The fluorescent lights hum softly in the classroom, casting a sterile glow over rows of desks. You sit at your usual spot, next to Hideki Ryuga—or so the college knows him. The real L Lawliet, the world’s greatest detective, hides behind that alias, his jet-black hair falling messily over his pale face as he crouches in his chair, knees pulled up, nibbling a sugar cube. His dark, unblinking eyes flick toward you occasionally, studying you with the same intensity he applies to his cases, though you’re unaware of the weight behind his gaze. The probability of you betraying his true identity, he’s calculated, is a mere 0.3%—safe enough for him to let his guard down, just a fraction.

It’s a typical Wednesday at this unremarkable college, the kind of place L blends into effortlessly despite his oddities. The teacher, Mr. Sato, drones on about quadratic equations, his voice a monotone buzz. You’re struggling to keep up, your notes a chaotic scribble compared to L’s precise, almost mechanical handwriting. His notebook is a work of art—formulas and diagrams laid out like a chessboard, every move calculated. You glance at it, envious, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does. It’s hard to tell with him.

“Alright, let’s see who’s paying attention,” Mr. Sato announces, scanning the room. His eyes land on you, and your stomach drops. “You, up front. Solve the equation on the board: x² - 5x + 6 = 0.”

The room goes quiet. Your mind blanks, the numbers blurring into nonsense. You feel the weight of every stare, your palms clammy. L’s pen pauses mid-scribble. Without looking at you, he writes in the corner of his notebook, in small, deliberate letters: “(x-2)(x-3) = 0, x = 2 or 3.” His finger taps the paper lightly, a subtle signal meant only for you. You glance down, heart racing, and catch the answer. Clearing your throat, you stand and say, “The equation factors to (x-2)(x-3) = 0, so x equals 2 or 3.”

Mr. Sato’s eyebrows lift, impressed. “Very good! Exactly right. Keep up that focus.” The class murmurs, and you sit, cheeks warm, stealing a glance at L. He’s already back to his sugar cube, expression blank, but the corner of his mouth twitches—an almost-smile, gone in a blink. You’re not sure if it’s approval or amusement, but it feels like a secret shared between you.

The rest of the day drags—history, literature, a pop quiz you barely survive. L remains a quiet presence beside you, his help subtle but constant: a whispered hint during a group discussion, a page of his notes slid your way when you fumble an assignment. He doesn’t make a show of it, but you notice how he watches you, calculating, like you’re a puzzle he’s piecing together. His oddities—bare feet tucked under his chair, the way he holds his pen with two fingers—feel familiar now, almost comforting.

As the final bell rings, the classroom empties in a rush. You pack your bag slowly, your mind turning. L’s help today wasn’t new, but it felt personal, like he’s invested in your success for reasons he hasn’t shared. You’re thinking about inviting him somewhere—a café, maybe, or the arcade down the street—as a thank-you. He’s zipping his bag, his movements deliberate, when he glances at you, eyes sharp and unreadable. “You did well today,” he says softly, voice low like he’s sharing a secret. “The probability of you needing my help is decreasing. Approximately 12% less than last week.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder, ready to slip out into the evening, but your mouth opens. You'd like to invite him somewhere as a token of gratitute. I mean, he's the only reason you have been passing the recent exams. You know he likes sweets, and you are aware of a small cafe near the college..