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Chapter Text

Title: The Coldest Case

Summary:
From the moment they arrived, they were tested and ranked. Everyone knows the list:
• Number One: L—the world’s greatest detective, now Wammy’s elusive part-time professor, dividing his time between cold cases and classrooms.
• Number Two: Beyond—the unsettling outcast who never seems to get sick, harbors a quiet obsession with death and anatomy, and stands as Wammy’s greatest anomaly.
• Number Three: Near—the brooding medical prodigy with sharp eyes, steady hands, and no tolerance for disorder.
• Number Four: Mello—the beautifully unhinged rival with a temper, a choker, and a need to be seen.
• Number Five: Matt—the unbothered tech genius who knows how to code, how to roll, and when to disappear.

When a string of targeted deaths begins stirring global panic, the Five find themselves tangled in the center of something far bigger than student life.
L has already been assigned to the investigation—a case dubbed Kira—a mass killer with a god complex and no discernible method of murder. The case has been open for months. The killer never misses.
But Kira isn’t acting alone.
The killers work in sync, their murders blending into each other’s patterns, masking each other’s trails, and making it impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
Just as suspicion begins to grow, something new surfaces.
A forgotten file.
A sealed case buried years ago.
One B thought would never be opened again.
Because before Kira…
There was something else.
And some anomalies don’t stay buried forever.

A dark academia college AU, The Coldest Case blends found family chaos, obsession, and quiet tragedy into one mystery none of them were ever meant to solve—and one that might cost them everything.

[Author’s Note:]
Seriously… why the hell did Beyond Birthday never get an actual backstory? They gave us Jealous falling in love with Misa. We got Rem caring for Misa. The phantom of canon clearly tells us Shinigami can fall for humans. But B? Nothing.
They just said “he has Shinigami Eyes, no one knows why, moving on.”
So I fixed it.

Content Warning: This story includes mentions of suicide and self-harm-related trauma. Please read with care.

If you want to beat up canon with me and finally give B the heartbreaking, soft, devastating lore he deserved… welcome to The Coldest Case. Enjoy.

PROLOGUE
The dorm apartment was frustratingly perfect.
High ceilings with ornate crown molding, polished wood floors, oversized windows casting soft golden light across the immaculate space. Wammy’s University didn’t do anything by halves. It was the most elite institution in the world, and it showed.
Matt was sprawled sideways on the velvet sectional couch, one long leg thrown over the armrest, a thin stream of smoke curling lazily from the blunt in his fingers. His bright red hair fell untamed over one eye, soft waves catching the warm light. The Triforce tattoo, ringed with bold rainbow ink on his forearm peeked through as he shifted, half-listening to the TV.
Mello sat cross-legged beside him, equally dramatic but twice as deliberate. Black mesh under a slashed black long-sleeve, tight black jeans, heavy black combat boots. A sleek black boyfriend-style collar with a dangling metal loop encircled his throat. His sharp jawline was emphasized by expertly smudged dark eyeliner. A half-melted chocolate bar was clenched in one gloved hand.
They were comfortably high, giggling at the chaotic drama on the giant flat screen.
“I swear they just gave that guy three heart attacks in five minutes,” Matt muttered, blowing out smoke and staring blankly.
Mello shook his head, eyes still glued to the screen. “Yeah, and somehow he’s still hot. I live for this shit."
The lock clicked.
The front door opened and Beyond Birthday drifted in silently. Dark jeans, old band tee slung loose on his frame, nails painted matte black and chipped. His black hair was a chaotic, feral mess, sticking out at sharp angles in a way that shouldn’t have worked but absolutely did. The deep shadows beneath his half-lidded blood-red eyes made them glow unnervingly under the low light.
Trailing behind was L, looking as exhausted and unbothered as ever. His messy black hair stood up at wild angles; dark eyes ringed in bruise-like shadows. His oversized white long-sleeve shirt slouched dramatically off one thin shoulder, and his faded jeans were almost dragging over bare feet.
Finally, Near entered. His slender frame was clean and sharp in a soft light blue sweater vest layered over a crisp white button-up. An impossibly complex 17x17 multicolor Rubik’s cube rotated effortlessly through his thin fingers as he walked with perfect, silent balance.
Mello groaned theatrically. “Why the hell did you bring him?”
B didn’t even break stride. “He’s here to work on a project with me. It won’t take long.”
Mello flopped dramatically into Matt’s side with a scoff. “Of course it won’t.”
Near didn’t glance up from his shifting colors. “This series is a gross misrepresentation of trauma medicine and postoperative cardiothoracic recovery. The continued inaccuracies regarding surgical sterility protocols and anesthesia thresholds are… astounding.”
Mello barely waved a hand at him, not breaking his gaze from the screen. “Shut up, Near.”
Without a word, B padded over, picked up the remote with black-tipped fingers, and clicked.
Grey’s Anatomy disappeared.
DUN DUN.
The chilling opening of Law & Order snapped clean through the speakers.
Matt groaned as he pulled a handheld game system from between the couch cushions and powered it on with a dull beep. “Can we have one night without murder?”
The five of them drifted into their usual spots like planets caught in gravitational pull: Matt lounging with his game in hand, Mello slouching sideways against him in black boots and leather, Near perched primly on the couch’s armrest solving another absurdly complex cube, B curled almost predator-like into the far corner of the couch, and L sliding cross-legged onto the polished floor to eat cake from a paper plate like it was the most normal thing in the world.
The episode played.
Three minutes in:
L (casual, biting into cake): “The wife did it.”
Near (without hesitation, flicking another side into place): “Arsenic in the tea.”
B (soft, low, matter-of-fact): “Obviously.”
Matt groaned again, mashing buttons like it would block out the genius in the room. “I hate you all.”
The glow of the TV reflected softly against the polished walls.
Outside, rain whispered against the window glass.
Inside, five of the most dangerous minds on the planet settled in for another perfectly ordinary night.

CHAPTER ONE: The Five
Beyond

None of them ever really graduated from Wammy’s.
They earned their degrees here—every license, every title, every doctorate.
Near finished medical school before most kids got their learner’s permit.
Matt once hacked a federal archive while eating cereal.
Mello passed the bar at seventeen, just to prove he could.
They completed everything Wammy’s could offer.
But they never really left.
Because when you grew up at Wammy’s, you didn’t grow up—you got assigned.
The meeting room wasn’t on any floor plans.
It was tucked in the oldest wing of the original Wammy’s House orphanage—long since walled off from the university buildings surrounding it. The walls were stripped bare. The air was cold. The lights always buzzed.
No desks. No labels. Just five chairs, lined up in a row.
Only four were ever filled.
The fifth—A’s chair—was always left empty.
Inside, Number One—L, age 26—paced barefoot, a sugar cube clutched in one hand, murmuring deductions under his breath like a language only he could understand. The projector cycled through crime scenes, timelines, redacted evidence chains. It wasn’t a lecture. It was thinking. Out loud.
He hadn’t paused in nearly twenty minutes.
Number Two—Beyond Birthday, B, age 20—sat curled in the far-left chair, one leg tucked beneath him, barefoot, in ripped jeans and a faded black band tee. His black-painted nails tapped idly against the metal armrest as his blood red eyes tracked L’s every step like a shadow with a pulse.
He didn’t take notes.
He never did.
He already knew every case on the screen.
He knew the outcomes. The logic. The evidence.
He knew how it ended.
But still—
He couldn’t stop watching him.
Because B could see what no one else could.
He could see L’s real name.
He could see his death.
Floating above L’s head—just a little off-center—was a string of numbers. Just a meaningless code to anyone else.
But B had always known what it meant.
L Lawliet
23 Remaining years
If nothing else happened, L would die at 49.
The number sat in B’s chest like a phantom heartbeat.
He didn’t talk about it. He couldn’t.
Because when L died—
B was next.
The rankings weren’t ceremonial.
They were Wammy’s-defined, Wammy’s-measured, Wammy’s-enforced.
Number Three—Nate River, Near, age 19—sat one chair to B’s right.
Silent. Twisting a 21-sided mechanical puzzle between his fingertips like it was weightless.
Chrome tips. Magnetic core.
He blinked maybe once every few minutes.
Number Four—Mihael Keehl, Mello, age 19—was sprawled sideways across his chair, boots kicked up on the empty seat next to him, head thrown back in theatrical boredom.
He wore a tight black sleeveless turtleneck, distressed jeans, eyeliner, and a worn rosary around his neck.
“Can we please be done already?” Mello groaned, arms flopping.
“I gotta go get dressed. There’s a party. There will be alcohol. People will be making out with the wrong people. It’s gonna be glorious. I live for these things.”
Number Five—Mail Jeevas, Matt, age 21—sat at the end, hoodie half-zipped over a vintage game shirt, legs stretched out, thumbs working the Switch controls without looking up—playing some fast-paced game purely by muscle memory.
“You live for being a menace,” he muttered.
“Correct,” Mello grinned.
“That behavior is medically diagnosable,” Near added without looking up.
“You’d know, Doctor Buzzkill,” Mello shot back. “You probably have a whole thesis on it.”
Near didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
All five of them were licensed attorneys and certified detectives.
Near was also a licensed medical doctor. Beyond was a licensed surgeon.
Each of them held at least one PhD.
L had—unironically—sixteen.
L finally stopped pacing. He crouched at the edge of the projector table like a gargoyle settling on a ledge, sugar cube still clutched in his fist, eyes locked on a page no one else could see.
Then:
“You’re all dismissed,” he murmured. “Or you can stay. I don’t care.”
He didn’t look up.
B stood first.
He didn’t want to go.
But if he stayed, he’d never stop looking at that number.
Mello stood up with a groan and stretched, cracking his neck dramatically.
“Bring the sheep,” he announced.
Matt grinned, reached over, and casually grabbed a fistful of Near’s sweater vest.
“Wait—don’t—” Near started, but it was too late.
Matt hauled him halfway out of the chair like a sack of laundry. Near didn’t fight, but he made a point to scowl in four languages.
The three of them drifted toward the door with the lazy, chaotic energy of boys who knew no one could stop them. Their voices echoed down the hall, fading as they disappeared.
And B was alone again.
He stood there a moment longer—just watching L, the way he always did. Then he moved forward, slow and quiet.
L didn’t look up. He was still crouched at the projector table, posture folded, fingertips pressed against a scatter of notes he hadn’t shown anyone.
B knelt beside him. Bent forward. Pressed a soft kiss to the top of L’s head.
L didn’t flinch.
“You going with them?” he murmured, voice low.
“Yeah,” B replied. “Someone’s gotta make sure Mello makes it home.”
L hummed—a small, tired sound that could’ve meant anything.
But he didn’t ask him to stay.
This was the part people never saw.
While the others saw chaos, B had always seen the pattern—how L’s pacing wasn’t restlessness, it was calculation. How his muttering wasn’t madness, it was mathematics. How this wasn’t a lecture, it was a battlefield.
L wasn’t just killing time. He was working. He was solving a case.
And not just any case.
The Kira Case.

