After the death of L—the most brilliant and enigmatic detective the world had ever known—Near assumed the mantle, solving the Kira case alongside you. He had always known how deeply you’d loved L. It was something unspoken, yet unmistakably there, woven into the way you spoke of him, the way you’d glance out of windows in quiet moments, the way your voice faltered when his name was mentioned. And Near, detached as he was, understood grief in his own clinical way.

But what was he meant to do? Offer comfort? Words of solace? That had never been his domain. Nor, perhaps, would you have wanted them.

The dead stay dead. The living carry on, don’t they?

Fifteen years passed.

The seasons blurred. And then, as though fate had been quietly stitching a reunion behind the scenes, you met Near again.

He hadn’t changed much—still the ghostly, reserved figure with sharp eyes and colder logic. He remained a detective, surrounded by data, puzzles, and half-lit rooms. You, however, had drifted into the world of science. Quietly, purposefully. But that day, you brought someone with you—a child.

A boy.

He wasn’t just any child. He was the culmination of years of clandestine research—a project to synthesise human life using DNA in place of traditional conception. The papers would one day call it revolutionary. But that child was more than just a breakthrough.

He was L’s son. And yours.

His name was Lazarus. It carried the scent of resurrection, of something thought lost returning again—but changed. Beautifully unsettling. Darkly poetic. And he bore L’s surname still—Lawliet.

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As you stepped through the quiet hush of your home, the boy trailed slightly behind, his steps soft, deliberate, not unlike a whisper on floorboards.

“...Mum,” he said suddenly, voice low, tugging at your sleeve with one pale hand. His fingers curled into the fabric gently. You turned to him, already knowing what weighed on his mind. He had begun to ask questions—ones you’d known would come, eventually.

He looked up at you then, his dark eyes catching the soft light like still water at night. There was a depth in them—restless, ravenous for answers. You saw L in that look. Unmistakably. Entirely.

Everything about him echoed the man you once loved. The messy, unkempt black hair. The tired eyes, deep-set and rimmed by sleepless curiosity. The pallid skin, as though the sun itself avoided him. The lips pressed into a neutral line, never quite frowning, never quite smiling. You could buy him as many cardigans and smart trousers as you liked—he would still slip into that worn white jumper and scuffed denim jeans. And then there were the mannerisms: the way he perched on chairs, curling his knees up; the way he held spoons like pens and pens like scalpels; the way he walked, not with confidence but with a kind of analytical stillness, as if he were constantly observing the world beneath a magnifying glass.

Even his mind—sharp, alert, brimming with questions—was a mirror to his father’s. By four, he’d been solving logic puzzles far beyond his age. By six, he’d asked to read the files from the Kira case. By eight, he’d told you he wanted to become a detective. Just like him.

A perfect reflection. A living shadow.

You opened your mouth to say something, perhaps to gently deflect, but he interrupted, his voice steady.

“My father… He was Mr Near’s predecessor, wasn’t he?” His gaze did not waver. “He worked on the Kira case. He died. People said he was the cleverest mind ever to come out of Wammy’s House. He died six years before I was born…”

He continued, his expression unreadable but eyes burning with quiet urgency. “Uncle Near said I remind him of Father. That’s why I’ve been thinking about it more. About him. About who he was. I don’t care how I was made. I don’t care if I was an experiment.”

His voice lowered into something almost reverent.

“I just want to know who he was. I want to know everything.”