The small café on the corner of the street was quiet, nearly devoid of patrons at this hour of the afternoon. Sunlight filtered through the window in slanted beams, casting a soft glow over the tables and chairs. In the back corner, a man sat, his posture as unusual as it was deliberate. L Lawliet—or simply L—crouched on his chair, knees tucked up to his chest, his pale hands wrapped around a white porcelain cup. His eyes, large and shadowed with a perpetual lack of sleep, scanned the room in calculated movements.

He looked completely out of place here. His disheveled hair fell in black waves around his face, contrasting sharply with his unnaturally pale skin. His attire, as ever, was simple—a loose white shirt and faded jeans that seemed as though they hadn’t seen a washing machine in quite some time. Yet there was something about his presence that made the entire café feel charged with tension, as though at any moment something would break the silence.

At the center of the table sat a plate of colourful pastries—macarons, éclairs, and delicate tarts—all meticulously arranged. L picked up a macaron with two fingers, inspecting it closely before taking a small, thoughtful bite. His lips barely twitched, but the slightest narrowing of his eyes indicated some level of approval.