_

The frat house was a riot of heat and light.
Music pounded through the floor, something bass-heavy and just off-beat enough to keep people dancing like they were drunk even if they weren’t. The walls pulsed with LED strips. The air was thick with cheap cologne, sweat, and spilled vodka.
B stood in the kitchen, drink untouched, hood down, nails black against red plastic.
Mello was halfway through a bottle of tequila and halfway into someone’s personal space.
He was dressed like temptation itself—tight black leather shorts, torn fishnets, combat boots, a fitted crop top that left little to the imagination, a gothic rosary slung around his neck like blasphemy. His collar was the kind sold at bondage shops and worn like armor, a silver ring gleaming at the throat.
And across the room?
Matt.
Red hair. Graphic hoodie. That lazy, sideways grin he wore like a second skin. He leaned against the banister, half-watching Mello flirt, half-scrolling something on his phone, vape tucked behind his ear like a cigarette waiting to be earned.
They had been inseparable since childhood. Grew up in the same Whammy dorm. Slept in adjacent bunks. Broke into the faculty archives together. Held hands during their first court testimony.
Best friends. That’s what they called it.
Best friends who kissed when they were drunk.
Best friends who slept together sometimes.
Best friends who still slept with other people.
Best friends who hadn’t figured out they were already in love.
Matt looked up when Mello leaned into some frat boy’s ear, whispered something obscene, and winked across the room at him.
He rolled his eyes—but didn’t look away.
On the couch, Near was wedged between two freshmen girls arguing about astrology and true crime podcasts. He wasn’t drinking. Just quietly unwrapping candy from the inside of his sleeve and chewing with slow, silent disdain.
B sipped his drink once. Just enough to taste. He kept his back to the counter, scanning the room, counting lifespans out of habit.
Behind him, the voices shifted. Louder now.
“No, I’m serious,” someone insisted near the hallway. “If all Kira’s doing is killing criminals, like—actual, proven criminals—is it really murder?”
“It’s still killing people.”
“But they were guilty. Rapists. Murderers. Guys who walked.”
“So what? You want some random person playing God now?”
“I’m saying maybe they’re fixing something.”
“It’s still wrong.”
B listened. Quiet. Distant. He’d heard the argument before. Over breakfast. Over lectures. Over blood.
Then—
“Hey.”
He turned.
Light Yagami had just stepped into the kitchen. White button-down sleeves rolled, denim clean and pressed, red cup in one hand. His smile was friendly, warm, entirely unthreatening.
He looked like someone from the campus brochure.
“You’re B, right?” Light asked. “L’s successor?”
B tilted his head slightly. Eyes narrow but not cold.
“That’s what they say.”
Light grinned and extended a hand.
“Light. First-year. Criminology. I’m in L’s class.”
B didn’t shake it. But he didn’t look away, either.
“You’re younger than I thought,” Light said.
“Yeah, well,” B took a sip of his drink. “So is L I'd imagine.”
Light nodded, “Either way—I’m glad to meet you.”
B gave a small nod. Raised his drink in a slow, lazy toast.
“Welcome to the circus.”
Light clinked his cup against B’s.
“I plan to stay awhile.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO: Spin the Bottle
Light

Light hadn’t expected to enjoy himself.
But 45 minutes in, with music pulsing through the floor and the scent of vodka, weed, and somebody’s expensive cologne swirling in the air, he found himself smiling—actually smiling.
The party had long since tipped into reckless territory.
Mello was dressed like sex and violence: black leather shorts, fishnets under high boots, tight black crop top clinging to his ribs, a boyfriend-style choker snug against his throat, and a black rosary swinging dangerously as he moved. He’d been drinking straight tequila out of the bottle, hair messy, eyeliner perfect, already in someone’s lap twice.
Matt was nearby, casual as ever—red hair tousled, graphic hoodie half-zipped over some ironic tee, talking to people like he didn’t care whether they remembered him or not. He’d slipped something small and sealed into someone’s palm earlier and hadn’t even stopped his sentence.
Near was seated on the arm of the couch, arms crossed, chewing silently on a piece of peppermint like he hated the air.
And B—
B stood by the wall.
Silent. Distant. Wearing a ripped black band tee and faded jeans, hands wrapped around a red cup, eyes watching everything. Not hostile. Not warm. Just... present. Like smoke that hadn’t decided if it wanted to become fire.
Light had been observing them all night.
The successors.
Raised in the infamous Whammy orphanage. Brilliant. Dangerous. Chosen.
There were four of them—Beyond, Near, Mello, and Matt.
And then there was L.
Light wanted to know them. Understand them. Learn how they worked—how they thought. He hadn’t come to this school just to pass tests.
He came to be the best.
To learn from the best.
“Okay!” Lilah yelled suddenly, arms raised, voice cutting through the music. “We’re doing spin the bottle, bitches! Let’s go!”
The living room shifted around her.
Bodies rearranged. A loose circle formed. Mello dropped down immediately with a grin. Matt followed. Theo, Arden, and Jax slid in with their drinks and dares.
Cassian Roe sat down beside Light without a word.
Light didn’t turn to look—he already knew it was him.
Cass looked... dangerous in the lighting. Light blonde hair fell messily over one eye, pale green eyes half-lidded with something unreadable. He wore a dark navy button down shirt, fitted sleeves hugging his forearms, and black jeans ripped at the knees. Rings flashed as he rested an elbow on his knee, posture relaxed like he didn’t care who was watching.
Light glanced at him once.
Cute.
But clearly used to being the one in control.
That wouldn’t last.
Near didn’t move.
“Nope,” he said firmly, unwrapping another caramel.
“Too bad,” Mello said, grabbing his arm.
“Let go of me—”
“Join the fun, Neary,” Matt called, grinning.
Near was dragged in unceremoniously, seated between Theo and a very drunk Arden. His expression suggested he was plotting multiple homicides.
Lilah placed the bottle in the center.
“Cass, you’re up first,” she said.
Cass sighed dramatically, leaned forward, and gave the bottle a lazy spin.
It turned.
Slowed.
Landed squarely on Mello.
“Well,” Cass drawled, “I suppose I should’ve seen that coming.”
Mello smirked.
“You could do worse.”
The kiss was quick—playful, nothing serious—but Mello bit Cass’s lip at the end just enough to make Cass raise an eyebrow.
Light watched, amused.
The next person spun—Jax. It landed on Theo. They both laughed and kissed sloppily. No sparks. Just beer-flavored breath and cheering.
Then Arden spun. It landed on Matt.
Matt shrugged, leaned over, and kissed them without a word. Arden looked dazed after.
Next up: Matt.
He spun. It landed on Mello.
“This again?” Matt asked.
“Boring,” Mello groaned.
They kissed like they’d done it a thousand times.
Like it meant nothing.
Or maybe everything.
The circle roared.
Near was next.
“No,” he said flatly.
“Yes,” said Lilah.
Arden spun it for him. It landed on Arden.
Near didn't move.
Arden did.
The kiss was brief, awkward, and hard to watch. Mello doubled over laughing.
Then it came back around.
Cass leaned forward and spun the bottle again.
It turned.
Slowed.
Landed directly on—
Light.
A pause.
Cass turned toward him, one brow raised, green eyes flicking up like a challenge.
“Rules are rules,” he said, voice low.
Light’s smile curled slow and deliberate.
"Sure. Just don’t expect me to follow yours.”
He leaned in—slow, deliberate—his hand sliding up Cass’s thigh, fingers grazing denim with just enough pressure to be noticed. Cass didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But Light caught the flicker of breath, the barely-there hitch in his chest, just before their mouths collided.
The kiss hit hard.
No build-up. No warning.
It was all teeth and heat, Cass gasping into it as Light took what he wanted. Tongue, lip, breath—tension snapping like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Cass made a sound—low in his throat, surprised—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even think to. One hand fisted the fabric of Light’s jacket. The other curled into the floor.
Light’s grip tightened on his leg.
They broke apart too fast—but it still felt like too long. Cass’s lips were red. His eyes half-lidded. His chest rose and fell like something had been shaken loose.
“Your turn,” he said, voice a little rougher now.
Light stared at him for a beat, then smiled.
Not sweet. Not soft.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m aware.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE: Something Like Gravity
Mello & Matt

Mello didn’t storm off. He drifted—through the music, the crowd, the fog of beer breath and half-smoked joints. Just far enough to breathe. Just far enough that no one would ask if something was wrong.
Nothing was wrong.
He always kissed people like that at parties.
Except Matt.
Matt’s kiss never felt like nothing.
The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. The soft shuffle of boots, the familiar weight leaning into the brick beside him—Matt didn’t chase people. But he always followed Mello.
“You left,” Matt said, pulling out a lighter.
“You noticed,” Mello muttered.
Matt lit the joint between his lips and inhaled slow. Passed it over without speaking.
Mello took it, even though he wasn’t in the mood.
It was just easier than saying thank you.
The silence hung thick between them, tense and taut and quiet.
Matt broke it, voice low.
“You kissed me like a threat.”
Mello’s eyes stayed forward.
“You kissed me like you wanted it.”
Something shifted.
Matt turned, slowly, eyes dragging over Mello’s profile like he was trying to decide if he was brave enough.
He was.
He leaned in.
Fingers reached for Mello’s jaw—gentle at first. Just enough to tilt his face up.
And then he kissed him.
Hard.
Like he’d been holding it back all night.
Like he didn’t care who saw or what it meant or where the hell this left them.
Mello made a sound—caught between surprise and surrender—but he didn’t stop him.
Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t want to.

_

Matt didn’t plan it.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t weigh the consequences.
He never did—not when it came to Mello.
This wasn’t new.
They’d done this before. A lot.
Hookups after long nights. Shared beds on bad days. Sex like a pressure valve—something easy, something understood. It had never been complicated.
Except it kind of always was.
Because tonight, when Mello threw out another line, mouth sharp, eyes flashing—Matt kissed him like he meant it. Not like a joke. Not like a habit.
Like he’d been waiting to.
And Mello let him.
No pushback. No claws.
Just heat.
Just want.
By the time they broke apart, Mello’s lips were swollen and his breathing ragged, and Matt was already pulling him down the hall.
No words.
Just motion.
They found a room. Didn’t check whose it was. The lock clicked behind them, and suddenly everything felt too quiet.
They stood there—flushed, buzzing, still catching up to what just happened.
Mello’s back hit the door.
Matt hovered just in front of him. Jaw tight. Hands flexing like he didn’t know whether to reach out or hold back.
“Say something,” Mello muttered, not looking at him.
Matt didn’t.
He just kissed him again—harder. Deeper. Like he couldn’t help it.
Mello melted into it, familiar as oxygen.
They moved toward the bed together—hands tugging, teeth grazing, clothes pulled off with muscle memory. They’d done this a hundred times. But tonight felt… different.
Like maybe they both noticed what it really was.
Matt climbed over him with that same quiet certainty. Mello’s hands were already dragging his hoodie over his head. Their mouths barely left each other’s—just for air, a low sound, a sharp inhale.
It wasn’t rushed.
But it wasn’t slow, either.
It was deliberate.
Like every kiss was admitting something they weren’t ready to say.
Matt knew this body. The curve of Mello’s back. The rhythm of his breath. The little scar on his hip from a fight he never talked about.
None of it was new.
But tonight—
Tonight, it felt like claiming.
And when Mello gave in—shuddering, fingers tightening, breath ghosting against Matt’s neck—it wasn’t just sex.
It felt like trust, again.
After, the room was too quiet.
Matt stayed propped on one elbow, fingers trailing lazily over Mello’s ribs. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just watched the way Mello stared at the ceiling, jaw tight like he was holding his breath.
Like if he didn’t move, the truth wouldn’t catch up to him.
Matt’s hand stilled.
“You good?”
Mello nodded.
“Yeah.”
But Matt didn’t believe him.
Not tonight.
Because they’d done this before.
But this time?
This time, it felt like something broke open.
And neither of them knew how to put it back.

