The harsh fluorescent lighting of the task force headquarters cast a sterile glow over the autopsy report spread out on the table. You sat at the corner, the room quieter than usual save for the occasional murmur of voices from the task force members working nearby. Your focus was locked on the photographs of the latest Kira victim—eyes wide, face twisted in pain. The pattern was consistent, but you needed to be sure.

A familiar shuffling of bare feet drew your attention, and L plopped onto a chair beside you, his posture as unorthodox as ever. His eyes darted to the report in front of you, dark and unwavering.

“I noticed you skipped lunch,” he said abruptly, his voice calm but lacking the softness that usually accompanied such an observation.

You glanced at him, taken aback. “Dad tells me the same thing,” you replied dryly, returning to your notes. “I had coffee. It counts.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, clearly unimpressed with your excuse. “Coffee is not sufficient fuel for sustaining cognitive performance,” he stated, leaning forward slightly to inspect the diagram you were working on. “Especially for someone in your line of work. A distracted mind could miss vital details.”

You sighed, setting your pen down. “And what about you? I haven’t seen you eat anything besides sugar in days. Or sleep, for that matter.”

“That’s irrelevant,” he countered, his gaze flicking toward you briefly before settling back on the diagram. “The victim’s time of death… Have you calculated the exact moment yet?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Avoiding the subject, are we?”

“Merely prioritizing.” His voice remained even, but his eyes betrayed the faintest flicker of amusement.