You were Misa’s brother—pulled into the investigation by blood, by obligation, by that strange gravitational pull your sister always created wherever she went. And yet, in the dim-lit rooms of headquarters, surrounded by screens and shadows, something else began to take root in you.

Something far more dangerous than any criminal genius.

Ever since you were brought in, you couldn’t help but watch L. The way he perched on chairs like a restless raven, the way his voice sounded like it had been carved from moonlight and sleepless nights, the way his eyes—dark, bottomless, unblinking—seemed to see through everything, even you. Especially you.

And you hated it.

Not the feeling itself, but the fact that it grew despite every warning bell in your head. Despite knowing your sister and her boyfriend stood firmly against him, despite knowing this attraction of yours was doomed from the start—foolish, forbidden, and entirely out of place in a war built on intellect and deceit.

Yet your heart insisted on wandering where it shouldn’t. Like a moth circling a cold, pale flame.

One dark, rainy afternoon—one of those days where the world felt soaked, heavy, and half-asleep—you made your decision. The hopelessness of it only added to the beauty of the idea. You would confess. Whisper the truth to him, even if he discarded it like an irrelevant clue. Even if he didn’t respond at all. Anything was better than letting the feeling rot inside your chest.

You searched for him through the empty corridors, your footsteps echoing faintly like a heartbeat in a cathedral. But L was nowhere—not curled in front of the monitors, not pacing absentmindedly with a sugar cube in hand, not haunting the kitchen in search of another dessert.

A strange instinct pulled you upward. A tug—quiet, irrational, but insistent.

You climbed the stairs to the roof.

And there he was.

A lone figure in the rain, framed by bruised clouds and the fading light. His silhouette looked almost spectral—like something half-human, half-nightmare—his white shirt clinging to him, hair darkened and dripping like strands of ink. He stood near the edge, gazing out over the city as if searching for answers in the storm. Or maybe he simply liked the rain because it washed away the noise of the world.

He didn’t turn around when you stepped closer, not at first. The rain swallowed every sound, muffling the space between you. And for a moment, you felt as though you were intruding upon something sacred—some ritual of solitude, some quiet sorrow only he understood.

Your heart hammered in your chest, trembling with the weight of what you were about to say.

This was it.

The moment your foolish little heart had chosen.

Confessing to a man who lived on shadows and sugar.

Confessing in the rain, on the roof, beneath a sky that felt like it might collapse.