_

Mello didn’t say anything when Matt finally moved.
Just sat up, slowly, tugged his shirt off the floor. His fingers worked on autopilot—zipping, buckling, re-clipping the choker around his neck like it hadn’t been yanked aside twenty minutes ago. No mirror. Didn’t need one.
He knew how to wear it.
How to hide the bruise beneath the leather.
Matt stood beside him, hoodie back on, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked the same as always—like what just happened hadn’t changed a thing. Like it never touched him.
“We good?” Matt asked, voice low.
Mello didn’t look at him.
“Always.”
It wasn’t even a lie, really.
Because this? This was just what they did.
What wasn’t normal was the way it had felt.
He didn’t want to think about that.
They made their way downstairs. The party had only gotten messier—louder music, sloppier dancing, air thick with booze and smoke. Mello drained half a rum and soda before they even hit the bottom step.
Matt drifted toward the kitchen. Mello followed a few paces behind—habit, not thought.
That’s when he saw B.
Still standing by the sink, exactly where he’d been earlier. Same cup in his hands. Same black band tee clinging to his too-thin frame like it had never been washed right. Same eyes.
Watching.
Their gazes met. Brief. Silent.
But Mello knew that look.
B didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
He knew.
Not in a judgmental way. Not like a parent catching you sneaking in late. Just… knew. Like he’d already filed it away.
Mello held the look for half a second longer than he meant to.
Then broke it.
Looked away.
Just as a tall student stepped into the kitchen—clean cut, confident, maybe twenty-one.
“Yo,” the guy said, casual as hell. “You got anything chill? Something to help me push through finals without frying my brain?”
Matt barely looked up.
“You want smooth or strong?”
“Smooth.”
Matt pulled a foil packet from his pocket like it was gum.
Handed it off in a motion so practiced it looked lazy.
The guy passed him a folded twenty. Gave a grateful nod.
Walked back out into the chaos.
Matt grabbed a soda and leaned into the fridge like it was over.
But B hadn’t moved.
Mello looked back—and froze.
B’s body was still, but his face had changed.
His eyes were locked on the kid who just left, but not like he was suspicious. Not like he was analyzing behavior or running math in his head.
He looked…
Haunted.
His grip on the cup had gone white-knuckle.
His mouth was parted just barely—like he’d forgotten to breathe.
Mello blinked.
“You good?” he asked, quiet enough that Matt didn’t hear.
B didn’t answer.
Didn’t even seem to hear him.
He just kept staring past the door like something had shifted in the air—and he was the only one who could feel it.
Mello didn’t push.
He turned, slowly, back toward the party.
But something twisted low in his gut.
Because B looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR: The Quiet That Follows
Beyond

The music pulsed like a heartbeat.
Too loud.
Too alive.
B leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter, red cup clutched in both hands, half-empty now.
His eyes flicking over numbers, absentmindedly.
Floating like smoke above every head.
Names.
Lifespans.
The silent countdown only he could see.
At some point, B had just… stopped reacting to it.
Like traffic noise. Or static.
Just part of life.
He knew Near had 62 years left.
Mello had 46.
Matt, 53.
L, 23.
The numbers didn’t lie. They never changed.
At least, not unless something was wrong.
He didn’t know why he could see them.
But he’d always been able to.
The visions didn’t prevent anything.
They didn’t save lives.
They just let him watch.
So he stopped talking about it.
Started memorizing the countdowns of everyone he loved like it was fate.
Like a script.
And tried to stop waiting for them to run out.

Mello stepped into the kitchen, rum in one hand, black crop top clinging to his ribs, still flushed from whatever had happened upstairs. Their eyes met.
And B knew.
No words. No details.
Just… knew.
Mello held the look for half a second longer than usual.
B nodded—barely. Quiet permission. Quiet understanding.
Then turned away.
And that’s when he felt it.
The shift.
A tall student—maybe twenty-one—walked in. Sharp jaw. Confident. Not stumbling like the others. Clean hoodie. Calm eyes.
“Yo,” he said to Matt, voice low. “You got anything chill? Something to help me push through finals without frying my brain?”
B didn’t turn toward them.
Didn’t need to.
He glanced up—just out of habit—and saw the number.
67 years.
Unchanged. Solid. A name he didn’t recognize.
Matt pulled a foil pack from his hoodie pocket. Handed it off like it was gum.
The student passed him a bill. Nodded. Walked away.
B exhaled.
Then froze.
The number above the kid’s head—
Glitched.
It flickered.
Then changed.
3 hours.
His cup slipped in his grip.
Liquid sloshed. His throat clenched.
No sound came out, but his body knew.
He was shaking.
No.
Not again.
He stared after the kid like he could call it back. Like he could will the number to reset.
But it didn’t.
It never did.
Somewhere behind him, Mello’s voice came through the static.
“You good?”
B didn’t answer at first.
His mouth opened. Closed.
The word stuck like glass in his throat.
He looked back toward Mello—who was watching him now, frowning, just slightly.
He didn’t understand.
Of course he didn’t. No one did.
No one else saw the moment someone’s death arrived.
No one else knew what it meant to know.
B closed his eyes for a second.
Then opened them again.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Almost steady.
But not quite.

The party had finally started to thin.
The music dimmed. The lights softened. Laughter stretched thinner between the walls like tired thread.
Matt and Mello wandered off together again—buzzed, tangled, unbothered.
Near disappeared without a word, as always.
B said nothing.
He didn’t tell them what he’d seen.
What he knew.
There was no point.
The kid was already gone.
He just didn’t know it yet.
The cold outside helped.
The walk back to the private dorms in the orphanage wing helped.
The quiet helped.
But only a little.
B stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him softly.
The lights were low. The air still. The scent of sugar and paper drifted in faintly from the living room.
L was exactly where he left him.
Hunched over a scatter of files and data screens, the glow of three monitors painting shadows under his eyes. His posture was worse now—more collapsed, more distant, one thumb absently worrying a sugar cube that had long since melted between his fingers.
B hung his coat by the door.
He didn’t speak.
He crossed the room quietly, barefoot on tile, and came to a stop just behind L’s chair.
Paused.
Then reached forward, slow and deliberate, and placed a hand on L’s shoulder.
The detective tensed.
Then… slowly relaxed.
The cube was dropped. The keyboard ignored.
B tugged gently.
L didn’t resist.
He stood, posture reluctant but yielding, and let B lead him away from the screens.
They moved toward the bedroom without a word.
It wasn’t routine.
It was need.
The sheets were cool. The room was dark.
B’s hands were steady, reverent.
There was no rush—just the slow unraveling of two people who didn’t know how to ask for comfort out loud.
L didn’t speak.
He just let B touch him—slowly, carefully—like every motion was a question and an answer at once.
It wasn’t about sex.
Not really.
It was about closeness.
About grounding.
About not being alone.
B’s fingers curled around L’s hips, careful.
His lips found the space just beneath L’s jaw, quiet.
His breath caught when L tilted his head to let him.
There was no desperation.
Just pressure.
Friction.
The way bodies knew each other after too long spent watching from across the room.
It was gentler than usual.
Slower.
B didn’t want to think.
He didn’t want to see that number again.
Didn’t want to remember the boy. The flicker. The shift.
So he pressed closer.
Buried himself in warmth and skin and soft breath against his neck.
Listened to the way L gasped quietly when his hands wandered.
Let it drown everything else out.
When they finished, B didn’t move right away.
L was curled on his side, hair a mess, spine bowed slightly like he’d folded himself around something invisible.
B pulled the blanket up to cover them both.
Wrapped himself around L.
Closed his eyes.
And tried not to count the years left.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE: Playing with fire
Cass

Cass didn’t turn on the light. Not yet.
Just crossed to his desk with the ease of routine, opened the drawer, and checked. The black notebook was still there—half-tucked beneath a loose page of notes, like it had never moved. Like it hadn’t been used earlier. Like it wasn’t dangerous.
He slid it deeper, shoved a couple textbooks on top, and clicked the drawer locked just as the door opened behind him.
Light stepped in like he owned something.
Maybe the room. Maybe the night.
Jacket still on. Hair windblown. Calm, unreadable confidence in every step.
Cass flicked on the desk lamp.
“Didn’t think I’d end up making out with a freshman,” he said lazily, not looking back yet.
“Didn’t think you’d let me catch up,” Light replied, stepping in closer. “But here we are.”
Cass turned, one brow raised—but he didn’t smile.
He didn’t stop him either.
He leaned back against the desk, arms braced behind him, letting the moment breathe. Letting the weight of it thicken into something heavy, something sharp. Something that crackled just under the surface.
Light stepped into it like it was designed for him.
One hand skimmed Cass’s waist. The other hooked gently under his jaw.
And then he kissed him.
Hard. Certain. Heat on contact.
Cass responded without flinching—fisting the front of Light’s shirt, pulling him in like the tension had been waiting all night to break. There was no hesitation, no testing, no charm.
It was pressure.
It was want.
By the time they reached the bed, the room had gone hazy with body heat and shadows. Cass let himself be pushed down. Let Light climb over him like gravity had decided for both of them.
No words.
Just mouths. Breath. Clothes being tugged, then tossed.
Cass knew how this went. He’d done this before. But something about this one—this night, this boy—
Felt like a match pressed to gasoline.
Light didn’t go slow. Didn’t ask for permission. He took what Cass gave—and Cass let him.
Because danger never scared him. He liked the heat. The risk.
That was why he pulled Light closer again, nails dragging down his spine. Why his breath caught when teeth grazed his throat.
And why he didn’t ask what this was.
He didn’t care.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.
It was control. Surrender. Something they could both get off on.
When they finally paused, Light hovered above him, eyes searching for something Cass didn’t want to name.
Cass grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
“Don’t think,” he muttered. “Just finish what you started.”
Light did.

