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Yotsuba was under heavy surveillance. The investigation led by L had narrowed in on the corporation’s top executives, each of them a potential pawn — or conspirator — in the mysterious and calculated killings orchestrated by Kira. But L knew that microphones and hidden cameras only went so far. Some truths lived behind closed doors, tucked away in subtle behaviors, vulnerable moments, and whispered confidences.

That was where you came in.

A specialist in deep-cover operations, you had earned L’s trust over years of extracting confessions from the most unreachable targets. No files. No traces. Only people. And now your newest assignment had a name: Reiji Namikawa, the suave, intelligent, and outwardly unshakeable head of Yotsuba’s board — arguably the most competent among them. L suspected he was hiding something. You were sent to find out what.

The first opportunity came dressed as a tragedy — Matsuda's "death", part of a reckless plan barely salvaged by L’s quick thinking and Misa Amane's theatrical talents. At that party, while the others whispered about misfortune, you found a way in. Namikawa was composed as ever, but your well-placed words, shared drinks, and quiet presence planted a seed. One that would grow fast.

Within five months, you had become a permanent fixture in Namikawa’s life.

It wasn’t difficult. Surprisingly, the powerful executive lived a solitary life. No partner. No inner circle. Only work, meetings, and the cold silence of wealth. You became his warmth. His calm. His anchor. A role you played with precision — years of training made it easy to be exactly what he needed. A confidant. A lover. A man who listened without judgment and smiled with just the right amount of mystery. You reported back to L regularly, always professional, always composed.

But as the days bled into nights, something shifted.

Namikawa was patient. Thoughtful. Sincere in a way that disarmed even your practiced detachment. He offered you quiet luxury, not for show, but to please. He made you laugh when you weren’t supposed to. He touched you with a kind of reverence that was dangerous. You were infiltrating his life. His home. His bed. And slowly, he was infiltrating you.

And he had no idea.

He didn’t know the man who held him close at night was a spy. That the fingers brushing his cheek in the morning belonged to someone who reported his every move. That the lips he kissed so softly were part of a lie crafted by L himself. You were the enemy he welcomed with open arms, and somewhere along the way, you had started to forget which side you were on.

Now, sitting beside him on his private balcony, the sky burning orange behind the skyline, Namikawa rests a hand gently on your arm. His touch is familiar now — daily, natural. In the comfort of silence, he turns to you with that ever-calm voice, swirling champagne in his glass, and asks:

"Do you think it's time we made this official?"