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Chapter Text

     Reagan Sinclair woke up in darkness, choking on the bitter taste of stagnant water and the gritty texture of wet dirt. A stale, metallic scent filled the air around him, mingling with the musty dampness of the sewer he found himself lying in. It was the same feeling he had once felt before—pain, a flash of cold, and then... nothingness. He distinctly remembered dying, vividly recalled a girl's face, the unflinching resolve in her eyes as she wielded the same gift he held. She had cut him down with ruthless precision. So, why now, after that final moment, was he alive again, sprawled on the cold floor of a sewer?

     "Well, that's just bloody fantastic," Reagan muttered, a mirthless smile twisting his lips. Death hadn't given him a break and it seemed life wasn't going to either. The irony wasn't lost on him, but there was no amusement in it. If he was here then he might as well make the most of it. He had no intention of hiding in the shadows and letting life try to surprise him again.

     After some time stumbling through the murky tunnels, he made his way to the surface, only to be greeted by the disorienting revelation that it was Japan, 1996. He'd woken up somewhere he'd never been, in a time that was foreign to him. An odd curiosity took root; if life had decided to throw him back into the game, maybe he could play it his way this time. His biochemistry studies came back to him and the thought of continuing them sparked a small, reluctant sense of interest. Over the next few years, he poured himself into school, his analytical mind finding solace in the pursuit of knowledge and the sterile order of science. By the time he'd earned his degree in biochemistry, with a minor in teaching, he'd settled on a new role for himself—a teacher.

     Reagan took up a position at a local college. The students found him unusual, perhaps intimidating, with his cold, distant demeanor and his penchant for quiet, sharp comments that could cut through any classroom chatter. Teaching wasn't exactly exciting to him; he went through the motions, finding little in the way of challenge or thrill. Each lesson blurred into the next, a steady monotony that he didn't particularly mind but also didn't care much for.

     What saved him from total boredom was the college greenhouse, a small but lively oasis hidden away on campus. The plants were far more interesting company, and he often used his gift to tend to them. With a small gesture or a focused thought, he could coax life from seed to bloom in seconds, the verdant energy flowing through his fingers and filling the air with vitality.

     At times, his boredom took on a darker hue, sparking a desire to break the monotony with something unexpected. Reagan would craft strange plant abominations, merging species in ways that nature had never intended. Thick, curling vines with thorny barbs that snapped like the jaws of an unseen predator; blooming flowers with mottled petals that looked suspiciously like snarling mouths. He enjoyed the brief shrieks and horrified gasps from students who stumbled into the greenhouse, discovering one of his creations lurking in the shadows. Of course, he always returned the plants to normal before the faculty noticed, but the occasional burst of chaos made his days more bearable.

     In these moments, as he watched the students recoil from his monstrosities, Reagan felt a faint, hollow echo of amusement. It was fleeting, but it was there—proof that life, as bizarre and fickle as it had become, hadn't completely stifled his spirit.

     One cloudy afternoon, Reagan was walking through the school courtyard when his gaze fell upon a plain black notebook lying in the grass. Curiously, he stooped down, picked it up, and turned it over in his hands. The front cover read Death Note in bold, stark lettering. Reagan raised an eyebrow, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. He was no stranger to strange occurrences, but a notebook claiming to deal out death? That seemed like some morbid school prank.

     With a shrug, he tucked it into his bag and headed home, dismissing the whole thing as someone's attempt to add a little shock factor to their day. His apartment was an organized chaos of flora and equipment, every surface crowded with potted plants, sprouting vines, and various scientific experiments that teetered between mad science and meticulous horticulture. It was a small jungle, verdant and dense, and Reagan found the lush greenery more inviting than any of the bustling outside world.

     He sat at his cluttered table, pulling out a stack of his students' homework assignments. Setting the Death Note aside without a second thought, he began grading, his red pen cutting through pages like a scalpel. He flipped on the TV for some background noise, the voice of the news anchor blending into the hum of the apartment. He wasn't really paying attention until the anchor's voice shifted to a tense, urgent tone.

     A breaking news story flashed on screen: a local criminal had taken an entire preschool class hostage, threatening harm unless his demands were met. Reagan glanced up, his face betraying only mild irritation as he listened to the breathless commentary. With a flick of the remote, he changed the channel, deciding that he wasn't in the mood for someone else's drama.

     By the time he finished grading, his annoyance had grown. Half the assignments were so sloppy and incomplete they barely deserved to be called attempts. He made a mental note to make his disappointment known in the form of a well-placed "pop quiz" or a few choice words. Perhaps tomorrow would be an excellent time to remind his students that science was not a field for the lazy or the half-hearted.

     As the evening wore on, he tidied up his workspace and turned in for the night. In the bathroom, Reagan leaned over the sink to splash his face, glancing up in the mirror—and froze. Behind his own reflection stood a strange figure: small, fat, with mottled skin, empty eyes, and a twisted grin. It was as if Death himself had strolled casually into Reagan's life and decided to hang around.

     Reagan's expression remained calm, unfazed. 

     "So," he said dryly, "has my time in this world finally ended?"

     The creature tilted its head, an unsettling smile spreading across its face. 

     "Not quite," it rasped. "I'm not here to kill you."

     A flicker of disappointment crossed Reagan's face before he turned back to the mirror. "Then why are you here?"

