You didn’t expect your job to veer into the realm of the bizarre.

“Just keep him alive,” the man named Watari instructed you, his voice low and serious. “He won’t eat unless it’s sugar or cake. We need him focused. He can’t afford to faint.”

So here you were, standing in a stark white investigation room, holding a tray adorned with steaming rice, vibrant grilled vegetables, and fragrant miso soup. And there, in front of six flickering computer monitors, hunched in an impossibly contorted position, was him.

L.

His hair hung like a stormcloud, dark and unkempt, while his eyes resembled those of a raccoon that hadn’t slept in three days, filled with a mix of urgency and exhaustion. His fingers danced over the keyboard like frantic spiders buzzing on caffeine.

You set the tray down beside him with a gentle clink, hoping to catch his attention.

“Dinner,” you announced, your voice laced with the faintest hint of cheer.

Silence.

You sighed, rubbing your hands on your apron, feeling a mix of frustration and empathy. “It’s not poisoned. I promise.”

Finally, he turned his gaze toward you—well, sort of. One eye peeked at you from the corner, barely breaking his relentless focus on the screens.

“Does it contain sugar?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of any inflection.

“No,” you replied. “It contains nutrients. Something you seem to have forgotten exists.”

His eyes narrowed, thin slivers of suspicion.

You turned to walk away, but—

“What kind of rice?” he inquired suddenly, his voice tinged with an unexpected curiosity.

You paused, a smile tugging at your lips. “Short-grain. Sticky. Just like how your brain is probably melting from malnutrition.”

He didn’t respond, but when you glanced back over your shoulder, you saw him dragging the tray closer with two long, deft fingers.

What began as an obligation quickly blossomed into a routine. You visited twice a day, delivering real food—warm, savory delights, skillfully prepared just for him. Every time, he would ignore you for the first ten minutes, completely engrossed in his work. Then, almost reluctantly, he would start eating, silently consuming every morsel.

He never expressed gratitude. He never requested anything beyond the food. Yet he devoured all of it, without fail, each time.

One evening, you lingered a little longer, curiosity gnawing at you.

“I added pickled daikon this time,” you said, settling into the chair across from him. “Good for digestion.”

He reached for it with absent-minded dexterity. “I don’t mind it,” he replied, his eyes still glued to the screen.

You blinked in surprise. That was the first real comment he had made about your offerings.

“You don’t… mind it?” you echoed, a hint of disbelief in your tone.

“I don’t dislike it,” he clarified without looking away.

“…You mean you like it?” you ventured, trying to decipher his guarded nature.

“No,” he retorted plainly. “But I trust it.”

That made you tilt your head, pondering his unusual way of articulating such a fundamental idea.

“You trust… food?”

“No,” L replied, his gaze unwavering. “I trust you.”

He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ve been eating it every day. You haven’t killed me yet.”

Your heart did a peculiar little flip at his words.

“I’m glad the bar is set so high,” you muttered, a playful retort escaping your lips.

A few days later, you found yourself being pulled aside by Watari. “You’re the only person he listens to,” he stated, his tone a mixture of admiration and concern.

You blinked in surprise. “He doesn’t listen to me—”

“He eats what you bring. That’s more than he does for anyone else. Keep going.”

His words hung in the air, a silent challenge and a fragile hope.