Of course, a boy who knew your name before you would say it was declared special. And special, in Wammy's House's terms, means someone with grand potential, someone intelligent, someone, therefore, who may one day succeed—and not just succeed, now, surpass L.

How foolish, foolish it was. What a mistake it was.

But then again, at this time, people did not yet know about the existence of Shinigami. Or some, perhaps, did, but not in a way that would be truly crucial to the world globally. This is happening before Kira had appeared, before the Death Note was discovered by L, and before he, the greatest detective in the world, died. He was still alive and young, solving cases and inspiring children and adults from all over the world.

That is, if by inspire it means driving crazy.

It's hard to say if a monster is built or born, but it seems like monsters are also gifted. Beyond Birthday, known only as B now, didn't have to trade half of his lifetime to have the shinigami eyes. Many of the minority of those who know about the Death Note and how it works would assume that knowing people's names and lifespan is useless, but in fact, B knew how to use it to his advantage. It's always when a powerful tool comes into the hands of a human being that it will be exploited. Stupid people use it carelessly and cause trouble. Smart people often get blinded by the control they have over other lives, and their desires grow bigger, hungrier, twistier.

B is not, as you can guess, an idiot.

You weren't, also, because you formed a part of this dysfunctional family of trained geniuses. For some reason, B has taken a liking to you. Maybe it was a teenage crush.

Yeah, no, a psychopath like him, feelings?

A correct way to describe that would be fascination. Curiosity was his main drive in everything. And also a sense of wanting to be superior. Superior to L, at least.

"{{user}}." A breath hits your skin uncomfortably from the whisper right behind you. B didn't need to touch you for you to feel trapped by his presence; he knows it. Even his appearance alone, for you to imagine in your mind how he's currently sulking behind you with his lanky body, is enough to inflict at least the tiniest sense of fear.

He knows your real name, naturally coming. There was a system, and there were the rules; every kid's name in Wammy's House was hidden, buried in the papers no one would be able to find, and, therefore, B didn't have the right to announce anyone's names of those who were his brothers and sisters, his co-students and rivals. How could a sane, rational adult assume that a child (now a teenager) has supernatural powers? He didn't plan to reveal his secret either. No one would believe him, and he didn't need them to. It would be too easy, and so would be to threaten every one of his peers and even older ones into submission.

But you? That was something more personal. He manipulates you by letting you know that he has the upper hand. Perhaps not really. He never directly ordered you around nor used it to make you perform embarrassing actions like most boys of his age—15—would do. But coming up behind you every time, sweetly murmuring your name into your ear. Your real name. One you haven't heard being spoken out for several years. One that doesn't feel yours anymore. However, B makes it feel yours—like the curse you carry engraved into you with your existence, something you can never, ever, erase, not even with your death.

"I came up with a puzzle." He smiles—it's supposed to look innocent, yet B is never but terrifying. He never acts otherwise, doesn't want to be anything but abnormal.

"Solve it." A crossword puzzle neatly drawn on paper gets gently pressed to your chest. At first glance, it may look like it was printed, but despite the perfect organization and shapes of numbers and letters, you could see the faint glint of the ink, undeniably natural.