_

The sun was merciless.
Cass blinked against it, stretching an arm across his eyes as consciousness crept in like a tide he hadn’t asked for. His muscles ached—not from strain, exactly, but from tension. The kind that lingered long after it was spent.
He shifted. Light’s side of the bed was already cooling.
Of course it was.
Light sat on the edge, scrolling through something on his phone with that calm, unreadable look he always wore like a second skin.
Cass sat up. Pulled a hoodie over his head and stood to find his jeans.
The air felt heavier now. No reason for it. But it did.
Then came the knock.
Rapid. Hard. Urgent.
Cass paused mid-button.
Another knock. A voice. Shouting. And then—
A scream.
One of those sharp, messy, animal sounds that ripped through walls and made people's blood run cold.
Cass moved fast.
He was at the door and pulling it open before Light had even gotten off the bed.
The hallway was alive with noise—students pushing toward a room across the hall, someone on the floor sobbing, another voice shouting “Get campus security, now,” and a girl trembling in the doorway, one hand still clutching the knob.
Cass didn’t need to push his way forward. He could see enough.
The door to the opposite dorm was cracked open. The body slumped against the mattress was visible from here—face down, arm loose, jaw slack.
He didn’t move.
“Shit,” Cass muttered, quiet enough for only Light to hear. “That’s Eli Moreno.”
Light frowned. “You knew him?”
Cass nodded once. “Had class together last semester. Kind of quiet. Kept to himself.”
He wasn’t lying.
The whispers had already started.
“OD?”
“Guess he finally pushed it too far.”
“Didn’t think he was still using…”
Cass stood still. Just long enough.
And then blinked—like he’d forgotten something. Like a detail had just caught up to him.
But whatever it was, he didn’t say.
“You alright?” Light asked, watching him closely now.
Cass exhaled, steadying his voice. “Yeah.”
He looked back one more time. Just once.
Then shut the door.
Let Light see the tension in his shoulders, but not the reason for it.
The hallway buzzed with sirens in the distance.
And Cass didn’t look back.

_

The hallway was quiet now.
No more sirens. No more crying. Just the low hum of electric silence settling into the building’s bones.
Cass locked the door behind him.
Turned the bolt. Drew the blinds.
Then crossed to his desk without a sound.
He opened the bottom drawer. Moved the top textbook aside. And pulled out the Death Note.
Black leather. Dull lettering. It looked unremarkable in the gray light.
But his hands were steady as he opened it.
He flipped to the last page he wrote on.
Eli Moreno
Cause of Death: Overdose
Time of Death: 3:26 a.m.
He stared at the name.
And let his mind rewind.
It had been nothing.
Just a moment in a hallway.
They were walking back from class. The kind of lazy, half-bored conversation you have with someone you barely know but share a schedule with. Cass didn’t even remember what they were talking about—weather, maybe. Finals. Something forgettable.
And then the Death Note slipped from his bag.
It hit the tile with a soft slap. Barely made a sound.
But Eli turned. Saw it. Saw the cover.
He didn’t know what it was.
Didn't know what it meant.
Of course he didn’t.
But he saw it.
And that was enough.
One stray question. One wrong word.
That’s all it could take.
So that night—quietly, simply—Cass wrote the name.
OD.
Nothing suspicious. Eli had a history. It wouldn’t raise a single red flag.
Cass blinked.
Present again.
He closed the Death Note.
Locked it away.
Sat down at the desk and stared at the empty space where the notebook had been.
Not angry.
Not regretful.
Just still.
No risks, he thought.
Not now. Not while he's watching.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX: Phantom
Beyond

The sirens had already quieted.
But the blue and red lights still pulsed across the courtyard like a dying heartbeat.
B stood at the apartment window, arms folded, forehead resting against the cool glass. The ambulance doors had just slammed shut. He watched as the body—Eli Moreno—was lifted inside under a sheet. The engine growled. Then they were gone.
Gone.
Just like all the others.
His fingers curled against his biceps.
He hadn’t tried to stop it.
Not anymore.
Not for a long time.
The first time he tried he was six.
Ollie, a quiet boy who liked dinosaurs and apple juice.
B saw the number change. Shorten. He told Roger—said something was wrong. Ollie needed a doctor.
Roger smiled that tired, careful smile he always used when B said strange things.
Ollie was gone three days later.
After that, B stopped telling adults.
He tried other things.
As a teenager, he pushed a kid out of the way of a car.
Dragged someone away from a faulty generator right before it exploded.
Hid someone’s keys so they couldn’t drive.
Left warnings in anonymous notes.
Did everything he could think of.
None of it worked.
The deaths still came.
Sometimes later.
Sometimes elsewhere.
But always.
He couldn’t save them.
So he stopped trying.
Now he just watched.
Behind him, the apartment buzzed—soft electrical hums, data streaming across L’s monitors in slow waves.
L sat hunched in his usual position, legs folded to his chest, fingertips pressed to his lips as screen after screen displayed timelines, images, redacted files.
B could hear the subtle click of a sugar cube between his teeth.
“Kira leaves no trace,” L said suddenly, without turning.
“No poison. No residue. No fingerprints. Nothing physical left behind.”
B didn’t answer.
“And yet,” L continued, “it’s not random. That’s the only thing I know for sure. These aren’t accidents. These are executions. Known criminals are dying. Every day.” L muttered.
He finally looked over his shoulder.
Just enough to catch B’s reflection in the window.
“It’s like… an invisible force. Everywhere and nowhere at once.”
He paused.
“A phantom.”
B didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
L turned back to his screens and added, quieter this time—
"Almost... not human."
B finally stepped back from the window.
The lights were gone now. Only the silence remained.
He crossed the room, slow and steady, and dropped onto the edge of the couch beside L—shoulder close, posture slack, face unreadable.
L didn’t look up from the monitors, but B could feel the subtle shift of attention. L was always watching. Always tracking.
“You seem off,” L said simply.
B shrugged. “Just tired.”
A pause.
L didn’t respond to that. But he didn’t need to.
Instead, he turned one of the monitors slightly toward B, fingers tapping along a neat row of data. Names, dates, times.
“Patterns,” L said. “Some visible.”
B leaned closer, their arms brushing just slightly as he scanned the columns.
“Thirty-two victims in the last six days,” L murmured. “Different time zones but all dead within seconds of being named in official charges or public reports.”
“Local?” B asked.
“Most likely." L replied. “The victims are global but japan is seeing the most numbers.”
"So they're trying to throw you off." B said. It wasn't a question.
L sat back, eyes narrowed at the screen. “It’s almost like…” He hesitated. “Like something else is acting through them.”
B stared at the screen.
“Whatever this is,” he said, voice low "It doesn’t follow logic. It doesn’t follow precedent. And it doesn’t follow law.”
Another pause.
“So we won’t either.”
He turned back to the screen. The data flickered across his reflection.
B sat in silence beside him.
Watching.
Thinking.

_

The campus slept light.
B moved through the back trails without thinking—hands in his pockets, head down, the echo of gravel underfoot like a ticking clock that didn’t belong to anyone.
The graveyard behind the old orphanage building wasn’t large. Just a strip of fenced land tucked past the trees, forgotten by most of the students who had no reason to know it was there. But the headstones were old. And some of them were personal.
B had memorized every one.
He slowed near the farthest row, boots pressing soft into the grass. The wind picked up slightly as he crouched in front of the stone he came to see.
It was simple.
Black granite. No picture. Just an engraved name and two clean dates.
A.
No real name. Just the letter.
Just the first.
“Hey,” B said quietly. “Been a while.”
The wind stirred again. Not cold—just familiar.
He sat back on his heels, arms resting across his knees, eyes fixed on the marker.
“You’d love this case,” he muttered. “L’s unraveling. He’s turning over every rock and finding less than nothing.”
A pause. His fingers tapped against his knee.
“Saw someone’s number shift again yesterday. Subtle, but clear. Same exact way it did with you.”
His throat tightened slightly.
“I still don’t know what happened. You were… off. That last week. Like something got into your head and started peeling it back.”
He shook his head.
“Then, your number changed. And I…”
He stopped. The grave didn’t move. Didn’t answer.
But the memory did.
B swallowed hard, staring through the dark.
“I should’ve done something. I should’ve said something. Anything.”
A gust moved through the trees—soft and sudden.
“Why do I have this?” he asked, voice raw now. “This ability to see people’s deaths, if I can’t stop them?"
The wind didn’t answer.
“Why give me that?” he whispered. “Just to watch?”
He closed his eyes for a long second. Then opened them again, softer now.
“What happened to you, A?” he asked. “What were you keeping from me?”
“You were my best friend. My brother. You could’ve told me.”
No answer.
Just silence.
He stood slowly, brushing his palms against his jeans, eyes never leaving the stone.
The graveyard was quiet as he turned to leave. He passed Ollie’s marker on the way back. Then another. And another.
Each one carried a number he remembered by heart.

One week later.
L’s voice filled the room—low, clinical, barely inflected—as he cycled through case footage, flipping seamlessly from wiretap transcripts to coded timelines. A few students took notes. Most didn’t bother.
At the front of the room, off to the side, B leaned quietly in the doorway.
He wasn’t interrupting.
He was just waiting.
Sometimes he liked walking home with L.
Not for any specific reason. Just… sometimes.
A few of the students noticed him.
There was a subtle shift in the room—shoulders straightening, whispers flicking across the back row. A few stares. The kind that lingered too long to be casual.
Everyone at Wammy’s knew who Beyond Birthday was.
And some of them thought they knew more.
There were rumors, of course. Always had been. Quiet guesses. Glances held too long. A few of the older students joked about why L’s Number Two never lived in the dorms.
No one ever confirmed it.
But no one denied it, either.
L didn’t look up when B walked in. But a few beats later, almost as an afterthought, he said—
“For those of you unfamiliar, this is B my successor.”
That was all.
No title.
No explanation.
Just truth.
B didn’t respond. Didn’t move.
He just stayed there—still, silent, watching the room out of habit.
And then—
He saw it.
Third row. Left side.
Slouched posture. Pale green eyes. Hair falling over one side of his face.
Cassian Roe.
The name appeared, clear and clean.
But the number—
There was no number.
No flickering string of code. No countdown.
No lifespan.
Just… nothing.
B’s stomach dropped.
His gaze locked. His breath stalled.
The silence in his chest was louder than anything.
Cass locked eyes with him.
And he wasn't the only one looking.
Light.
Front row. Hands folded. Eyes sharp and unreadable.
Like he’d seen the moment something shifted.
Then L’s voice again.
“That’s all for today. Dismissed.”
The projector went dark. The hum of data silenced.
Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Voices rose again, casual, too loud. The normal rhythm of students pretending they weren’t in the presence of legends.
B turned away from the door.
L joined him in the hall without a word.
Their steps echoed.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN: Silent Alarm
L

