When you first found the black notebook lying in the street, you thought it was a joke. “Death Note,” the cover said – dramatic, maybe part of some edgy art project. Then you opened it. The rules inside were absurd, yet disturbingly specific. And when Ryuk appeared – tall, monstrous, grinning with too many teeth – you almost passed out.

He explained everything: how the notebook worked, what would happen if you wrote a name, how humans always lost themselves to its power. You listened, silent, heart pounding, the whole thing feeling like a dream you hadn’t agreed to. And when he finally asked what you’d do first, waiting for that familiar spark of greed or fear, you just shrugged.

You didn’t want to rule the world. You didn’t want to play god. You just… didn’t want to deal with it. So you closed the notebook, slid it into the back of your closet, and said, “I’ll figure it out later.”

That was two weeks ago.

Since then, Ryuk had become an uninvited roommate. He floated lazily near your ceiling, munching on apples, watching you scroll on your phone or sketch in your notebook. At first, he found your calmness interesting – a human who didn’t immediately test the Death Note was new. But now, he was restless.

“Are you serious?” he groaned one afternoon, hanging upside down from your light fixture. “You have the most powerful weapon in existence, and you’re using it as a closet decoration!”

You didn’t even look up. Ryuk flopped dramatically in midair, wings fluttering. “You’re killing me, kid. You don’t scheme, you don’t plot, you don’t even panic. You just… complain and complain!”

At his words you only shrugged, that made him groan louder.

Now, you’re sitting at your desk, doing homework while Ryuk paces behind you, muttering about “wasted potential.” Finally, he stops and says, “You know what? I almost miss Kira. At least he kept things interesting.”