     The creature straightened, wings spreading slightly in a display of eerie authority. 

     "I am Sidoh, a shinigami," he said. "The notebook you picked up today is an artifact of my world. It is used to end human lives. It's called a Death Note."

     Reagan nodded slowly, his gaze cool. "Let me guess: I write someone's name in it, and poof—they drop dead?" He sounded more amused than impressed.

     "Precisely," Sidoh replied, with a glimmer of satisfaction, as if expecting Reagan to be awed or intrigued.

     Reagan stifled a yawn. "Charming, really, but I think I'll pass. I have enough to deal with."

     Sidoh's eyes widened in disbelief. "But don't you want to know what it's capable of? You could change the fate of countless—“

     Reagan waved a hand dismissively. "I have no interest in cleaning up humanity's mess or playing judge, jury, and executioner. Besides, I have work tomorrow." He turned his back on Sidoh, heading to his bedroom with a casual indifference that left the shinigami at a loss for words.

     Without another glance at the specter, Reagan slipped under the covers, his eyes already heavy with sleep. Sidoh watched, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and exasperation. For once, the bearer of a Death Note was neither hungry for power nor overwhelmed by fear. Reagan Sinclair simply couldn't be bothered.

     The next morning, Reagan strode onto campus, his expression as unreadable as ever. Behind him trailed Sidoh, the shinigami floating along with an air of curious dread, his ghostly form bobbing after Reagan in a manner that drew odd looks from nobody but Reagan himself—since, as he'd discovered, humans couldn't see Sidoh unless they had touched the Death Note.

     Reagan ignored Sidoh's ominous presence, instead zeroing in on his work. As he walked down the hallway, he caught murmurs from students about last night's news. Apparently, the kidnapper holding the preschoolers hostage had died of a heart attack shortly after midnight. The words rolled over Reagan without sticking. The details didn't interest him; criminals came and went, and whatever strange power the notebook held was not his concern. At least not yet.

     After settling into his classroom, Reagan decided to hold his students' attention in his own, unorthodox way. He reached into a cabinet and pulled out his latest creation: a thorned, twisting plant with leaves so dark they were almost black, punctuated by vibrant red blooms that looked disturbingly like open mouths. Reagan had twisted this creature together from vines, barbed stems, and the spark of his own peculiar gift, creating a grotesque hybrid that made even the bravest students squirm.

     As Reagan displayed the creature with a dispassionate, clinical gaze, he noted Sidoh flinching in the corner. The shinigami, for all his otherworldly power, stared at the plant abomination with wide eyes, looking genuinely spooked.

     "W-what... kind of human..." Sidoh muttered, his gaze darting from the plant to Reagan. "What sort of creature gets his hands on a Death Note and decides to... make that?"

     Reagan's eyes flicked in Sidoh's direction, and he smirked ever so slightly before turning back to the class. Their reactions were exactly what he'd expected—some students recoiled, while others tried to mask their horror with brave faces. Satisfied, Reagan put the plant back in the cabinet, leaving the students with their imaginations.

     Later, however, his mood soured as he thought about the recent denial from the school board regarding his grant proposal. He had requested funds for his biochemistry class, hoping to add advanced equipment and expand the greenhouse, but the board had redirected resources to the criminal justice department and the ever-favored sports teams. It was infuriating and the bureaucratic dismissal left a sour taste in his mouth.

     That night, in the dim light of his apartment, Reagan pulled out the Death Note, considering its blank pages. With a shrug, he picked up a pen and wrote down the names of every board member who had denied his request. He wasn't motivated by bloodlust or any personal vendetta; he simply wanted his funding. If this dark artifact could actually remove the obstacles in his way, so be it.

     Watching him scribble, Sidoh let out a low, gleeful chuckle. "It's about time you did something with it."

     "I don't care about murder or ethics, Sidoh," Reagan replied dryly, not looking up. "I just want my grant money."

     Sidoh laughed, his hollow voice echoing through the room. "I think you and I are going to get along just fine."

     At that, Reagan lifted his gaze, fixing Sidoh with a deathly glare that stopped the shinigami in his tracks. For a being used to inspiring terror in humans, Sidoh felt an uncomfortable chill creep up his spine, his amusement quickly replaced with a nervous silence. He had never met a human quite like Reagan—a man who showed no fear, no thrill, only a cold, relentless determination.

     The next day, Reagan arrived at work and noticed a strange, subdued atmosphere on campus. A colleague stopped him in the hallway to share the news: all three board members he'd written down had died of heart attacks last night. There would be a memorial service for them, but Reagan had no intention of attending. If anything, he was quietly impressed the Death Note actually worked. He'd gotten what he wanted, and that was all that mattered.

     Instead of attending the service, Reagan slipped away to the greenhouse where he had plans of his own. With the grant money newly allocated to his department, he was free to remodel the space as he saw fit. Over the next several days, he transformed the greenhouse into a thriving, green haven. He brought in exotic plant species, expanded the nursery, and installed state-of-the-art equipment to monitor soil nutrients and climate conditions. His creations flourished in the carefully controlled environment and Reagan found a rare satisfaction in seeing the greenhouse finally take the shape he had envisioned.

     As he worked, Sidoh occasionally drifted by, watching Reagan with a mixture of fascination and wariness. The shinigami had finally found a human worth studying—one who regarded the Death Note with as much interest as he might a scalpel, using it as a tool rather than a weapon of power. Reagan hardly noticed Sidoh's hovering presence. He had his work, his plants, and his plans, and he was finally free to pursue them without interference.