The clock said 10:01.
Which meant it was 10:03.
This building’s wiring had a documented delay—three seconds, confirmed via optical scan and microsecond timestamps across two lectures and a fire drill. Left wing fuse box issue. Still unresolved.
They were already halfway through the case file breakdown when the last student slipped in, as if not being noticed by L somehow equated to not being seen.
Wrong.
He noted them, like he noted everything.
Shoes: unlaced. Step: uneven. Nervous hands. Hair clipped back in a rush.
Three minutes late.
By then, the timeline was already on the board.
“Thirty-two fatalities across eleven days. Five countries. No shared zip codes, industries, or genetic markers. But every victim had one thing in common: they were all targeted online. Blackmail. Threats. Harassment. Anonymous or otherwise. Every single one.”
He clicked the next slide.
There was no title. There never was. Just a single grainy image of a chat log, a blurred profile picture, and a death certificate.
“Case closed two years ago. Original jurisdiction declared it coincidental. I didn’t.”
He didn’t pace. He didn’t gesture. He squatted on the desk—barefoot, knotted like threadwork, arms hooked over knees, posture askew.
He looked like a question no one wanted to answer.
“This is not about morality. This is not about law. This is about logic.”
No textbook. No outline. No flowchart.
He didn’t give them context. Didn’t offer a refresher.
Technically, they didn’t need it.
Most of them had heard of this case—it made waves years ago. Closed. Solved. Dismissed.
But L didn’t say that.
He just started at the middle and expected them to run.
Most couldn’t.
These were top percentile minds—recruited from the best international programs, hand-selected for potential. But even among them, only a few could follow his rhythm.
Light Yagami.
Cassian Roe.
They could keep up.
They didn’t flinch when the information curved. They didn’t blink when logic twisted. They stayed on track.
But they didn’t outpace him.
No one did.
“Define the threshold,” he said suddenly, not looking up. “What is the moment a pattern becomes a theory?”
For a second—silence.
Then, from the front row:
“When repetition gains predictive value,” said Light. Calm. Measured.
L’s eyes flicked to him.
“Close,” he said. “But not quite.”
A pause.
“When predictive value becomes actionable,” Cass said, just loud enough to cut through the static.
L tilted his head slightly.
“Correct.”
And moved on.
But he noted the glance Light sent Cass afterward.
Sharp. Calculating. Quietly territorial.
L didn’t comment.
The last few minutes of lecture ticked by slow and steady.
L’s voice filled the room—low, clinical, barely inflected—as he cycled through case footage, flipping seamlessly from wiretap transcripts to coded timelines. A few students took notes. Most didn’t bother.
At the front of the room, off to the side, B leaned quietly in the doorway.
He wasn’t interrupting.
A few of the students noticed him.
There were whispers—quick, underbreath things not meant to be heard:
“Is that him?”
“Aren’t they, like… together?”
L didn’t react.
He knew what they thought.
He knew what they whispered.
He didn’t confirm it. He didn’t correct them either.
It wasn’t their business.
A few beats later, almost as an afterthought, he said—
“For those of you unfamiliar, this is B. My successor.”
That was all.
No title. No explanation. Just truth.
B didn’t respond. Didn’t move.
He just stayed there—still, silent, watching the room out of habit.
From the front, L saw the moment his expression changed. The sharp shift. The way B’s posture went rigid and his attention narrowed like a spotlight onto something—or someone—in the crowd.
L didn’t ask.
Not yet.
But he would.
“That’s all for today,” he said aloud. “Dismissed.”
The projector went dark. The hum of data silenced.
Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Voices rose again, casual, too loud. The normal rhythm of students pretending they weren’t in the presence of legends.
B turned away from the door.
L joined him in the hall without a word.
Their steps echoed.

The campus was quiet in the way only early evening could be—soft traffic, slow wind, and the long hush of shadows stretching past fences and sculpture gardens.
They walked side by side across the cobblestones that curved behind the old library.
Neither of them spoke.
B’s hands were buried deep in his coat pockets. His gaze flicked between puddles and lamplight but never settled anywhere. His posture hadn’t changed since the classroom—shoulders tight, jaw locked, the kind of tension L could spot from fifty yards.
He recognized it.
He always had.
Still, he let the silence linger. Gave B space to fold whatever this was into words. B was not a fragile creature—but he unraveled in silence, not sound.
Finally, after two more turns down the winding path toward the private dorms:
“What did you see?”
Not how are you.
Not are you okay.
Just the truth.
B didn’t answer at first.
L didn’t expect him to.
He watched the way B’s eyes narrowed—not at him, but at the distance. A twitch in the corner of his mouth, suppressed before it could become a thought. He was somewhere else. Still back there, in that classroom. Third row. Left side.
Cassian Roe.
L had seen the way B looked at him.
And he’d seen that look before.
“It’s happening again, isn’t it...?”
L lowered his voice.
"...What happened with A?"
B tensed.
After all this time—after years of data, years of watching B move through the world like someone hearing a frequency no one else could—L still hadn’t found an answer.
And that bothered him.
There had to be a pattern. A mechanism. Something that could be dissected and mapped.
But there never was.
Not with B.
“I know he wasn't the only one. Roger told me about Ollie.”
The wind stirred between them. Leaves crunched underfoot. The silhouette of the private Wammy dorm came into view, tucked between trees and dorms like a shadow with a front door.
L didn’t stop walking.
“For a long time, I tried to explain it. Coincidence. Statistical chance. Subconscious observation of medical signs.”
He paused.
“But it never added up.”
They stepped up the path. The porchlight buzzed above them, flickering faintly like it always did.
L glanced sideways. Watched B’s eyes flick toward the light, then the ground, then away.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, voice low.
“But if you saw something, I’d rather be ready for it.”
B was quiet for a long moment.
Then, finally:
“I don’t know what I saw this time,” he said quietly.
L didn't like the sound of that.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT: Curiosity, Meet Cat
Cass

The second B looked at him, Cass felt it.
It wasn’t passing. It wasn’t curiosity.
It was sharp. Heavy. Like being seen through a microscope.
Cass had been watched before.
But not like that.
Not like B was already seeing the ending.
He didn’t say anything about it as they left the lecture hall—just slung his bag over one shoulder and kept his steps casual.
Light caught up next to him, just like he always did when he wanted something but didn’t want to admit it.
“You ever met B before?” Light asked.
Cass shook his head. “Never.”
He paused, then added:
“But he looked at me like I owed him something.”
Light huffed out a half-laugh. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“So what’s the deal with him?” Cass asked, tone deliberately light.
Light tilted his head. “You haven’t heard the rumors?”
Cass smirked. “Oh, I’ve heard them. All of them.”
He ticked them off lazily on his fingers.
“He’s weird, Obsessed with death. Never talks unless he has to. Some say he’s feral, other say he's just... unstable.”
Light snorted.
“Isn’t that just called being emo?”
Cass chuckled. “Depends who you ask.”
Then, more offhand:
“Some say he knows when people are gonna die.”
Light gave a quiet laugh. Like it was a joke. Like it had to be.
Cass didn’t say otherwise.
They crossed the path near the side quad. The wind had picked up—cooler now, brushing dry leaves across the brick walk.
Light’s voice dropped a little.
“He looked at you like something was wrong.”
Cass didn’t answer right away. He was still thinking about it too.
That look.
“I don’t know what it meant,” he said finally. “But it felt like he did.”
Silence stretched a few more steps.
Then Light asked, casual as anything—
“So why are you taking L’s class now, anyway? You’ve been here longer than me.”
Cass’s mouth twitched.
“Guess I figured it was time,” he said. “Always been curious about how he works.”
His eyes slid sideways toward the library tower in the distance.
“It’s good to know what powerful people are thinking.”
He said it like a joke.
But didn’t laugh.
They stopped at the dorm steps. Light turned toward him, expression unreadable.
Cass met his eyes with a half-smile.
“Man, I wish I knew what B was thinking.”
Light smirked.
“Maybe you’re in danger.” He said it too smooth—like he wanted it to sound like a joke. Like it wasn’t.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Cass raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate.
“Is that an offer?”
Light didn’t answer.
Just smiled.
The kind of smile you didn’t trust—
but couldn’t stop thinking about.

They were halfway up the dorm steps when Light stopped walking.
“Huh,” he said, crouching a little. “Somebody dropped their goth poetry manifesto.”
Cass blinked.
“What?”
Then he saw it.
The black notebook was lying half under the concrete lip of the stairwell. Clean. Crisp. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Light had already scooped it up before Cass could speak. He turned it over in his hands, brow creasing in that curious way Cass had started to recognize.
It was identical to his.
Same thickness. Same weight. Same lettering.
Death Note.
For a half second, Cass’s stomach twisted.
He reached into his own bag—fingers brushing past his textbooks—until they landed on it.
His. Still there.
So this wasn’t a mistake.
There were more.
He stepped forward like nothing was wrong. Just as Light flipped open the cover.
Cass didn’t say a word.
Not yet.
“The human whose name is written in this notebook shall die,” Light read, raising an eyebrow.
“Subtle,” Cass said, voice dry.
Light snorted. “This has to be a joke.”
Cass shrugged. “Feels like a prank. Goth RAs, probably. Whole building’s full of freaks.”
They walked inside like they didn’t just cross a line.
Light tossed the notebook on his desk like it was nothing, spinning his chair around before dropping into it. Cass followed, settling onto the edge of the bed, pretending to scroll his phone.
But he was watching.
Light flipped to the next page.
“This note will not take effect unless the writer has the person’s face in their mind…” “Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected…” “If the cause of death is not specified, the person will die of a heart attack.”
He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “This is next-level edgy.”
Cass didn’t laugh with him.
He leaned back, stretched out on one elbow.
“You should try it,” he said, casually.
Light looked up. “Seriously?”
Cass shrugged. “Write a name. Some jerk. Just for a laugh.”
He said it the same way he’d said it to himself the first time.
Fifteen years old. Overcast sky. The courtyard behind the library.
That guy—Jared Wolfe—taunting some first-year, pushing them into a bench. Laughing too loud.
Cass had been watching from the other side of the glass.
Notebook in hand.
Pen gripped tight.
He didn’t believe it would work.
He wrote the name anyway.
And then he watched Jared collapse—clutching his chest. Dead before anyone realized what was happening.
Cass blinked the memory away.
He looked at Light.
He didn’t know why Light was the one to find it.
But he was.
And if Cass could play this right—
Then now, he didn’t just have a notebook.
He had a second one.
And maybe?
He had someone else willing to use it.

