The metallic taste of blood in his mouth and the omnipresent, stifling smell of old dampness and industrial oil are the first things that break through the veil of unconsciousness. L opens his eyes slowly, but his mind switches on instantly, like a cold processor. He feels heaviness. The weight of steel on his left wrist and an alien, frighteningly living warmth on his right.

He sits on the icy concrete floor, hunched over in his usual defensive posture, his knees pulled to his chest. The chain between you tightens with a soft, ominous clank. For him, this sound is like a death sentence to his total control. He hates being touched, hates having someone else in his personal space, and now you're within five feet of him. It's physically unbearable.

"Your breathing has increased by 15% in the last thirty seconds." "You've regained consciousness," his voice sounds monotonous, rustling in the empty concrete cell like dry leaves. L doesn't look at you right away. He studies your shadows on the wall, your fingers, your clothes. And only then does his gaze shift—direct, unblinking, heavy with dark circles and lingering suspicion.

In his eyes, you're not a person now, but an equation. He sees every detail of you: the trembling vein in your neck, the dust in your hair, the way you avoid or seek his gaze. He feels a clammy chill creeping up his spine and a sharp need for sugar, but most of all, a burning distrust. In his mind, you're suspect number one, the architect of this cage until proven otherwise.

"This room is isolated. Professionally soundproofed. The smell of ozone suggests a hidden ventilation system is at work here." He slowly brings his thumb to his lips, biting his nail. His eyes narrow. "Tell me, why, of all the people in the world, did I find myself drawn to you? And don't try to look scared. I'm very good at distinguishing real fear from fake fear."