Chapter Text

     Months had passed since Reagan Sinclair last bothered with the Death Note. In the interim, a wave of unprecedented events had taken the world by storm. A notorious figure known only as "Kira" was making headlines across the globe, reportedly able to kill criminals from afar. Day after day, news anchors breathlessly covered the seemingly divine retribution dealt out by Kira, who was hailed as a savior by some and a monster by others. Meanwhile, the world's most famous detective, a figure known only as "L," had come onto the scene, vowing to hunt down this elusive killer.

     To Reagan, however, it was all just noise. He didn't care about Kira, didn't care about L, and certainly didn't care about the moral debates that sprang up in classrooms, cafés, and even his own department. His sole focus was preparing for the upcoming school year, updating his curriculum, and setting up the greenhouse with new experiments. When he glanced at the list of incoming students, two names caught his eye: Hideki Ryuuga and Light Yagami. They stood out for different reasons—Hideki Ryuuga for his infamous name and Light Yagami for his reputation as a brilliant high school student entering college courses. But even with their names in front of him, Reagan barely gave it a second thought. He had more important things to do. Still, he made a mental note to keep an eye on them; sometimes the brightest stars burned out the fastest.

     When the new school year finally began, Reagan was already feeling a wave of tedium wash over him. Another round of classes, another batch of students to wrangle, and another routine to settle into. Sidoh, the ever-hovering shinigami, drifted alongside him as he organized his lecture materials in the empty classroom. With a bored huff, Sidoh sidled up and muttered, "If you're this bored, why don't you just write some names in the Death Note? It'd spice things up a little."

     Reagan turned his head just slightly, his icy glare cutting through Sidoh like a dagger. The shinigami shrank back, floating away to avoid the force of Reagan's silent but deadly rebuke.

     Students started filing in, and Reagan handed out the syllabus with minimal interest, his mind already drifting to the experiment he had set up in the back of the classroom. He never bothered to explain the syllabus or review the course structure; he assumed students knew how to read and, frankly, he didn't care if they did. With that task done, Reagan returned to his latest project—a sprawling vine carefully spliced with bioluminescent properties. Last semester, a similar experiment had "accidentally" injured a student who hadn't heeded Reagan's very specific warnings. He had no intention of stopping now, though.

     The classroom filled with chatter as more students arrived. In the corner of his eye, Reagan noticed Hideki Ryuuga and Light Yagami taking seats. They each seemed intent on the other, with Ryuuga slouched in his seat, his posture eccentric and lax, while Light's gaze was sharp and calculating. Reagan felt something touch his skin for a brief second. A piece of paper?? 

     As if today couldn't get more amusing Reagan noticed something else: floating just behind Light was a grotesque figure, nearly as unsettling as Sidoh. This new shinigami, who had a wide grin filled with sharp teeth and eyes that glowed with a curious malice, peered around the room, his gaze finally settling on Sidoh.

     Reagan's eyes briefly flicked toward the two shinigami, but as always, he couldn't be bothered to care. Sidoh and this new shinigami, whom he heard Light call Ryuk, began a casual conversation, their voices carrying a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Sidoh seemed intrigued by the fact that there was another shinigami on campus, exchanging curious glances with his fellow creature.

     Light, however, looked visibly irritated. He could feel Ryuk's interest in the presence of another shinigami, and he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more at play here. As he watched Reagan—his seemingly indifferent, cold-eyed professor—Light's mind whirred. He knew the telltale signs, and something about the unnatural presence of two shinigami in one place led him to a singular conclusion: there was another Death Note on this campus. A grin tugged at the corners of Light's mouth. How fascinating.

     Meanwhile, L, seated as Hideki Ryuuga, observed Light's expression through half-lidded eyes. Light's behavior had shifted subtly the moment he'd entered the room, and now, with that smirk of realization, L's suspicions were piqued further. In his mind, Light's "Kira" percentage had just spiked. His role here wasn't only about studying biochemistry—it was a chance to watch Light up close and personal. And now it seemed there was more to observe than he had even anticipated.

     Oblivious or uninterested in the brewing storm around him, Reagan continued his work, carefully injecting a solution into the vine's stem, watching with satisfaction as it pulsed with bioluminescent color. To him, the classroom was his lab, and his students were simply an audience for his experiments—spectators in his little green kingdom.

     For weeks, L, under his alias Hideki Ryuuga, watched Light with an almost singular focus. He sat in Reagan's class, his posture twisted, legs pulled up to his chest, always tracking Light's every reaction and choice of words, his interactions with classmates, and even his subtle changes in expression. Reagan himself was barely a blip on L's radar despite his decidedly unethical practices and tendency to neglect student guidelines. L observed, of course, how Reagan ignored his students and prioritized his strange experiments over teaching, but he didn't consider the professor of particular interest. Reagan was just a byproduct of L's current mission: catching Kira.

     Meanwhile, Light was busy following his own lead. Over time, he had whittled down the possibilities in search of the mysterious owner of the second Death Note. He took note of Reagan's dismissive attitude, his blatant disregard for campus policies, and the strange plants he sometimes grew that looked more like eldritch creatures than scientific specimens. It had taken careful deduction and observing Reagan's behavior, but Light was now certain that his professor was the second Death Note holder.

