curiosity and fear.

Near blinked. This was not what he had expected.

Before he could fully process the situation, Mello shoved him further into the room, glancing nervously back at the door as if he expected someone to burst through at any moment.

"What the hell is going on?" Near asked, his voice low and steady, but there was an undeniable edge of irritation in his tone.

Mello scowled, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “None of your business,” he muttered, though his usual bravado seemed muted, almost forced.

Matt, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the stranger, didn’t say anything. He was too focused on gently stroking the man’s back, his face uncharacteristically serious. The usually laid-back gamer looked tense, his mouth set in a thin line as he whispered something to the stranger that Near couldn’t quite make out.

Near’s frustration was bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. He hated feeling out of the loop, especially when they were on a tight schedule, and L’s unpredictability was looming like a storm cloud overhead. “You’re making us late,” Near said coldly, crossing his arms. “L is already irritated, and you know how he gets when things don’t go according to plan.”

Mello let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temple as if trying to fend off a headache. “We know, cottontail. Just give us a second, alright?”

The tension in the room was suffocating. Near could tell that something was seriously off. Matt and Mello were never this rattled—especially Mello, who thrived on confrontation. But instead of his usual sharp-tongued retorts, Mello looked... anxious. Near glanced back at the stranger, who had shifted even closer to Matt, almost hiding behind him completely.

Near narrowed his eyes. Something was very wrong here.

He stepped closer to the pair on the floor, ignoring the warning glare Mello shot him. “Who is that?” Near asked, gesturing to the man huddled behind Matt. “And why is he here?”

Matt and Mello exchanged a quick glance, and Near could see the unspoken argument happening between them. Mello looked like he wanted to say something, but Matt gave a slight shake of his head, his expression tense.

Near wasn’t in the mood for their silent bickering. His patience, already stretched thin by L’s unpredictable mood, snapped. “I asked you a question,” Near said, his voice sharp and commanding in a way it rarely was. “Who is he?”

The stranger flinched at Near’s raised voice, his hands flying up to cover his ears as he curled in on himself, pressing his face into Matt’s shoulder. Matt shot Near an angry look, but his priority was clearly the man clinging to him. He leaned in close, whispering soothing words that Near couldn’t quite make out, trying to calm the stranger down.

Mello, on the other hand, looked like he was about to explode. He stood up abruptly, crossing the room in three quick strides and getting right in Near’s face. “Keep your damn voice down,” he hissed, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “Do you want him to freak out?”

Near held his ground, though he could feel his own irritation rising. “If you hadn’t been wasting time,” he said icily, “we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Mello opened his mouth to fire back, but Matt cut him off, his voice surprisingly calm given the tension in the room. “Enough,” Matt said, his hand still resting on the stranger’s back. “This isn’t helping.”

Near’s gaze flicked back to the stranger, who was slowly lowering his hands from his ears, though he still looked nervous and uncertain. There was something familiar about him, though Near couldn’t quite place it. The dark hair, the unnaturally pale skin, the way he seemed so out of place—something about it all felt like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

Finally, Mello let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair again. “We met him yesterday,” Mello muttered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Found him washed up ashore in his birthday suit. He... he doesn’t seem to know who he is. He’s been sticking with us ever since.”

Near raised an eyebrow. “You picked up a stray?”

“It’s not like that,” Matt said quietly. He shifted slightly, positioning himself between Near and the stranger as if trying to shield him from further scrutiny. “He’s... confused. Scared. We couldn’t just leave him.”

Near stared at them for a long moment, processing the situation. This wasn’t like Matt and Mello. They weren’t exactly known for their compassion, especially when it came to complete strangers. And yet, here they were, taking care of someone they didn’t even know, and clearly trying to hide it from L.

Something didn’t add up.

“You’re screwed,” Near said flatly, crossing his arms again. “L’s going to find out. You can’t keep this a secret from him forever.”

Mello’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, Near thought he was going to lash out again. But instead, Mello just looked... defeated. “I know,” he muttered, glancing away. “But what the hell were we supposed to do?”

Near’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at the stranger again. The man’s wide, amber eyes were fixed on him now, peeking out from behind Matt’s shoulder. There was something almost childlike about the way he looked at Near, as if he was trying to figure out whether he was a threat.

