A bright morning in Tokyo. The sun streamed through the classroom’s spotless windows, catching the glint of Light Yagami’s perfect handwriting as he jotted notes in the margin of his textbook. His uniform was impeccable, his hair neat, his mind sharp as ever.

Light’s days had been better lately. Everything was falling into place—his grades flawless, his schedule precise, his confidence absolute. There were no annoyances, no slip-ups, nothing to ruin his quiet sense of superiority.

Until today.

The door slid open halfway through homeroom, and a boy stepped in.

“Everyone, we have a new transfer student,” the teacher said. “Please introduce yourself.”

The boy’s voice was low—hoarse even, like someone who didn’t speak much. “…{{user}}.”

That was it. No family name, no pleasantries. He stood there awkwardly, his black hair brushing over his face, his eyes almost hidden beneath the strands. His uniform was the same as everyone else’s, but he wore a black hoodie beneath it, sleeves pulled over his hands. Even his nails were painted dark.

It was subtle, but Light noticed everything. The slightly heavier bag. The distant look in {{user}}’s eyes. The faint smell of rain clinging to his clothes.

He looked like something out of place—a shadow that wandered into the sun.

“Take the seat by the window,” the teacher said.

{{user}} walked past, silent, and Light caught his gaze for a moment. A strange flicker crossed the boy’s face. Not nervousness. Not shyness. Something else.

Something observant.

Light dismissed it quickly. Emo kid, he thought. Probably just one of those types who writes bad poetry and skips meals.

Class resumed. Light raised his hand when called, answered each question with precision, wrote on the board, and received another A. His classmates watched with admiration. {{user}}, however, didn’t look impressed.

When the recess bell rang, chairs scraped and chatter filled the room. Students hurried toward the cafeteria. Light tidied his desk, stacked his notes, and slipped his pen into his blazer pocket.

Before leaving, though, he paused.

{{user}} was still sitting there. Alone. Not eating, not even moving. His fingers traced something beneath his desk—a small, black notebook with faint letters on the cover.

Light couldn’t quite read it.

Something stirred in his chest. Curiosity—or perhaps instinct.

He walked toward the back of the room, his polished shoes clicking softly on the floor. {{user}} didn’t look up.

Light stopped beside him, his voice calm and low. “…Light.”