     One day, after class, Light lingered as the other students filed out. He approached Reagan's desk with a seemingly innocent expression, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to ask the subtle, probing questions he hoped would confirm his suspicions.

     "Professor Sinclair, I've been curious about some of the more theoretical aspects of your work," Light began smoothly. "It seems like you have quite a unique perspective on the concept of life and death, especially with your experiments in the greenhouse. Some people might say they go... a bit beyond typical academia."

     Reagan barely looked up from the papers he was grading, clearly unimpressed. He knew manipulation when he saw it. 

      "Your point?" he said, his tone dry and clipped.

     Light continued, keeping his tone casual but persistent. "I suppose I was wondering if you believe in the idea of transcending death. In a way, pushing the boundaries of science to become something... more."

     Reagan gave him a look of unfiltered disdain. 

      "Are you here to wax philosophical or study biochemistry?" he said, his voice as cold as ice. "Either way, you're wasting my time. Out. I have work to do."

     Realizing he'd hit a wall, Light swallowed his irritation. He'd expected Reagan to be difficult, but he hadn't anticipated such complete disinterest. Reagan's cold dismissal stung, and as Light walked out, he clenched his fists in fury. The man was intolerable—unapproachable and indifferent. He was everything that Light loathed in people who didn't understand the larger purpose of his mission.

     For a few brief moments, Light seriously entertained the idea of simply writing Reagan's name in his own Death Note and eliminating him as an obstacle. The thought lingered, his mind visualizing the professor dropping dead with a satisfying thud. But then he caught himself, inhaling deeply and forcing himself to calm down. Reagan's unique position as a Death Note holder presented a rare opportunity. Someone with that power could be an ally, perhaps even a useful pawn, if Light played his cards right. Killing him now would waste that potential.

     Light leaned against the wall outside the classroom, his mind whirring with possibilities. If he could appeal to Reagan's ambitions—or his boredom—perhaps he could sway him. If he could convince Reagan that Kira's mission aligned with his own interests, he might gain a powerful ally within the academic sphere. After all, who else but a university professor would have access to so many resources and so much influence over the young minds who were, Light believed, the future of his new world?

      A plan began to take shape in his mind. Light knew Reagan wasn't motivated by ideals, but if he could find the right angle, he might get Reagan on his side. All he needed was the perfect opening, a way to show the professor how their goals could align, and then the cold, detached man might just see Kira's vision as something worth pursuing.

     Light spent the next few days executing his plan to subtly manipulate Reagan Sinclair into joining his cause. He started with small, seemingly innocuous conversations after class, designed to appeal to Reagan's intellect and ambitions. He complimented the professor's "visionary" experiments, dropping comments about the pursuit of a better world and how progress required sacrifice. Light believed he was making progress, though he noted Reagan's disinterest never wavered.

     What Light didn't know was that Reagan had already pieced everything together. From the subtle way Light carried himself to the strange shinigami, Ryuk, constantly hovering around him, it didn't take long for Reagan to conclude that Light was Kira. The boy was painfully obvious—at least to someone like Reagan, who had honed the art of observation through years of cynicism and experience. In fact, Reagan had figured it out faster than L, whose pseudonym, "Hideki Ryuuga," Reagan had seen through almost immediately. The detective's fake name was so contrived that Reagan couldn't decide whether L thought everyone else was stupid or if he simply didn't care about subtlety.

     Reagan debated telling L. He could have walked right up to the so-called world's greatest detective and handed him the key to the Kira case. But after a moment's thought, he shrugged it off. Why bother? The game between Kira and L was amusing, and Reagan had no intention of involving himself in their petty war of ideologies. He'd rather see how it all played out from the sidelines.

     Meanwhile, Light grew increasingly frustrated as days passed with no progress. Reagan's cold demeanor was impenetrable, and no amount of charm or cunning seemed to sway him. By the end of the week, Light gave up entirely, deciding that Reagan Sinclair was a lost cause. His time was better spent focusing on L and his ongoing plans to create his perfect world.

     A few weeks later, Reagan caught wind of a rumor spreading among the students: Light Yagami was dating Misa Amane, the famous idol. The news barely registered with him until the follow-up gossip reached his ears—Misa had been arrested on suspicion of being the second Kira.

     Curiosity piqued, Reagan decided to investigate. He found a video online showing the moment Misa was taken into custody. The footage was shaky, filmed on someone's phone, but it captured everything. Misa was surrounded by officers, her expression switching between fear and confusion, as she insisted she had done nothing wrong. The clip ended with her being escorted into a police car, her bright persona crumbling under the weight of the accusations.

     Reagan sipped his coffee, his face unreadable as he watched the screen. Sidoh floated beside him, lounging lazily in the air, but the shinigami perked up at the sight of another shinigami in the background of the video.

     "That's Rem!" Sidoh exclaimed, his tone both amused and incredulous. "Looks like she's having a bad day."

     Reagan raised an eyebrow, turning slightly toward Sidoh. "Rem?"

     "The white one," Sidoh replied with a grin, pointing a clawed finger at the screen. "She's got herself tangled up with that girl, huh? Idiot move. Shinigami protecting humans is like planting seeds in sand. Doesn't end well."

     Reagan said nothing, taking another sip of his coffee as Sidoh continued to chuckle. He wasn't surprised that shinigami could make terrible decisions, but he found it mildly entertaining to witness.