Cass leaned forward and took the notebook from the desk.
It was still warm from Light’s hands.
He flipped to a blank page, pulled a pen from his jacket, and clicked it once.
The sound felt louder than it should have.
His gaze dropped to the paper.
Empty. Clean. Waiting.
He lowered the pen.
Just a name.
That’s all it would take.
But as the ink hovered over the page—Cass paused.
His brain, always too fast, too loud, caught up to him.
Eli.
The kid who’d overdosed last week.
The one no one knew he’d written.
The first.
And if he did this now—if another student died, so soon after the last…
L would notice.
L always noticed.
One unexplained death was tragic.
Two?
Two was a pattern.
And patterns got investigated.
Cass’s hand hovered over the page.
He couldn’t afford that.
Not with L watching. Not with B in the halls.
Not now.
He blinked—just once—mind racing.
And in that half-second of hesitation, Light reached forward and plucked the notebook from his hand, breezy as ever, already uncapping his own pen.
Cass turned, slower than he should have.
Light was already flipping to the same page.
“What are you doing?” Cass asked, careful to keep his tone light.
“Writing down that douche from econ,” Light muttered. "He deserves whatever voodoo shit this is."
He said it like a joke.
Like it meant nothing.
Cass didn’t move.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE: Forty seconds
Mello

Mello needed a distraction.
Something fast. Something reckless. Something physical enough to shut his brain off for five minutes.
Daniel was an asshole—but he was hot. Tall. Sharp-jawed. Cocky in that econ-major, future-hedge-fund-parasite kind of way. He’d spent the first month of the semester trying to out-answer Mello in class and the next month eyeing him like a dare.
They hadn’t even finished the chocolate bar they'd shared on the walk back before they were already kissing. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask first.
Mello had his back against the mattress now, legs half tangled in Daniel’s jeans, breath catching against his ear as Daniel pressed in with a low, amused, “I knew you’d be like this.”
It wasn’t sweet.
It wasn’t even nice.
But Mello didn’t care.
It had heat. Teeth. Enough friction to erase the garbage in his head, if only for a few minutes.
He arched up against Daniel’s chest, fingers digging into the waistband of his jeans. The room smelled like cologne and sweat and faint chocolate. Daniel’s chain was still around his neck, catching the light in broken flashes.
And then Daniel froze.
At first, Mello thought it was a power move. One of those smug, slow-down teases Daniel always pulled when he wanted control back.
But then the air changed.
Daniel’s hand, which had just been braced beside Mello’s ribs, started to tremble.
Mello’s spine went tight. “You good?”
Daniel pulled back, propping himself up on one elbow—but sluggishly. Like his limbs weren’t responding right.
He pressed a palm to his chest.
“I don’t—shit, it hurts.”
Mello sat up fast. “Your chest?”
Daniel nodded, jaw clenched. “Like someone’s fucking sitting on it—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. His face contorted. His back arched. He gasped once—a sharp, involuntary inhale—and then dropped flat, clutching his chest.
Mello launched off the bed.
His thoughts hit full tilt. Panic attack? Heart issue? Overexertion?
But Daniel was twenty. Athletic. Healthy.
There was no reason for this.
“You need to breathe, alright? Just—deep breaths, stay down.”
Daniel tried. Failed. His hands clawed at the sheets.
“I can’t—I can’t fucking breathe—”
Mello’s stomach twisted.
He moved fast—blanket off, pulse check. Irregular. Weak. Thready.
He wasn't actually a doctor, but he’d read every medical textbook Roger ever threw at him.
He knew the signs.
“Hey. Stay with me. Daniel, look at me—”
Daniel’s lips were paling.
Mello grabbed his phone with shaking fingers. Dialed emergency. “Cardiac arrest,” he said, voice clipped. “Male, twenty. Unresponsive. Was alert one minute ago. Whammy University. East Residence Hall. Room 217.”
He hung up without waiting.
Daniel made one last sound—half gasp, half groan—and then went limp.
Mello dropped the phone. Bent over him. Started CPR.
Compress. Breathe. Compress.
He counted. Checked. Repeated.
No pulse.
His brain kept screaming this doesn’t make sense.
Daniel was dying like someone twice his age—with no warning. No cause. Nothing that added up.
And then—
The clock.
10:14.
Mello looked at it. Rewound everything in his mind.
From the moment it all started.
Forty seconds.
Exactly.

The sirens came too late.
Red light spilled through the cracks in the blinds as the ambulance pulled up to the curb below. The hallway buzzed with movement—footsteps, voices, someone shouting for an RA.
By the time they reached Room 217, Mello had already pulled on his shirt—barely buttoned, crooked. His hands were steady now. His mouth tasted like copper, but that wasn’t what he was thinking about.
The medics moved fast—oxygen, compressions, defibrillator paddles snapping open with the confidence of people who didn’t realize they were already too late.
Mello stood against the wall, arms folded. Watching.
Detached.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t offer help he knew wouldn’t matter.
They didn’t ask who he was right away. Not until the stretcher came out.
“Are you the one who called it in?” one of them asked as they rolled Daniel’s body down the corridor.
Mello nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Was he using anything? Did he complain of chest pain earlier? Any trauma?”
“No.” His voice was low. Controlled. “He was fine. Until he wasn’t.”
They took that in. Didn’t argue.
But he could see it on their faces.
They didn’t get it either.
He followed them down the steps, ignoring the cold on his bare arms. His jacket was still upstairs, but he didn’t care. His boots hit the concrete hard—quick, deliberate strides. Focused.
The courtyard outside had filled.
Students were everywhere—half-dressed, barefoot, wrapped in blankets and confusion. Some asked what happened. Some just stared. One kid was crying, pressed to a phone.
“What the hell happened?” someone whispered.
“Oh shit—it’s Mello.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Mello didn’t even look at them.
He walked beside the stretcher as far as they’d let him. When the back doors of the ambulance opened, he stopped.
And that’s when one of the paramedics finally looked at him.
A beat passed—just a glance, taking him in.
And yeah—he knew what he looked like.
Black jeans, tight and ripped at the knees. Oversized belt with metal clasps. A fishnet shirt under a half-buttoned black oxford, sleeves shoved up over his forearms. Silver chains layered at his throat. One long rosary looped around his hand like armor. Eyes rimmed in kohl. Lip gloss still smudged from earlier.
He looked like sin and suspicion had a favorite.
“You okay?” the medic asked.
Mello stared at him flatly.
What a stupid question.
He turned away without answering. Walked back toward the crowd, back toward the whispers.
But not before glancing up at the sky.
Because someone had just played god.
And Mello hadn’t just seen it—
He’d recognized it.
Forty seconds.
It was Kira.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TEN: Kira
Cass & Light

It happened faster than he expected.
The ink was barely dry when the screaming started.
Red lights. Running feet. A crush of students surging toward the corridor like sharks catching the scent of blood.
Cass stopped in the doorway.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t speak.
He just stood there, watching the stretcher roll by—watching Mello with his sharp, unreadable stare and that low hum of tension that followed him like a ghost.
And underneath all that?
Relief.
It had worked.
Again.
Only this time, it hadn’t been his hand that did the writing.
“What the hell—” Light started.
His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
Cass turned. His face stayed neutral. “Let’s go back inside.”
And Light followed him—like someone trying not to look directly at a crime scene. Like someone walking backward into a burning building.
The second the door closed, Light unraveled.
He spun, breath catching. “That guy. That was him, right?”
Cass didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Light was already pacing. “I mean—what the fuck, this isn't real, it can’t be—”
Cass watched him.
Measured him.
If Light spiraled, Cass would have to fix it. Would have to decide whether the risk outweighed the use.
But he didn’t move yet.
Because there was still a chance this could work.
Then—
A voice.
“Man, you guys are dramatic.”
Cass whipped around so fast he hit the dresser.
There was something in the corner of the room.
Something wrong.
Tall. Twisted. Smiling like a corpse that had learned how to laugh.
He wasn’t human. Cass didn’t know what he was, but it wasn’t human.
“What the fuck is that?” he snapped.
The creature gave a lazy wave. “Relax. Name’s Ryuk. I’m a Shinigami.”
He grinned wider.
“Death god, if you wanna get technical.”
Cass’s pulse stuttered.
Death god?
What the hell is this?
Ryuk nodded toward the notebook on the desk. “That notebook is mine. Or was. You touched it. Now it’s yours.”
Then his eyes swung back to Cass. Amused.
Curious.
"...wheres yours kid?”
Cass didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Ryuk’s grin stretched.
“I can’t see your lifespan,” he said.
And then, clearer:
“That means you’re the owner of a Death Note.”
“So where’s your notebook, kid? Where’s your Shinigami?”
Cass stared at him.
“I— I don’t know, I’ve never seen one.”
That stopped the room cold.
Light turned to him. Slowly. Quietly.
And stared.
Cass felt the change before either of them spoke.
His heart dropped.
For the first time in years—
He didn’t feel in control.
Light’s voice cut through the silence.
“Oh my god,” he said, almost breathless.
“You’re Kira.”
Cass didn’t deny it.
He couldn’t.
Because now it was real.
And someone else finally knew.

_

Light felt something uncoil inside his chest.
Not fear.
Not revulsion.
Understanding.
Because suddenly everything made sense.
The notebook.
The deaths.
The morality people pretended to have but never used.
This was justice. This was power.
This was a world where evil didn’t get to win.
He turned back to the desk.
To the notebook.
To Ryuk, who was still watching like a game show host waiting for the punchline.
Light reached out.
Put his hand on the cover.
And smiled.
“I’m in.”
Cass hadn’t moved.
Not really.
But something in him had shifted—his mask thinned, peeled back. And underneath, Light didn’t see a murderer.
He saw a mirror.
“So let me guess,” Light said, stepping around the desk, voice cool again. “You sit down after class. Pull up the live crime broadcasts. Maybe a few headlines. Cross-reference court records. Write the names down.”
Cass tilted his head.
Light smirked.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I’d do.”
Cass let out a slow breath—almost like a laugh, but not quite. “Every night after chem.”
Ryuk let out a delighted noise from the corner.
“Oh, this is good,” he said. “I was hoping for a little drama, but you two—this is way more fun than I bargained for.”
Light barely acknowledged him. He was still watching Cass.
“We’re going to have to be careful,” he said, already sliding into strategist mode. “L’s literally across the courtyard.”
Cass’s mouth twitched.
“I have been,” he said. “I’ve been hacking into global sites. Pulling names from the U.S., Europe, South America. He probably already knows we're somewhere in Japan—but I’ve tried to scatter the trail, just in case.”
Light’s eyebrows raised slightly, impressed.
“No room for patterns. No mess. No mistakes.”
Cass nodded. “Of course.”
Light’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “If he started to suspect us… we could kill him.”
Cass didn’t blink.
“But no one knows his name,” Light added.
And from the corner, Ryuk hummed.
“I could help you with that,” he said. “There’s a deal. You give me half your remaining lifespan, and in exchange—you get the eyes.”
Light blinked. “Eyes?”
Ryuk grinned wider. “The Shinigami Eyes. With them, you can see anyone’s name and lifespan just by looking at them.”
Cass froze for a beat.
Then looked at Ryuk. “I want them.”
He said it with complete calm.
Calculated.
Light turned toward him immediately.
“Wait.”
Cass raised an eyebrow.
Light stepped in closer—just enough to drop his voice. “If we’re going to do this, we need you at full capacity. No cutting corners. Not yet.”
His smirk curved. “Besides, I kinda like the idea of keeping you around longer.”
Cass stared at him.
Then gave a crooked smile. “Okay. You’re right.”
Light nodded. “We save it. Last resort.”
Ryuk leaned back against the wall, wings rustling like paper on fire.
“Oh yeah,” he drawled. “This is gonna be fun.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Terms and Conditions
Cass

