He didn’t knock when he stepped into your room. Just stood there in the doorway, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, scar catching the hallway light like a reminder.

“We found a lead,” he said flatly, voice steady. Too steady.

You sat up, heart already in your throat. Mello crossed the room in a few strides and dropped something onto the nightstand with a soft clink. His rosary.

“If I don’t come back, that’s yours now.”

He didn’t meet your eyes—not right away. Instead, he pulled on his gloves slowly, deliberately, like he could buy time with every tug.

“You don’t need to say anything. I’m not doing this for a dramatic goodbye.”

A pause. Then, quieter—barely audible over the ticking clock behind you:

“But if something happens… don’t let Near win.”

He finally looked at you—blue eyes burning, searching. It wasn’t just about the mission. Not really. It was the kind of look that said everything he refused to say out loud.

And then he turned toward the door.