     As the video ended, Reagan leaned back in his chair. He didn't care about Misa's fate or the drama that would inevitably unfold between Light, L, and the shinigami, but he couldn't deny that it was amusing background noise as he prepared his lessons for the week ahead.

Chapter Text

     Engen awoke with a pounding headache and the stench of rot assaulting his nose. Groaning, he rubbed the side of his head and blinked to clear his vision. The last thing he remembered was the war. The Steel Witch had arrived, her chilling laughter ringing in his ears as her gift tore through everything. Then—blackness.

     As his senses returned, Engen noticed his surroundings: he was crammed into a metal dumpster surrounded by rancid garbage. His scowl deepened as he pushed himself upright, the sticky remains of something unidentifiable clinging to his clothes. He crawled out, wrinkling his nose at the filth covering him.

     Standing in an alleyway, Engen tugged at the tattered remains of his once-pristine trench coat. He looked down at himself in disgust, brushing off a soggy piece of paper that clung to his chest. 

     "What the hell happened?" he muttered. His eyes scanned the area and landed on a nearby shop, its display window showing off crisp, clean clothes.

     A spark of an idea flickered in his mind. He wasn't about to walk around this place—wherever it was—looking like trash. He deserved better.

    The next half hour found Engen sprinting through a maze of alleyways, clutching a bag of stolen clothes while police sirens blared in the distance. He cursed under his breath. He hadn't expected the shopkeeper to hit the alarm so quickly.

     Engen's eyes darted around as he spotted a fire escape nearby. Without hesitation, he scrambled up the rusty ladder, his boots clanging loudly against the metal. As the sirens grew louder, he reached a window on the third floor, testing it quickly. Unlocked. He smirked, pushed it open, and climbed inside.

     The moment his feet touched the floor, something yanked him off balance. Vines sprang to life from the walls and wrapped around him, tightening like iron bands around his arms and legs. He struggled, snarling, as the bag of stolen clothes fell from his grip. "What the hell—?"

     "Don't bother," a cold voice said.

     Engen froze, his eyes darting toward the source. A man stood in the corner of the room, holding a steaming cup of coffee. He had an air of complete apathy, his gaze icy and unimpressed as he looked Engen up and down. 

     "Breaking into my apartment was mistake number one," the man said, setting his coffee down. "Waking me up from my nap is mistake number two."

     Engen glared. "Let me go, you bastard!"

     The man sighed, his expression not changing as he turned toward the window. With a gesture, the plants grew, weaving together to form a solid barricade. 

     "That's not happening," he said flatly. He turned back to Engen and walked over, examining him like one might inspect a stray dog. "You stink."

     Engen bristled. "I woke up in a dumpster full of shit, alright? What's your excuse for being an asshole?"

     The man raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I woke up in a sewer when I got here. You don't see me complaining." He reached out, grabbed Engen's bound form, and unceremoniously tossed him onto the sofa. "Now sit still and stop making this place smell worse."

     For a moment, silence filled the room. Engen shifted uncomfortably in his bindings, his mind racing as he studied the strange man. Finally, he broke the silence. "So, is this... what happens after you die? We get dumped into trash heaps and sewers?"

    The man, Reagan Sinclair as he found out, shrugged as he sipped his coffee. "Maybe, or maybe this is hell. That would explain the company."

     Before Engen could retort, something strange happened. A creature floated into view, its skeletal frame and massive wings impossible to ignore. Engen's eyes widened as the thing hovered closer to him, grinning like a devil.

     "Let's see what we've got here," the creature said, plucking a torn piece of paper from its belt and pressing it to Engen's forehead.

     The world around Engen shifted. For the first time, he saw the creature fully—its grotesque details and otherworldly aura snapping into focus. 

     "What the hell is that?" he shouted, struggling against the vines.

     "That's Sidoh," Reagan said nonchalantly, not even looking up from his coffee. "He's a shinigami. Annoying, but harmless."

     Sidoh gave a dramatic bow, his grin widening. "Annoying? Come on, Sinclair, I'm the life of the party." He turned back to Engen. "You've got some fight in you, I'll give you that. Bet you're wondering why you're not dead, huh?"

    Engen stared at Sidoh, then at Reagan, and back again. "What the hell is going on?"

     Reagan sighed. "I've been asking that for years. Get comfortable. Or don't. I don't care." 

     He gestured, and the vines tightened slightly. Engen cursed under his breath, realizing that his strange new captor was far more dangerous than he'd initially thought.

     Reagan sat at his desk, sipping his coffee as he mulled over the unexpected situation. Engen was sprawled on his couch, the vines now retracted. To his own surprise, Reagan found Engen's presence far more tolerable than anyone else in this world. The man, for all his arrogance and smell, carried an air of familiarity that Reagan hadn't realized he'd been missing.

     "So," Reagan started, setting his mug down, "what happened after I—" He paused, searching for the right words. "You know, after I died?"

     Engen leaned back, throwing his arms over the back of the couch. "Well, let's just say a lot went to hell pretty quickly." He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Bishop and I ended up joining forces during the war. Funny, considering we hated each other's guts before, but when it came to survival? We made it work."

     "You and Bishop?" Reagan raised an eyebrow. "That's like throwing two wolves in a cage and expecting them to share the meat."