The room was quiet now.
The kind of quiet that comes after chaos. After sirens. After blood-slick panic and fluorescent lights. The air hadn’t cleared—it was just holding its breath.
Cass sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the bedframe. Light was pacing—tight little circles near the desk, hands raking through his hair, that controlled manic energy rising like static.
Ryuk was perched on the dresser. Sprawled out. Grinning with all his teeth.
Cass broke the silence first.
“…So,” he said, flatly. “You gonna tell me what happened to the Shinigami that dropped my notebook?”
Ryuk's grin twitched.
“If you haven’t seen them by now,” he said, “they’re definitely dead.”
Cass blinked. “Dead?”
“Yeah. When a Shinigami dies, their notebook falls. If someone picks it up…” he made a dramatic shrugging motion, “…congrats. New owner.”
Light stopped pacing. “Shinigami can die?”
“Of course,” Ryuk said cheerfully. “It’s just… rare. Has to be a really specific kind of death. Like sacrificing your remaining lifespan for a human. Kinda pathetic if you ask me.”
Cass leaned forward. “And what happens when we die?”
Ryuk chuckled. Low and amused.
“I write your name in my notebook.”
Cass’s stomach twisted—just a little.
Light stared at him. “You mean you’re the one who’ll kill us?”
“When the time comes,” Ryuk confirmed. “It’s neat that way. Full circle. When you're dead, I’ll take your notebook—” he nodded at Cass— “and I’ll take mine back from Light.”
Cass looked over.
Light was very still.
“So you need to stay close to both notebooks,” he said quietly.
Ryuk grinned.
“Bingo.”
Light’s expression shifted—from shock, to understanding, to strategy.
“Then you’re stuck with us.”
Ryuk stretched again. “Looks like it.”
Light turned toward him, eyes narrowing.
“Then make yourself useful.”
Ryuk tilted his head.
Light stepped forward. “You’re going to tell us everything. Every rule. Every loophole. Every trick we can use.”
Cass smirked faintly.
Ryuk’s grin widened. “Now this is getting interesting.”
Light sat down hard on the bed. Rested his elbows on his knees. The room was dim—the only light came from the window, moonlight casting thin silver lines across the floor.
“Let’s talk about the heart attacks,” he said. “Forty seconds. That’s the rule, right?”
Cass nodded. “Unless you specify the cause of death.”
Light exhaled. “Then that means Daniel…” He trailed off.
“Died just like all the others,” Cass finished for him. “Heart failure. Forty seconds. Textbook Kira.”
Light scrubbed a hand down his face. “Then I blew it.”
His stomach dropped.
Because now L knew Kira was close.
And worse—they both saw Mello walk out of Daniel’s room with the paramedics. They both knew what Mello had been doing. Knew Mello saw it happen.
Light’s breath hitched. “Shit.”
Ryuk laughed.
He looked at Cass, sharp again. “Why did you let me do it?”
Cass stared back. Unflinching.
“I didn’t stop you,” he said. “Because I wanted to know how it would feel. To watch someone else do it.”
Light blinked.
Cass continued, voice flat. “And because we can cover our tracks.”
Light crossed his arms. “How?”
“We shift the pattern. Make it less predictable. Find loopholes. Force them to rethink the profile.”
He looked at Ryuk.
“Start talking.”
Ryuk looked delighted, swung his legs over the edge of the dresser, spine cracking audibly as he grinned.
“You know the basic rules. The book tells you those. Forty seconds. Names and faces. Specify a time, specify a cause. Pretty straightforward.”
Cass nodded. “I’ve had it for six years. I know the ink inside and out.”
“Yeah,” Ryuk said, amused. “But there’s stuff that’s not in the pages.”
Light leaned in, laser-focused.
“Like what?”
Ryuk scratched lazily at his shoulder with one long claw. “Like how much you can get away with inside those rules. You know you can write detailed behavior before death, right? As long as the victim could realistically do it?”
Cass nodded. “It won’t make them do something impossible. But if they have the knowledge and ability, the Note will force the behavior.”
“Exactly,” Ryuk said. “So let’s say you write, ‘Jumps in front of a train at 8:14 p.m. after deleting every file on their laptop and leaving behind a signed confession.’ That’ll happen.”
Light’s eyes sharpened.
“So we can make deaths look like suicides. Accidents. Guilt-driven breakdowns.”
Cass added, “Confessions. Anonymously leaked crimes. Fake trails.”
Ryuk nodded. “You can even create chains. ‘Destroys evidence. Sends anonymous message. Jumps from rooftop.’ You just can’t write them doing something they don’t know how to do.”
Light stood up suddenly.
“Then that’s our out.”
Cass raised an eyebrow.
Light began pacing again—this time not panicking, just thinking fast.
“Everyone expects Kira to keep killing criminals. That’s the myth. That’s the image. So we let that continue. But we start planting other deaths. Ones that look like guilt. Or blackmail. Or internal collapse.”
Cass leaned forward. “Two layers.”
Light nodded. “Classic Kira to keep the pattern alive. And Shadow Kira to move among the cracks.”
Ryuk grinned wide. “There it is.”
Cass sat back on his hands. “No more Wammy’s victims. Not unless absolutely necessary. Not while L’s watching.”
Light turned to him.
Sharp profile lit by the spill of moonlight through the window. Eyes alive. Mind racing. Something unholy blooming just beneath his skin.
“We build the illusion of distance,” he said, voice low. “We control the spotlight. And we disappear into the shadows.”
Cass met his gaze without blinking. His breath came slow, controlled—but something flickered in his throat. Like a spark looking for oxygen.
His voice dropped.
Low. Steady.
“We become the myth.”
There was a pause.
A breath.
And then—
Light smirked.
That crooked, dangerous grin that always came right before someone regretted trusting him.
“We become gods.”
Cass’s spine tensed.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
Like something ancient had just been named out loud.
He stood slowly, the space between them charged like static before a lightning strike. They didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared.
And then Light stepped forward.
So close Cass could feel his breath, hot and deliberate.
Cass moved first—grabbing the front of Light’s shirt, fisting the fabric like he wanted to tear it, or anchor himself, or maybe both.
And Light didn’t stop him.
He surged in—mouth colliding with Cass’s in a kiss that wasn’t sweet, or soft, or careful. It was teeth. And heat. And promise.
Cass pulled him closer—fast, sharp, breath catching.
The notebook was still on the desk.
Their names were written in it. Not yet in ink, but in the air. In the way they touched. In the way they kissed like two forces collapsing into singularity.
And from the dresser, Ryuk’s voice rang out.
“Well damn.”
He clapped once, slow and gleeful.
“Did not see that coming. Okay, maybe a little. You two are seriously going to make this entertaining.”
Neither of them looked away.
Cass pulled back just slightly, breathless, eyes still locked on Light’s.
“We’re not done,” he said.
Light’s smile was razor-sharp.
“We’re just getting started.”
And Ryuk laughed again—deep and hungry.
“Oh boys,” he said, wings stretching with delight. “You’re already more fun than the last one.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWELVE: Shrapnel
Matt

He wasn’t surprised when Mello showed up.
Didn’t flinch when the door opened without a knock.
Mello always walked in like that—like he owned the place, even when he was coming apart.
Matt looked up from the screen.
Took one look at his face.
And said, “You okay?”
Stupid question.
Mello didn’t answer.
He crossed the room slow, like he didn’t know why he was doing it—like his body got there before the rest of him caught up.
Matt didn’t move.
Just sat there, controller resting in his hands, waiting.
And then—Mello knelt.
Right in front of him.
No words.
Just reached out and slid his hand around the controller.
He took it gently from Matt’s grip.
Set it aside.
And kissed him.
Hard. Sudden. Needing.
Matt didn’t hesitate.
Mello was warm and desperate and trembling at the edges, and Matt—
Matt melted.
He kissed back like it was automatic. Like breathing. Like of course.
Of course he’s here.
Of course I want this.
Of course I want him.
He didn’t ask what happened.
Didn’t need to.
He could feel it in Mello’s grip. In the way his hands shook against Matt’s jaw. In the way he pushed, mouth hard, unrelenting, unwilling to stop.
Matt let him take. Let him crawl into his lap, tugging at his hoodie, pressing up against his chest like he was trying to erase something.
Matt held him like he could.
They made it to the bed in pieces.
Clothes half-removed, half-forgotten.
Mello’s mouth never really left his.
Matt eased him down, slow and careful. Mello didn’t protest.
Didn’t demand control this time.
Just arched his back, pulled Matt in tighter, and let go.
And God—Matt would’ve done anything he asked.
Anything.
Because Mello was fire and noise and chaos to the world—
But when he looked at Matt like this?
He was gravity.
Matt kissed every inch of him.
Ran hands over ribs, spine, thighs—gentle, reverent.
Mello’s breath hitched every time. He gripped the sheets like they were the only things keeping him grounded.
Matt went slow. Careful. But not shy.
He knew Mello’s body.
Knew how to move with him.
Knew the sounds he made when it was too much and the ones he made when it wasn’t enough.
And Mello—
Mello let him.
When they were tangled together, hips rocking, sweat slick between them, Mello curled his fingers into Matt’s hair and gasped something too broken to name.
And Matt kissed his shoulder. His jaw. His temple.
Never said a word.
Because words would have made it real.
After, Mello didn’t roll away. He stayed.
Pressed into Matt’s chest. Breathing unevenly.
Matt didn’t hold him too tight.
Just enough.
Enough to be there.
Enough to say I’m not leaving.
“…Daniel?” he asked, after the silence stretched too long.
Mello’s voice came out cracked.
“It was forty seconds.”
Matt blinked up at the ceiling.
Mello’s body was still trembling slightly.
“That’s how long it took,” he said. “From the moment he winced to when he went still.”
Matt didn’t say I’m sorry.
Didn’t say I know.
Just nodded. Stayed close.
“You didn’t even like him,” he said.
It wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t cruel.
It was just true.
Mello laughed, a little—harsh and broken.
“No. I didn’t.”
Matt didn’t flinch.
And still—
He would’ve done anything to keep Mello from breaking like this.
He moved closer. Pressed his lips to Mello’s forehead.
Didn’t say I love you.
Didn’t need to.
Because Mello curled into his chest with a sigh that cracked right down the middle.
And Matt held him like he always had.
Like he always would.
His hand now moved slowly—barely-there strokes down Mello’s spine. Steady. Gentle.
Soothing, like muscle memory.
Like you’re here, you’re safe, you don’t have to fight right now.
Mello didn’t talk.
Didn’t pull away.
He let his body soften by degrees—shoulders unlocking, breath deepening, muscles unclenching inch by inch like whatever had held him upright all this time had finally given out.
He didn’t sleep easy.
Not at first.
But Matt stayed awake long enough for both of them.
He listened to the change in Mello’s breathing.
Felt it shift from guarded to unconscious.
Felt the weight of him settle.
Matt stared at the ceiling for a while longer, eyes dry, thoughts quiet.
He didn’t want to fall asleep.
Not because he was afraid.
But because this—this—was one of those moments you don’t get back.
Mello’s head rested just beneath his collarbone now, gold strands of hair brushing Matt’s skin. He smelled like sweat and smoke and the remnants of cheap chocolate, and it shouldn’t have felt like home.
But it did.
Matt finally let his eyes fall closed.

