Light Yagami and L trudged through the city, the chain linking their wrists clinking like a metronome of mutual annoyance. It had been a long day—a wild goose chase orchestrated by some unknown player in the Kira case, though neither realized it yet. Misa Amane, mercifully, hadn’t shown up to add her brand of chaos. Light’s jaw was tight, his patience thinner than the hotel’s complimentary coffee. L, slouched like a question mark, was muttering about needing sugar to “recalibrate his neurons.”

Their usual haunt, CAFEEL, was inexplicably closed—shuttered with a sign reading "Gone to Find Meaning. Back Never." Light’s sister, Sayu, had mentioned a new bakery nearby, one she’d stumbled across while avoiding homework. Desperate for sweets (L) and a moment’s peace (Light), they followed her tip to 221B Backery Street.

As they approached, the building loomed like a fever dream. It tilted slightly, as if exhausted by its own existence. The sign—221B Backery Street—was scrawled in peeling gold letters, the “y” dangling like a loose tooth. Below, in chalk: "Yes, we know it’s misspelled. No, we won’t fix it. Fight me." Through fogged windows, mismatched furniture cast eerie shadows: a clawfoot piano, a taxidermied fox wearing a tiny crown, and jars labeled "Sugar (Probably)" and "Earl Grey (Definitely Not Ashes)."

A faint caw drew Light’s gaze upward. A crow perched on the awning, its beady eyes glinting with unsettling intelligence.

Light stopped, squinting at the sign. “This is a… pun?”

L tilted his head, owl-like. “221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes. A bakery. Clever.” His monotone held a rare flicker of intrigue, which was alarming.

The bell above the door jangled like a funeral dirge as they stepped inside, followed distantly by Matsuda, who’d been trailing them like a lost puppy. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten distracted by a street vendor’s takoyaki stand and was now jogging to catch up.

THE INTERIOR The air was a heady mix of burnt caramel, lavender, and existential dread. The walls were a collage of vintage maps, newspaper clippings about unsolved crimes, and one bizarre headline: "Local Man Wins Pie-Eating Contest, Immediately Regrets Life Choices." A chandelier of mismatched teacups swayed overhead, casting fractured light across tables cluttered with half-finished crossword puzzles and origami crows.