     Engen shrugged. "Desperate times." His tone turned more serious. "I killed a few hundred people, enslaved my whole kingdom into becoming my warriors, Puppeteer got his hands on Raxfer's body—don't ask what he's doing with it; it's unholy, I traumatized Ihwa, and... oh yeah, the war finally started."

     Reagan blinked, setting his coffee aside. "And how'd that turn out for you?"

     "I died," Engen said bluntly, rubbing his temple. "The Steel Witch showed up. One second I was fighting her, the next—black."

     Reagan's eyes widened at the mention of the Steel Witch. "Wait. The Steel Witch?" His tone sharpened. "Who the hell thought it was a good idea to draw her out?"

     Engen gave a dry laugh. "That'd be Bishop. His plan was to bait her out and overwhelm her. Spoiler alert: didn't work. She tore through our armies like a storm through kindling."

     Reagan groaned, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face. "Of course it was Bishop. Leave it to him to come up with a plan so insane it was practically suicide." He muttered a string of curses under his breath, wondering how the universe managed to saddle him with such reckless company.

     "This place is weird," Engen said, glancing around the room. "Feels similar to our world but... off. No one's got gifts and there are death gods just floating around like it's normal."

     "Tell me about it," Reagan muttered, sipping his coffee again. "The lack of gifts is almost refreshing, though."

     Engen kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks, sighing in relief as he stretched his toes. The light from Reagan's lamp gleamed off the remnants of what had once been his Elder Ring. The sight of it made Reagan's stomach twist, a reminder of how far removed they were from their old lives.

     Engen caught Reagan looking and smirked. 

     "Since we're on the subject of old times," he began, leaning back with an air of smugness, "I'm thinking you owe me something."

     Reagan narrowed his eyes. "What are you on about?"

     Engen pointed at his feet. "A foot massage."

     Reagan stared, his expression blank. "What?"

     "You heard me," Engen said, his grin widening. "You lost to me in our duel, Sinclair. Remember? That makes you my subordinate and I'm taking every opportunity I can to freeload off you now."

     Sidoh, who had been lounging nearby, burst into laughter. "This is priceless! A shinigami's seen a lot of things, but this? A former warrior demanding a foot massage? Classic!"

     Reagan glared at Sidoh, but the shinigami's amusement was infectious. Letting out a resigned sigh, Reagan stood.

     "You're unbelievable," he muttered, kneeling beside the couch.

     Engen wiggled his toes. "Make it count, Sinclair."

     Grumbling under his breath, Reagan grabbed Engen's foot and began to massage it with an almost clinical precision. His hands moved deftly, applying just the right amount of pressure to the arches and heels.

     Engen let out an exaggerated groan of satisfaction, leaning further into the couch. "Ah, that's the stuff. You're surprisingly good at this."

     "Don't push it," Reagan muttered, focusing on the task.

     Sidoh floated closer, peering down at the scene with wide, gleaming eyes. "This is too good. Hey, Reagan, think you could do my wings next?"

     Reagan shot him a withering glare. "Don't test me, Sidoh."

     The absurdity of the moment wasn't lost on either of them, but neither Reagan nor Engen seemed inclined to acknowledge it. Engen closed his eyes, smirking in satisfaction, while Reagan worked in silence, his expression a mix of annoyance and resignation.

     For all its strangeness, the scene carried a strange sense of familiarity—a reminder that, even in a world as twisted as this one, some things never changed.

Chapter Text

     The soft scratching of Reagan's pen filled the room as he sat at his desk, grading tests with a look of perpetual boredom etched on his face. Occasionally, he muttered something under his breath about his students' inability to grasp even the simplest concepts. On the couch, Engen sat cross-legged, his posture relaxed, while Sidoh floated nearby, the two engaged in what could loosely be called a conversation.

     "So, let me get this straight," Engen said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. "We don't have lifespans anymore?"

     Sidoh nodded eagerly. "Exactly! You two are like me now—death gods without the title. You can't see your own lifespans and you're technically not supposed to die, not naturally anyway."

    "Not bad," Engen admitted, smirking. "And we still get to keep our gifts?" He flicked his fingers, and a faint flame of darkness sparked to life in his palm before extinguishing. "I assume you figured that out already, Sinclair?"

     Reagan didn't look up from his papers. "Of course." He marked an answer with a large red X and muttered, "Though it hasn't exactly made this world more tolerable."

    Engen chuckled, then glanced at Sidoh. "Anything else interesting?"

     Sidoh grinned. "Oh, yeah! That Light Yagami kid you saw earlier? He's under arrest by L. Big news, too—Kira himself, locked up. They're even holding his little girlfriend, Misa Amane. Second Kira."

     Engen blinked. "Who?"

     Reagan sighed, setting his pen down and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Light and L. Two idiots in my class who can't seem to help but be rivals. Light's Kira and his airheaded girlfriend is the second. Honestly, the whole thing's exhausting."

     Engen stared at Reagan, his expression flat. "Wait... If you know all of that why the hell do you have a death note?"

     Reagan shrugged, his tone indifferent. "It showed up one day. Figured I'd keep it for emergencies. Not my fault this world's obsessed with melodrama."

     Engen's deadpan expression deepened. 

     "You are insufferable," he muttered, standing and walking over to the counter where the death note lay. "Let's see what all the fuss is about."

