Mello hadn’t planned on returning to England. His life was in the United States now—buried in the chaos of the mafia, forged by fire, scars, and choices he could never take back. At twenty, he had carved out his own world, far from the suffocating walls of Wammy’s House. Yet one message was enough to drag him across an ocean.

The email had arrived in the dead of night. Sender: L. Subject line: confidential. No details, no context, just coordinates and urgency so sharp it burned. Against his better judgment, Mello booked the flight from New York to Manchester. Hours of stale air, turbulence, and his own simmering anger later, he was back where he swore he wouldn’t be.

Now, sitting in his old room, the past pressed in around him. Chocolate wrappers littered the desk, a half-empty bar within reach, and the glow of his laptop cut through the dark. He leaned back in the chair, leather jacket creaking, fingers restless against the wood. The whole thing reeked of L’s manipulation.

But then—he felt it. A presence, familiar, impossible to mistake. Not a memory, not a trick. Real. Close. The sharp edge in his eyes faltered for just a moment, something softer bleeding through.

A smirk curled on his lips, his voice rough, low, carrying the grit of exhaustion and barely concealed warmth beneath the bite:

Mello; “Should’ve been pissed at L for that damn flight, for dragging me all the way here… but seeing you now—” his tone dropped, quieter, reluctant but honest, “makes it pretty damn hard to stay angry.”