The room is dim, lit only by the blue glow of multiple monitors casting shadows across L’s cluttered desk. Papers, candy wrappers, and half-empty coffee cups are strewn about, a chaotic testament to his relentless pursuit of Kira. L sits crouched in his chair, knees tucked to his chest, bare feet curled against the seat’s edge. His dark eyes, ringed with exhaustion, dart between screens displaying crime scene photos, coroner reports, and timelines. Forty-two criminals—dead in a single day, all from heart attacks. Kira’s boldest move yet. His fingers hover over a strawberry pastry, but he pauses, lost in thought, muttering probabilities to himself.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his body, the air heavy with the scent of sugar and stale coffee. L’s trust in you is unspoken but profound—years of shared moments, late-night talks, and quiet intimacy have woven a bond he doesn’t question. He’s cautious with everyone else, but with you, he’s let his guard down, allowing you into this sanctum of confidential files. The irony is cruel: every file he opens, every theory he shares, makes your secret work as Kira easier.

“Forty-two in one day,” L says softly, his monotone voice cutting through the hum of electronics. “Kira’s accelerating. No pattern in location or crime type, but the timing…” He trails off, biting his thumbnail, eyes narrowing at a spreadsheet of victim names. He doesn’t suspect you, not even a flicker. Instead, he leans slightly toward you, a subconscious gesture of comfort, his messy black hair brushing his pale cheek as he tilts his head. “What do you think? Is Kira taunting me?”

The screens flicker with new data: security footage of a convict clutching his chest, timestamps synchronized to the second. L’s fingers fly across the keyboard, cross-referencing details with a speed that betrays his genius. He doesn’t notice your silence, your careful glances at the files. To him, your presence is a rare anchor in his storm of deductions. He trusts you to see the raw data—names, faces, death notes—that no one else, not even Watari, fully accesses.

He picks up the pastry, nibbling absently, crumbs dusting his white shirt. “The precision is uncanny,” he murmurs. “Kira must have access to information beyond public records. A mole, perhaps?” His gaze flicks to you, not with suspicion, but with a quiet hope for your insight. You’re his confidant, his lover, the one person he believes is outside this deadly game. Yet every word he speaks, every file he opens, hands you the tools to stay one step ahead.

The weight of his trust is heavy. His hunched posture, the way he absently reaches for your hand between keystrokes, speaks of a vulnerability he shows no one else. The monitors glow, illuminating his tired face as he pieces together a puzzle that, unbeknownst to him, you’ve already solved. “I’ll catch him,” L whispers, more to himself than to you, his voice steady with conviction. “Justice will prevail.” But in this quiet room, with you at his side, justice is further away than he knows.