     Reagan glanced up but didn't stop him. Engen flipped open the notebook, scanning the rules listed inside. He chuckled as he reached the bottom. "So, anyone whose name gets written in here dies, huh? Sounds simple enough."

     His gaze drifted to the television, where a news broadcast was playing. The anchor was delivering a story with her name prominently displayed in the corner of the screen. 

     "Let's test it out," Engen said with a smirk.

     "Don't," Reagan said flatly, but his voice lacked conviction.

     Sidoh leaned closer, his eyes wide with glee. "Do it!"

    Ignoring both of them, Engen grabbed a pen from the counter and wrote down the anchor's name. He leaned against the counter, watching the screen. Moments later, the woman froze mid-sentence, her hand clutching her chest before collapsing. The camera cut to chaos as coworkers scrambled to help her.

     Engen crossed his arms, his smirk growing. "Well, it works."

     Reagan sighed heavily, setting his pen down again. "I know it works. I didn't need you to confirm it by killing someone on live television."

     Engen shrugged, clearly unbothered. "It's not like I knew her." With that, he tossed the notebook over his shoulder, where it landed behind the couch with a soft thud.

     Sidoh gasped, flying over and hovering in dismay above the spot where it landed. "You can't just throw the death note like it's garbage!"

     Engen grinned. "I just did.”

     Reagan rubbed his temples, the exhaustion from dealing with the two already wearing on him. "How long are you planning to crash here, Engen?"

     Engen flopped back onto the couch, stretching out with his hands clasped behind his head. "Until I figure out a way to get back to our world."

     Reagan raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

     Engen shrugged, utterly nonchalant. "No idea. Maybe I'll stumble across a portal or something. Who knows? I've come back from worse."

     Reagan leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Fantastic. So I'm stuck with you indefinitely."

     "Pretty much," Engen said, grinning. "Might as well get comfortable, Sinclair. We're roommates now."

    Sidoh chuckled, hovering beside Reagan. "Oh, this is going to be fun. I can already tell."

     Reagan groaned, picking up his pen again. "I swear, the universe has it out for me."

     Engen stretched again, completely at ease. "Don't be so dramatic. You should be used to this by now."

     The room lapsed into a bizarre, tense silence as Reagan resumed grading papers, Sidoh sulked over the discarded death note, and Engen made himself comfortable, utterly unbothered by the chaos he had just caused.

     Reagan stood at the front of the classroom, his usual unamused expression darkened by an uncharacteristic scowl. His students sat nervously in their chairs, fidgeting as the weight of his displeasure hung heavy in the air. In his hand was a stack of pop quizzes, all marked with bright red Fs. He slapped them down on his desk with more force than necessary, making a few students jump.

     "Congratulations," he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've all managed to do the impossible. You've failed every single question on the easiest quiz I've ever written. Bravo. Truly an accomplishment."

     The students exchanged nervous glances, some sinking further into their chairs.

     "Do you even read the textbook or are you all collectively allergic to studying? At this point I'm tempted to give up entirely and turn you all into compost for the greenhouse.”

     From the back of the room, Sidoh snickered loudly, his skeletal wings twitching in amusement. Reagan shot him a warning glare, but the shinigami didn't stop.

     "I mean it," Reagan continued, pacing in front of his desk. "If your scores don't improve I'll personally ensure that the next quiz includes nothing but material you can't Google. Maybe then you'll finally learn something."

     One brave student raised their hand. "Professor Sinclair, isn't it your job to—"

     "Don't," Reagan interrupted, his voice cold as he fixed the student with a piercing stare. "You're already on thin ice and I'm not in the mood to hear excuses."

     By the time the class ended, the students fled the room as quickly as possible, leaving Reagan alone with Sidoh.

     "Rough day?" Sidoh teased, hovering near the desk.

     Reagan rubbed his temples. "If one more of them asks me how to calculate the molarity of a solution after I've explained it a thousand times, I will strangle them with vines.”

     Sidoh laughed harder. "You're such a fun human."

     Reagan didn't respond, too tired to argue with a creature that technically wasn't alive.

     Reagan stepped into his apartment, his shoulders slumped from the draining day. The aroma of cooking food greeted him and his brow furrowed in confusion.

     Engen stood at the stove, stirring something in a large pan. He glanced over his shoulder when Reagan entered. "You're late."

     Reagan tossed his bag onto the couch and loosened his tie. "What's the occasion?"

     Engen shrugged. "Got bored. Figured I'd cook something halfway decent for once. You're welcome, by the way."

     Reagan raised an eyebrow, his gaze drifting to the counter where the death note lay open. A crudely drawn image of the Steel Witch stared back at him, her grotesque form reduced to exaggerated lines and awkward shading.

     He snorted, unable to hide his amusement. "What the hell is that supposed to be?”

     Engen turned back to the stove. "It's the Steel Witch, obviously. I'm a half-decent artist, thank you very much."

     Reagan shook his head, smirking. "I've seen my daughter draw better than this."

     Engen shot him a look. "Which one?"

     Reagan shrugged, completely unbothered. "Does it matter? I stopped keeping track after the seventh or eighth. They're all the same at this point."

      Engen rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he plated the food.

     As they ate, Reagan leaned back in his chair, his tone casual. "So, any luck figuring out how to get back home?"

     Engen stabbed at his food with a fork, his expression annoyed. "Nothing. This world's as useless as it is strange."

