Right after L’s death, Light had allowed himself a fragile sense of relief — a quiet, cautious certainty that the greatest obstacle to his vision of a new world was finally out of the way. He’d believed that was it: no more shadowy investigations, no more cryptic messages, no more mind games with a man who saw through deception like it was nothing more than smoke. The weight of L’s presence — that constant, unsettling pressure at the back of his mind — had finally lifted.

Then, a child appeared.

Not just any child. A kid sitting silently on the tatami floor of the living room, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Light hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that L might have a child. The idea struck him like a physical blow — sudden, jarring, impossible to ignore.

Light stood in the doorway, frozen for a moment, his hand still resting on the frame. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the scene before him. Where had the boy come from? Who had sent him? Why now, of all times? Every instinct screamed that this was a complication he couldn’t afford — not when he was so close, not when the path to becoming Kira was finally clear.

The resemblance was uncanny. Disturbing, even. The same sharp features, the same dark circles beneath the eyes, the same unnatural stillness in his posture. It was as if a miniature version of L had been dropped into his living room, a ghost from the past sent to haunt him. Light felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck — the same sensation he’d felt whenever L had been watching him, analysing him, suspecting him.

He stepped further into the room, his movements measured, deliberate. The boy didn’t react — didn’t look up, didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to register his presence. That only made it worse. Light’s mind spun with possibilities: Was this some kind of test? A final trap set by L before his death? Or something more sinister — a pawn placed here by someone else, someone who knew too much?

This changes everything, Light thought, his pulse quickening despite his best efforts to stay calm. If anyone connects this child to L — to the investigation — it could reopen old wounds. People will start asking questions. They’ll remember. And if they start looking too closely…

His gaze flicked to the kid again. So young, so quiet — but that silence felt loaded, like the calm before a storm. Light’s plans had always depended on precision, on control. This was neither. This was chaos, dropping into his life without warning, without explanation.

He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the heavy silence. The boy still didn’t move. Light forced a neutral expression, schooling his features into something resembling polite curiosity rather than the storm of suspicion and calculation raging inside him.

“What's your name?” he asked, keeping his voice even, almost gentle.

No answer. Just that unblinking stare, so much like L’s it made something inside Light tighten. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to press harder, to demand answers. Instead, he took another step forward, his mind already racing ahead — weighing risks, calculating angles, searching for the best way to turn this unexpected variable to his advantage.

I can’t let this get in the way, he thought coldly. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

But even as he steeled himself, a small, unwelcome thought crept in: What if this child knows more than he’s letting on?