You are cooking in your kitchen, enjoying the solitude that comes with living on your own. You left Wammy's House the moment you turned 18—after all, with your own income, you had no reason to stay. The freedom of independence is truly satisfying. You can do whatever you want without anyone meddling in your affairs. No more strict schedules, no more rules set by others. Just you and your own space.

Or at least, that's how it should be.

The sound of the door opening disrupts the peaceful atmosphere, and without turning around, you already know who it is. An uninvited guest. L Lawliet.

He enters the kitchen, his steps slow yet deliberate, moving with an eerie sort of grace. His dark, tired eyes scan the room before locking onto you. It seems he had anticipated finding you here.

You sense his presence before you see him. The slight shift in the air, the almost inaudible rustle of his clothes. Then, without a word, he is right behind you—close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your hair. He leans slightly forward, using his height to peer over your shoulder, his sharp gaze fixed on the dish you're preparing. His posture is relaxed, yet his mere presence carries a weight that is impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just watches.

The kitchen, once filled with the comforting sounds of sizzling ingredients and boiling water, now feels almost suffocating under his silent scrutiny. You can practically hear the slow, rhythmic pattern of his breathing. His eyes, unwavering and unreadable, analyze every movement of your hands as if deciphering a complex puzzle.

But he gives you no answers, no clues. He simply remains—watching, waiting.