Near crouched down carefully, his legs protesting the movement, and sat on the floor a few feet away from the trio. He wasn’t sure how long he could sit like this, but he didn’t want to stand. “Have you given him anything to eat?” Near asked quietly, keeping his voice calm and neutral.

Both Matt and Mello froze, exchanging another glance. Near sighed. “You haven’t, have you?”

“We tried,” Mello muttered, looking annoyed again. “He keeps refusing everything we offer. Says he’s not hungry, but he keeps pulling faces like the food disgusts him.”

The stranger, still half-hiding behind Matt, made a small, guilty noise, his eyes darting away from Near’s gaze.

Near didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he focused on the stranger, keeping his voice gentle and calm. “You need to eat something,” he said, his tone almost coaxing. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

The stranger stared at him for a moment, then shook his head slowly, his long hair swaying with the movement.

Near sighed again but didn’t press the issue. It was clear that the man wasn’t going to respond well to pressure. Instead, he shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable on the floor as Matt stood and Mello continued packing, their movements rushed and frantic. They were clearly nervous about L finding out, and Near couldn’t blame them.

As if on cue, the door swung open with a soft click, and Near’s heart sank.

He’d completely forgotten that L had requested a master key to all their rooms when they’d initially arrived.

L stood in the doorway, flanked by Watari, his usual blank expression in place—though there was a faint flicker of something beneath the surface. His sharp eyes scanned the room, lingering for a moment on the chaos—the half-packed bags, the strewn clothes, and finally on the trio sitting on the floor. He pulled off his face mask, revealing lips pressed tightly together in what Near could only describe as irritation. But that was normal, expected.

What came next wasn’t.

L’s gaze finally landed on the stranger, the man who’d went and huddled behind Near. The moment L saw him, everything seemed to shift. His entire body went rigid, his annoyance forgotten as his eyes narrowed. His lips parted slightly, and his breath caught audibly in his throat. He took a single step into the room, his wide, inky eyes glued to the man on the floor. It was as if the stranger was the only person in the room, the only thing that mattered.

Near, who was still sitting on the floor, felt the tension spike like a sudden, suffocating wave. Something was terribly wrong.

L’s face, usually a mask of indifference, flickered—just for a second. His jaw clenched, and Near saw his fingers twitch as if they were fighting the urge to grab onto something, anything, for stability. It was a crack in L’s armor, a crack Near had rarely seen, if ever.

Watari, standing just behind L, took a half-step forward, his brow furrowed with concern. “L?” he murmured quietly, but L didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes remained locked on the stranger, wide and unblinking, as though he’d just been sucker-punched.

The stranger blinked up at L, his wide amber eyes puzzled but not frightened. He clearly didn’t recognize L at all, didn’t understand the weight of the moment. The stranger shifted slightly behind Near, as though seeking protection, his thin fingers clutching the albino’s sleeve like a child. Matt shot a glance at Mello, who looked just as uneasy. Near could feel it too—the growing, almost unbearable tension crackling through the air.

Then, without warning, L spoke.

“Light.”

It was barely a whisper. A single word, a name spoken so softly that Near almost missed it. But the impact was like a bomb going off.

The room seemed to shrink, the air suddenly too thick, too heavy. L’s voice trembled, and there was something broken in the way he said the name, something cracked wide open, raw and bleeding. He took another step forward, his arms hanging limp at his sides, fingers trembling.

The stranger blinked again, tilting his head slightly as though trying to figure out if L was talking to him. His amber eyes remained confused, blank, unaware of the gravity of the moment. He looked at Matt, then Mello, as if seeking confirmation.

L’s breath was coming faster now, shallow and uneven. His normally composed posture was falling apart, unraveling right before their eyes. His legs seemed unsteady, like they might give out beneath him at any moment. He took a shaky step closer, his mouth opening as if to speak again, but no words came out. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, each breath sounding more like a gasp, as if he couldn’t quite get enough air into his lungs.

Watari reached out, his hand hovering near L’s arm, but he didn’t touch him. He knew better than anyone that L hated to be touched, especially when he was unraveling like this. Instead, Watari’s voice was soft, careful. “L, breathe. It’s alright. Just breathe.”

