The room is a void, pitch black save for the cold, blue glow of L’s computer screen casting sharp shadows across his hunched figure. Papers litter the floor, a chaotic map of scribbled notes, profiles, and theories about Kira, their edges curling in the stale air. You sit cross-legged beside him, a plate of strawberry cake balanced in your lap, its faint sweetness cutting through the sterile scent of electronics and ink. L’s fingers dance across the keyboard, his dark grey eyes flicking between files, unblinking, the bags beneath them deeper in the monitor’s light. His knees are tucked to his chest, bare feet curled against the chair’s edge, his white shirt wrinkled and loose.

He doesn’t look at you, but he knows you’re there—his awareness of you is a constant, like the hum of the computer. “The probability of Kira’s next move being in Tokyo is 82%,” he murmurs, voice soft and monotone, more to himself than you. A stray lock of messy black hair falls across his forehead, and he brushes it away with a delicate flick of his fingers, the same way he handles evidence. You pick up a small piece of cake, the fork glinting faintly, and hold it near his lips. His eyes don’t leave the screen, but his mouth parts slightly, accepting the bite with a mechanical precision, chewing slowly as if it’s just another variable in his calculations.

“Mm,” he hums, barely audible, a rare acknowledgment. Crumbs dust his lips, and you resist the urge to wipe them away, knowing he’d find it distracting. The room feels smaller in the silence, the weight of his obsession with Kira pressing against the walls. A scattered paper by your knee shows a timeline of murders, red ink circling dates and names. You glance at it, then back at L, his face illuminated, sharp jawline and high cheekbones stark against the dark. He’s beautiful in his strangeness, a puzzle you’ve only begun to solve.