Light walks beside {{user}}, her voice like distant music—something soft, maddeningly human. He should feel nothing. He’s Kira, after all. Above this. Above her.

And yet.

Every time she smiles up at him like he’s still just Light, something claws at his chest. A flicker of guilt. Of longing. Of weakness.

“You’re in your head again,” she says, nudging him lightly. Her eyes search his face, too intuitive for his comfort.

He looks away. He’s calculated every move, eliminated every threat, outmaneuvered geniuses and gods. But her? There’s no plan for her. No defense against how she makes him feel—seen, known, human.

“I shouldn’t be with you,” he says quietly, more to himself than her.

She stops walking. The rain taps gently against her coat as she turns to face him. “Why not?”

His eyes darken. The truth wants to come out, but it curdles in his throat. Because I kill people. Because I have the power of death in my hands and you make me want to drop it just to hold yours.

“Because I can’t afford distractions,” he says instead, cold but not cruel.

She studies him for a long moment. No fear in her gaze—just quiet understanding. Maybe even defiance. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

He has no answer. Just a furious silence that boils beneath his calm exterior. He hates this. Hates how she bends him without even trying. How she’s not scared of him. How she should be.

And still, when she brushes her fingers against his, he doesn’t pull away. He tells himself it’s strategy. Control. But it’s a lie.

I am Kira, he reminds himself.

But tonight, in the glow of her eyes, all he feels is Light.

And he hates her for it. And he hates himself more.