_

Mello stirred slowly.
A breath.
A shift.
A faint scrunch of his brow against the morning light bleeding in through the blinds.
Matt felt it before he saw it—Mello’s body tensing slightly like instinct, like muscle memory.
Like waking up next to Matt was familiar enough to expect… but still rare enough to brace for.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t open his eyes right away.
But Matt knew the signs.
Mello was already preparing to leave.
So Matt spoke before he could.
“You stayed.”
Not a challenge.
Not a question.
Just a statement of fact.
Of truth.
Mello didn’t look at him. His voice came out hoarse.
“Yeah.”
Matt waited.
Mello rolled onto his back with a sigh, arm thrown over his eyes like he wanted to block out more than just the light.
“You’re not gonna make it a thing, right?”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “A thing?”
“You know,” Mello muttered. “Talk about it. Get all… feelings and eye contact and whatever.”
Matt shrugged, voice dry. “That would require either of us being emotionally functional.”
Mello let out a tired snort. “Good.”
Silence stretched.
It wasn’t awkward.
It never really was.
Because this wasn’t new.
This wasn’t the first time they’d ended up tangled in each other’s arms after someone else’s name had already been buried in the sheets.
They just didn’t talk about it.
Didn’t look too closely.
Matt finally rolled onto his side, head propped on one hand.
“You wanna pretend it didn’t happen?”
Mello didn’t answer at first.
Then, slowly:
“No.”
Matt nodded. “Same.”
Another silence—but this one was different.
Not heavy.
Just… full.
Mello’s fingers curled slightly on the blanket. His jaw worked once before he said, without looking at Matt:
“We keep doing this.”
Matt didn’t have to ask what this was.
He already knew.
Mello went on, voice quieter now.
“We hook up. We sleep with other people. And then we end up back here. Like we’re trying to make it not mean anything.”
Matt’s eyes didn’t leave him. “But it does.”
Mello’s breath caught.
He didn’t say yes.
But he didn’t deny it.
“I slept with Daniel,” he said, flatly. “Because I didn’t want to think about you.”
Matt’s voice was calm. “I know.”
“I figured if I fucked someone else it’d shut my brain up. About you. About all of this.”
“Did it work?”
Mello looked over. Finally. Really looked.
“…No.”
Matt reached out—slow, deliberate—and took his hand.
Their fingers laced automatically, like they’d done it a hundred times in sleep but never in the daylight.
Mello didn’t pull away.
Matt’s voice stayed soft. “Do we keep pretending?”
A long pause.
Mello swallowed. His thumb brushed over Matt’s knuckles—nervous, maybe, but steady.
Then, barely above a whisper:
“I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen.”
Matt’s breath caught in his chest.
For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Then he leaned in—slow, careful—like giving Mello a chance to change his mind.
Mello didn’t.
Their lips met somewhere between breath and belief.
It wasn’t rushed.
Wasn’t rough.
Just real.
Warm. Lingering.
A kiss that tasted like truth.
And when they broke apart, foreheads pressed close, neither of them let go of the other’s hand.
Because this time—
They weren’t going back.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Two is a Pattern
B & L

The meeting room had five chairs.
Four were occupied.
B saw it the second he walked in.
Something had shifted.
Mello sat far left, like always, but the rosary wrapped around his fist wasn’t just for show today—it was clenched, links tight against his skin. His jaw was set. His eyes locked straight ahead.
Matt sat next to him.
Too close to be casual. Not touching—not exactly—but close enough B didn’t need details.
They hadn’t spoken since he walked in.
But they didn’t need to.
B slid into his seat beside Mello, rain still dripping from his cuffs. He said nothing. But he didn’t have to.
He’d seen it.
All of it.
Every tilt of the head. Every night that ended in silence. Every exit that was supposed to mean nothing.
Until now.
They weren’t hiding it anymore.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t smirk.
Just watched.
And waited.
Near sat opposite, pawn spinning slowly between his fingers, legs folded neatly beneath him.
Matt’s switch sat in his lap—off. Forgotten.
L didn’t sit. He perched.
Knees drawn to his chest, fingers pressed against his lip, eyes skimming the floor like the answers might write themselves there.
Then:
“A student is dead.”
It landed hard.
Not as a surprise.
But like a weight they were already braced to catch.
Mello didn’t move.
But his knuckles went white.
“Cardiac arrest,” L continued. “Forty seconds. No pre-existing conditions. No substances. No trauma. No logic.”
His eyes lifted.
“It was Kira.”
No one spoke.
Near’s pawn slowed.
Matt glanced at Mello—not L.
And Mello?
He stared forward.
Tense. Still.
Beneath the surface, vibrating like a live wire.
L didn’t say his name.
But everyone already knew who’d been there when Daniel collapsed.
“This makes two,” L said.
“Eli Moreno. Daniel Kessler.”
Matt’s voice broke the silence. “But Eli overdosed.”
L didn’t blink. “Or he saw something he wasn’t supposed to—and was executed.”
Mello’s voice was rough when it came.
“Then why kill Daniel with a heart attack? If it was about covering tracks, why make it that obvious?”
He didn’t look at anyone.
Matt’s hand twitched—just barely—against the fabric of his jeans.
B watched.
Still silent.
Still calculating.
L turned his gaze toward the window. The courtyard outside was washed in morning light—clean and quiet, like nothing had happened at all.
“I don’t know yet,” he said.
The silence that followed was thick.
Not confused.
Just heavy.
Because they knew.
They’d all known.
And then L said it.
What none of them wanted to be the first to say:
“This means Kira is most likely a student here. At Wammy’s.”
No one reacted.
No gasps. No surprise.
Just stillness.
It wasn’t new.
But hearing it out loud—
That dropped like a hammer.
B let the quiet stretch.
He didn’t look at Matt.
Didn’t look at Mello.
But he saw them.
Saw the weight settle in Mello’s shoulders. Saw the way Matt stayed close without saying anything at all.
And B?
He didn’t speak.
But his gaze slid toward the door.
Because someone in this building was killing.
And he had a name.
But no number.
Not yet.

_

They had been working in silence for nearly three hours.
Not the usual Wammy chaos. Not the sharpened verbal sparring of a competitive room.
Silence.
Functional. Exhausted. Thick as dust.
The old Wammy library flickered under mismatched bulbs. Half of them buzzed faintly. One above the western stacks pulsed in three-second intervals. The air was dry and metallic, thick with paper mold, the scent of disuse clinging to the carpet like damp breath.
Matt sat against the base of a low shelf, legs stretched, one ankle crossed over the other. He was typing rapidly—bare fingers ghosting over his keyboard, a cigarette between his lips. His hoodie sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and his brow furrowed every time the processor lagged.
Near had carved out a corner on the far table, surrounded by concentric circles of case files, open textbooks, and torn newspaper clippings.
Mello prowled.
He moved like a dog in a cage—back and forth between shelves, fingers grazing the bindings of outdated law books, pushing them back in harder than he needed to. He didn’t speak. His rosary was wrapped twice around his hand.
And B sat beside L on the floor.
Shoulder-to-shoulder. Quiet.
He hadn’t spoken in hours. His hair was messy, ends curling from sweat and humidity. The circles under his eyes were darker than usual. His fingers were streaked faintly with ink.
They worked in rhythm.
L pulled files.
B passed them.
Neither of them spoke.
It was peaceful. In its own way.
L crouched lower, shifting to reach beneath the lowest shelf. His knees clicked faintly. He ignored it.
A red file box sat wedged behind two outdated anatomy volumes. He pulled it free. The latch gave after a moment, rust flaking onto the carpet.
Inside: Wammy House dossiers. Most were unmarked. One had its label nearly torn off—illegible to anyone else.
But he could read it.
“Beyond Birthday — Psychological Evaluation”
He paused.
The breath in his throat did not catch. His hands did not tremble.
But everything in him slowed.
He had never seen this file.
That meant Roger had buried it.
He opened it.
First page: a photograph.
Black and white. Poorly lit.
B.
Eight years old. Shoulders too sharp, eyes too red. His cheek was bruised. His mouth was slack—not in fear. Not even in pain.
In knowing.
L flipped the page.
Subject reports seeing “floating numbers” above people’s heads.
Reports consistent over a four-month observation period.
Claims numbers predict death.
No hallucinations or neurological anomalies on record.
Suspected trauma response.
Further psychological testing recommended but never conducted.
He flipped again.
Drawings.
Too many.
Faces, some recognizable.
Numbers. Death dates. Xs. Arrows. Circles. Names scrawled in a child’s handwriting.
Some crossed out. Some underlined.
He was still staring when—
“Hey,” B said behind him.
His voice was casual, but it had a weight under it. Tired. Frayed.
“What’d you find?”
L didn’t answer.
He tilted the folder upward, open.
B leaned over to look.
And then he went completely still.
Not frozen in fear.
Not shocked.
Just—silent.
His whole body went motionless.
Like something deep inside him had folded in on itself.
L felt it.
Watched it.
Saw the shift in his breathing.
The twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The way his hand almost moved to close the folder—and didn’t.
L didn’t say a word.
He didn’t need to.
A shadow moved behind him.
Too fast.
Mello.
He reached down and snatched the file from L’s hand.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, already reading.
L didn’t stop him.
Mello’s eyes flew over the contents.
The photograph.
The notes.
The red ink.
The drawings.
And then—he looked up.
Looked at B.
And L watched the recognition flood across Mello’s face like blood through water.
“Oh my god,” Mello whispered.
Matt looked up. “What?”
Mello didn’t answer. He flipped a page, then another.
“He’s been seeing it this whole time.”
“Seeing what?” Matt asked, standing now.
Mello turned the file toward him. “Death."
L watched B.
He hadn’t moved.
Not really.
Just sat there.
Staring.
Near didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
But L saw the change in his posture.
Saw the way his head tilted by a fraction.
Saw the calculation begin.
L turned back to B.
His voice was soft. Quiet enough that only B could hear it.
“The way you looked at Cassian…”
A pause. A beat. The lights hummed overhead. Matt’s laptop clicked once as it timed out.
“…Is he going to die?”
B didn’t answer.
Not immediately.
He didn’t move.
The silence stretched long.
Ten seconds.
Twelve.
Fourteen.
Mello turned back, watching him.
Matt didn’t breathe.
Even the buzzing bulb above the anatomy stack stopped flickering for a moment.
L waited.
And then—
B’s voice cracked.
“I don’t know.”