But L wasn’t listening. His gaze remained fixed on the man in front of him—the man he had just called Light.

His hands, now visibly shaking, twitched again, and L pressed them against his sides, his fingers curling into fists. His breathing was erratic, shallow and rapid, his shoulders trembling. It wasn’t like L to lose control. It wasn’t like L to show this much emotion, this much vulnerability. Near had never seen him like this—not even when he visited the orphanage when the successors were mere children.

“L—” Near started, his own voice faltering. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to help.

L took another shaky breath, but it came out as more of a sob, his chest convulsing with the effort to pull in air. His eyes were wide, staring at the stranger—no, not a stranger. Not to him.

The man he had called Light.

“L…” Mello’s voice was barely a whisper, his usual sharp tone lost. Even he seemed at a loss for words. The way L was breaking down, it was terrifying. Mello took a tentative step toward him, then stopped, unsure. “He—he doesn’t know,” Mello said, his voice tight. “Whoever he is… it’s not—”

But L didn’t seem to hear. His trembling legs finally gave out, and he collapsed to his knees on the floor, his hands gripping the fabric of his shirt so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He looked so small, so broken. His breathing had turned into gasps, each one more desperate than the last, his chest heaving as if he was drowning in the air around him.

The stranger—Light—watched in stunned silence, his wide eyes filled with confusion and something else—maybe fear. He scrambled to his feet and clung to Matt, who was staring at L with a mixture of concern and helplessness.

“L, stop,” Matt murmured, his voice gentle but strained. “You’re scaring him.”

But L didn’t stop. His hands moved to clutch his head now, his fingers tangling in his messy black hair as he hunched forward, his whole body shaking. His gasps were turning into ragged sobs, the kind that tore from deep within the chest, uncontrollable and raw.

Near had never seen L like this. Not even when their most demanding had taken their heaviest toll, not even in the darkest moments when all hope had seemed lost. This… this was something else.

This was L breaking.

Near forced himself to move, pushing his aching legs to stand. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it. He had to do something, anything. He took a cautious step toward L, his own hands shaking slightly. He didn’t know how to handle this. He didn’t know how to handle him.

Watari, still standing by the door, looked as lost as the rest of them. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to step in, but he seemed frozen, torn between his duty as L’s caretaker and the knowledge that L wouldn’t want to be touched.

Near knelt down next to L, his movements slow and deliberate, careful not to startle him. “L,” he said softly, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “Breathe. You need to breathe.”

L didn’t respond. His hands were still tangled in his hair, his body trembling violently as he gasped for air. It was as though he was trapped in his own mind, unable to hear or see anything beyond the figure in front of him—the man who looked like Light Yagami but wasn’t.

And then, finally, the stranger spoke. His voice was soft, almost timid, but it cut through the chaos like a blade.

“I’m… not Light.”

L’s gasps hitched, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. His wide, tear-filled eyes slowly lifted to meet the stranger’s gaze, his breathing still ragged but quieter now. The stranger—Light—stared back at him with those confused amber eyes, his expression innocent, almost childlike.

“I’m not him,” the stranger repeated, his voice trembling slightly. “I don’t know who that is… I don’t know who you are. I’m sorry.”

The words hit L like a physical blow. His body jerked as though he’d been struck, and for a moment, it looked like he might collapse completely. His hands slipped from his hair, falling limply to his sides as his head drooped forward. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, his entire body trembling with the weight of the moment.

“I don’t know you,” the stranger whispered again, his voice barely audible.

L let out a choked sob, and Near’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to help. All he could do was sit there, helpless, as L’s world seemed to crumble around him.

The man who had never shown weakness, never shown vulnerability—was now unraveling completely, breaking apart at the seams. And there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.

Chapter End Notes

LAWLIGHT REUNION YAYYYY YAYYYY !! hopefully L’s reaction was worth the evil wait…

Afterword

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!

Table of Contents

- Preface

- Scales

- Scales pt. II

- Pride I

- Pride II.

- First.

- Second.

- Third.

- Fourth.

- Memento.

- Suitcases.

- Supernatural.

- Muffins.

- Afterword