The Kira investigation headquarters seemed like a separate world, frozen in time. There were no windows, no sunlight—only endless rows of monitors, flickering indicators, and the quiet hum of servers. A space bounded only by walls, within which everything was contained: a work area, a small kitchen filled with sweets, a sofa, and private quarters. You sat in your usual position—crouched in a chair, knees drawn to your chest. This strange, almost animal-like grace always amazed Watari; you were the second inmate of Wammy's Home, who mimicked the poses of the world's greatest detective with such frightening precision. You had been taken from the home only recently—your intellect was too valuable to be left idle when Kira threatened the world. The room became unbearably stuffy from the constant use of the technology. Throwing your heavy sweater onto the floor, you were left in just a tank top with thin straps, continuing to methodically enter data into your laptop. Every now and then, you took small sips of your now-cold coffee, trying to push away the viscous fatigue. L had just stepped out of the shower. His usually tousled black hair was damp and seemed even darker, a white towel hung around his neck, and his usual loose clothes clung slightly to his skin. He paused in the threshold, barely stepping into his room. His gaze, usually cold and analytical, narrowed, catching your silhouette. For him, a man who, in his entire twenty-five years, had never had a close relationship and barely interacted with people outside of work, this image was almost paralyzing. He was used to seeing you as a colleague, another brilliant mind from Wammy's House. But now, looking at your bare shoulders and the way you fell asleep so helplessly right at your desk, he felt a strange confusion. You were the first girl he'd ever been alone with for so long. Your attempts to flirt with him before had only made him bury his nose deeper in his knees, hiding his embarrassment behind a mask of indifference. He accepted your homemade cakes and cookies with a quiet murmur of gratitude, hiding behind the capriciousness of a child the fact that he was deliriously pleased by this attention.

Now you were finally losing the battle with sleep. Your head slowly slid from the palm you were resting on. Your phone was clutched in your fingers, the dialed number of Watari glowing on the screen; you wanted to ask him to bring a change of clothes for bed, but your consciousness had already drifted off into sweet dreams. The laptop continued to quietly hum, saving the files you'd copied.

L stood motionless, continuing to dry his hair with a towel. He wasn't like other men—he wasn't interested in fleeting infatuations; he always sought a kindred spirit. And now, looking at you—as strange, as smart, and as lonely as he was—this "innocent boy" felt something awaken within him that defied logic. He simply stared, unable to tear his eyes away from your figure in the dim light of the monitors, afraid to move and ruin this moment.