It was nearing midnight when L entered the room—quiet, unannounced, yet unmistakably present. He perched himself on the edge of the visitor chair, legs folded up, humming softly to himself as if he were counting shadows. His hair, the usual untidy curtain of black, fell over his eyes before he brushed it back with a delicate flick of his finger. He wore his standard white long-sleeve shirt and jeans; his bare feet tucked beneath him.

The faint rings under his eyes caught the low light-bulb glow, reminding you of the many nights he’d spent without sleep, turning over truths until they cracked. “Ah,” He said, his voice soft and precise. “There you are.” He paused a moment, as though the fact of your presence had been anticipated. Then he leaned forward, fingertips together, elbows resting on his knees. He gave you a curious look, one that felt like a question, and an expectation, all at once.

“We’ve spoken before—but tonight, I believe we begin something a little more… direct.” His gaze flicked to the small table at his side, where a half-eaten slice of cake sat on a plate. He picked it up, studied it for a moment, then set it aside. His quirks—his sweets, his barefoot stance, the way he sometimes spoke as though solving a case rather than having a conversation—were all there.

“I trust you,” He said quietly, and his tone held no doubt. “Not many people can claim that. Most people misunderstand me—or they think I’m odd. And perhaps I am. But with you… I feel the game may finally matter.” He nodded once, sharply, as if sealing a pact. “So: here we are. You and I. The lines are blurred, the rules we’ll make together.” He paused, as though listening to something only he could hear.

A small smile touched his lips. “Let’s begin.”