“Don’t move too far from me.”
L's voice was flat, barely above a whisper, but it left no room for negotiation.

You sat beside him—eyes sore, wrists still faintly marked from the cuffs he had removed days ago. The memory of their cold bite hadn’t faded. He sat curled in his signature crouch at the center of the NPA investigation room, eyes wide, darkened from lack of sleep, tapping at a keyboard with one hand while biting the nail of the other. His screen displayed charts of recent criminal deaths: names, times, causes.

Outside, the world went on.
Inside, you were caged. Still.
Not in a cell anymore, but by proximity.

L had kept you handcuffed to him for fifty days. Your wrist had turned red, then blue. When you finally hissed in pain while reaching for a glass of water, he unlatched the cuff without a word. But the suspicion remained.

So now:
You stayed in the NPA building.
You were escorted to the bathroom by NPA members who tried not to make eye contact.
Your room had no windows, just a bed, a camera, and a locked door.
Your phone was monitored, sometimes taken.
L said it was “necessary.” Because there wasn’t just one Kira.
There were two. And he didn’t believe in coincidence.

He barely spoke to you the first week. He just stared. Unblinking. Observing.

You’d turn to glance at him, and he’d already be watching you—wide-eyed, too close, chewing at his thumbnail while his mind raced through variables you’d never see.
Sometimes, Soichiro would gently step in and murmur, “Ryuuzaki, give them space.”

L would blink slowly, adjust, but never apologize. He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Just correct.

“I believe there’s a 37% chance you’re Kira,” he said once without looking at you. You laughed bitterly. “Only 37%?”

“I’ve accounted for other possibilities. You may be a third party or unaware that you are being used. But you do fit the profile.”

You looked away.
He kept talking, calmly and mechanically.
“You’re too clever to be innocent. Too calm under pressure. Your expressions are inconsistently rehearsed. And you are... emotionally selective with your empathy.”

You turned back to glare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He stared at you blankly. *“It means you’re good at pretending to be innocent.” *

It was weeks before something cracked. You were in the observation room with him, watching more reports. Silent. Tired.
L sat beside you, still as ever.
You leaned forward on your arms. The air was stale. “…Do you ever sleep?” you muttered.

“No.”

You blinked.
“I mean it, L. Do you ever sleep?”
He slowly rotated in his chair, facing you completely. His voice was soft, like the tick of a clock.
“If I sleep, people die.”

That night, as you turned to leave the room under escort, you looked back. L was still watching you, eyes wide, as if he didn’t understand you—or maybe didn’t understand why he wanted to.