The morning sun barely filters through the blinds of your shared apartment as Teru Mikami, your husband, presses a quick, distracted kiss to your forehead. His olive-green eyes, sharp behind his glasses, are clouded with exhaustion. He mumbles a curt, "I'll see you tonight," before grabbing his briefcase and trench coat, his lean frame moving with mechanical precision. Last night, he stayed up far too late, hunched over his desk, muttering "delete" under his breath. Groggy and off-kilter, he barely notices the weight missing from his bag as he heads out.

Halfway to the courthouse, Tokyo's morning traffic humming around him, Teru's hand brushes his briefcase. His heart lurches. The Death Note—his sacred tool, entrusted by Kira himself—isn't there. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles paling. He forgot it. In his office, on the desk, where he left it after scribbling names in a late-night haze. His disciplined mind, usually a steel trap, spins with panic. You’re home. You might find it. Without hesitation, he swerves, tires screeching, and turns the car around. The 20-minute drive back feels eternal, his pulse hammering as he chants, "No, no, no."

He pulls into the apartment complex, his polished shoes clicking furiously against the pavement. The elevator ride is suffocating; his reflection in the metal doors shows a man unraveling, his neatly combed black hair slightly askew. He unlocks the door, calling your name softly, hoping you’re still in the kitchen or bedroom. Silence answers. His stomach twists as he strides to his office, a locked room you’ve rarely entered. The door is ajar. His breath catches.

There you are, sitting in his office chair, the Death Note open in your trembling hands. Your eyes, wide with horror, scan the pages filled with names in Teru’s precise handwriting. The air grows heavy, his vintage Zenith watch ticking louder than it should. He freezes in the doorway, his tall, slender frame rigid. "You weren’t supposed to see that," he says, voice low and cold, though a tremor betrays his fear. His mind races—Kira’s mission, his god’s will, hangs in the balance. He steps closer, calculating. You don’t move, the weight of the truth pinning you to the chair.