     Reagan didn't look surprised. He took a sip of his drink, glancing at Sidoh, who had been unusually quiet.

     "You have any ideas, Sidoh?" Reagan asked, his tone skeptical.

     The shinigami perked up, grinning mischievously. "Actually, yes! You could talk to the Shinigami King. He's the only one with the power to send you back."

     Both men turned their heads to glare at Sidoh simultaneously. The room grew tense.

     "You've known this the entire time and didn't mention it?" Engen demanded, his voice dangerously low.

     Sidoh shrank back, his grin faltering. "Well, I didn't think you'd actually want to meet him. He's not exactly... approachable.”

     Engen slammed his fork down. "I don't care. You're taking us to him. Now."

     Reagan raised an eyebrow but didn't protest. He seemed curious, if nothing else.

     Sidoh hesitated, then sighed. "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you."

     With a snap of his skeletal fingers, the room darkened, the air growing thick and heavy. Reagan and Engen exchanged a glance before the space around them twisted, the familiar apartment melting away into a swirling void.

     As the oppressive aura of the Shinigami King's domain surrounded them, Reagan sighed. "I already regret this."

     Engen grinned, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Relax, Sinclair. What's the worst that could happen?"

     Reagan shot him a deadpan look. "You really shouldn't ask that question."

     The swirling void finally settled into a foreboding chamber of jagged obsidian and oppressive shadows. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the walls seemed to pulse with an unnatural, faintly glowing light. At the center of the room sat the Shinigami King, his massive form blending into the shadows as if he were part of them. His glowing eyes narrowed at the intruders.

     "Sidoh," the Shinigami King's voice reverberated through the chamber like a thousand whispers layered over a growl. "What are you doing here? You've been warned about meddling with the humans."

     Sidoh flinched, wings twitching nervously. "It's not my fault! These two—" he gestured toward Reagan and Engen "—ended up with one of the death notes, and they've been causing all kinds of chaos. They want to go back to their world!"

     The Shinigami King's eyes flickered toward Reagan and Engen, who stood at ease, glaring up at him with complete indifference. The lack of fear in their gazes unsettled him.

     "You dare bring mortals into my domain, Sidoh?" the King growled. "And these are no ordinary mortals."

     He leaned forward, inspecting them more closely. Reagan and Engen didn't flinch, their expressions remaining unimpressed. For a moment, the Shinigami King felt a shiver of unease crawl up his spine—a sensation he hadn't experienced in eons.

     To assert his dominance, the Shinigami King pulled out his massive death note, the pages old and brittle yet imbued with the power of death itself. He opened it, the black ink shimmering unnaturally.

     "Let's see how resilient you truly are," he sneered, dragging his pen to the page.

     He wrote "Reagan Sinclair" with deliberate care, his skeletal fingers pressing the pen hard into the paper. He paused, waiting for the inevitable death to occur.

     Nothing happened.

     The Shinigami King's eyes narrowed as he tried again. This time, he wrote "Engen." Again, nothing.

     A heavy silence hung over the room as the Shinigami King's eyes darted between the two men, then to the air above their heads. No lifespans floated there—just an eerie void where the numbers should be.

     "You..." he murmured, his tone laced with unease. "You both have no lifespan. You're not mortal."

     Engen smirked, folding his arms. "Took you long enough to figure it out, genius."

     Reagan gave a humorless chuckle. "I could've told you that and saved you the trouble of wasting your ink."

     Engen stepped forward, his presence radiating a barely restrained fury. "Enough with the theatrics. Is there a way for us to return to our world or not?"

     The Shinigami King leaned back, his massive form tense. "It is not so simple—"

     Engen's eyes flashed with anger. He extended his hand, summoning his gift, Hell. Tendrils of darkness erupted from the ground, wrapping around the Shinigami King's limbs and torso. They tightened, pinning him in place despite his immense power.

     "You're going to tell us," Engen growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I'll personally ensure that you leave this encounter with fewer limbs than you came in with."

     The Shinigami King struggled, his ancient pride warring with a growing sense of panic. The tendrils squeezed tighter, and he let out a pained growl.

     "Enough!" he bellowed. "I will tell you!"

     Engen smirked but didn't loosen the tendrils. "I'm waiting."

     The Shinigami King glared at him before finally relenting. "To return to your world, you must retrieve an artifact from the human realm—a fragment of the Soul Gate. It is an ancient relic that bridges worlds. It was lost long ago, scattered across their world. Only by reassembling it can you hope to return."

     Engen finally released the tendrils, and the Shinigami King slumped back, glaring at him with unhidden malice.

     Reagan sighed, crossing his arms. "Of course it's something tedious and unnecessarily complicated."

     Engen straightened, rolling his shoulders. "At least it's a lead. That's more than I expected from this decrepit corpse."

     The Shinigami King snarled. "Do not think this is over. You may have no lifespan, but you are still trespassers in my domain. Leave before I reconsider letting you live."

     Reagan shrugged. "Sure thing. This place is depressing anyway."

     Sidoh, eager to avoid further wrath, snapped his fingers again, transporting them back to the apartment. As the room returned to its mundane appearance, Engen flopped onto the couch, looking pleased.

     "Well, that was fun," he said.

     Reagan rolled his eyes and sat at his desk, already dreading the effort it would take to find the artifact. "Define fun."