Chapter Text
Light Yagami first sees you on the train.
Sort of.
He convinces himself it’s a trick of the light. That the flicker of blood-red he spotted was just a figment of his imagination. Light just saw what he wanted to see, and in his preoccupation with the Death Note, his mind conjured you up. Makes sense. After all, he only saw you for a brief moment—as you headed out of the train car when he entered. It could’ve been from the glare of the sunlight.
Still, your shoulders brushed as you both kept walking. And by the time Light finds a seat and looks out the window, you’re already gone.
It doesn’t take him long to interrogate Ryuk about it (after the Shinigami had stared after you with an eerie grin on its face). Ryuk then reveals that humans with the Death Note can make a deal with Shinigami: giving up half of their lifespan in exchange for Shinigami Eyes, which allow them to see any person’s name and lifespan. Shinigami Eyes are red when humans possess them.
Still, he’s not completely convinced. As the investigation continues and he’s put under L’s increasing scrutiny, Light has been somewhat overactive in his caution. He eventually dismisses you as a facade constructed by his tired mind.
This is all well and good for about a week, until he sees you on the train again. Roughly the same time on the same day of the week, headphones on to block out the intermittent noise of the commute. Light finds himself staring again, this time making no effort to hide his attention. His gaze finds yours… and warm brown eyes meet crimson.
Light is only broken from his observation when you turn to exit the train. He looks up and eyes the stop you depart at, making a mental note of it. If you do have Shinigami Eyes—and those vivid red eyes aren’t just contacts—then you could be very useful to him.
After all, Light Yagami isn’t an average guy. Sure, it seems like he is. He graduated from high school and university with top marks and impeccable standardized test scores. After university, he immediately took a job at the police department—aided by his father’s position as the chief there. His neat swooping brown hair and warm brown eyes, combined with his dress shirt, tie, and slacks, give him the appearance of an average nine to five worker—albeit one younger than most.
But Light is far from average. Because he recently found the Death Note, which gives him the power to kill a person if he knows their name and face. Over the past few months, he’s been enforcing justice by killing off criminals under the public-assigned moniker “Kira”. And, coincidentally, his father’s team within the police department is the one invited to collaborate with world-renowned detective L in capturing Kira. Now, Light has access to his enemy’s every thought and plan. It’s perfect.
Still. Perfect can always improve, in his not so humble opinion. And he’s starting to grow a bit irritated with how L is breathing down his neck these days. He’d love nothing more than to kill the guy right off the bat, but unfortunately, Light doesn’t know his real name—and therefore can’t make him a victim of the Death Note.
Those Shinigami Eyes could be his trump card. Light isn’t foolish enough to get them himself, but if he made use of someone who already had them…
Then he’d win.
You’re used to people staring—you’ve been forced to grow accustomed to it, anyway. You’re constantly reminded of the stark difference in your appearance, as passersby of all ages and ethnicities stare at you as if you’re the Antichrist himself.
Your red eyes freak people out.
You learned this early on. From a very young age, you were ostracized by your peers and bullied for your differences. That’s an experience many can claim, and you’re not one to paint yourself out to be a martyr. You will say, though, that a lot of children grow out of staring. They start to see people different from them more often, and soon ‘different’ becomes normal. Unfortunately for you, there aren’t exactly any other people running around Tokyo with natural red eyes. And so, you’re the frequent target of muttered insults, shoulder-checks, and ‘accidental’ legs shooting out to trip you up.
Still, you’ve been trying not to bemoan your existence whenever possible. Things could be a lot worse. Besides, you could always just try color contacts again… Though you’ve made countless attempts across the years, and, for some reason, they just don’t work for your eyes. It’s puzzled optometrists and ophthalmologists alike.
Besides, how does the saying go? ‘Embrace your differences’? Stories like the Ugly Duckling, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer… Those kinds of fables were shoved down your throat from a very young age. They always hit too close to home, and being given them always felt patronizing and borderline insulting.
You suspect the difficulties that come with your eyes revolve around the fact that they are not, ultimately, human. Not really. You were born with them, of course—your parents have the baby pictures, featuring unnerved nurses and doctors, to prove it. But from the earliest moments of your life, your eyes granted you a unique ability: to see a person’s name and remaining lifespan. For a while, you tried asking your parents about the floating numbers above people’s heads. They never had an answer. Eventually, you just stopped asking.
Still, you wondered. You wondered why some people’s numbers would shudder and jitter like slot machines at the simplest of gestures—a minute step; grabbing a drink. For a long time, you had no real conception of what the numbers you could see really meant. Because you’d never seen them get to zero.
Then, one evening after school, you passed by someone with an extraordinarily low number. Only a couple of minutes. You frowned and stared at them, not finding any trace of sickness or something that may be wrong with them. What could the countdown possibly mean?
Heart thundering in your chest, you eventually ducked around the corner to hide yourself. Their numbers almost seemed to sear themselves into your vision. Five. Four. Three, two, one. The numbers began to fall away like scraps of paper in the wind, fluttering away from the person. You stared in disbelief, a breath catching in your throat as you looked back over at them to find them slumped on the ground.
You did the only thing you could: you ran.
You didn’t know what to say to your parents when they managed to coax you out of despondence hours later. So eventually you dropped the subject, and you learned to keep the secret of your eyes to yourself.
And, as it turned out, keeping to yourself was pretty easy to do. No one at school wanted to be your friend, on account of your ‘demonic’ eyes. Teachers never made eye contact; most other kids shied away from you, while the brave ones shoved you into lockers and tried to trip you up on the stairs. Even as you grew older and went to college, you still felt like an outsider. You knew a few people, but they were closer to acquaintances than friends. They were in your classes. As the semesters dragged on, you started to lose touch. Which was fine. You preferred your solitary lifestyle. Sure, it was a bit lonely sometimes, but it suited you just fine.
Even in working life, as you graduated from big lecture halls to a cubicle for a full-time job, you were always on the outskirts. As a working adult, you tended to get more basic decency and respect, if only because you worked with other adults who knew how to behave. But you were still aware of how they whispered about you, how the room fell silent the moment you walked in.
Yeah. Red eyes weren’t exactly a blessing for your social life. Or, well, your life at all. Being constantly reminded of human mortality takes a toll on you. You’ve had particularly bad bouts of depression and anxiety from a young age, and even now, after medications and finding the one therapist who took you seriously… Well. You’re not perfect. Besides, oftentimes mental illness isn’t ever done away with. It’s more about how you cope with it. For you, that varies day to day. Sometimes, you’re fine.
Other times, you hug your parents and try not to cry over your mother’s shoulder when you see the number above her head. Other times, numbers bleed into one another; crowds become intolerable; and you think back to the times you were dubbed ‘the Grim Reaper’ by your classmates way back when. And you wonder: Maybe they weren’t so far off.
Someone’s following you.
It isn’t the first time, and you doubt it’ll be the last. Again, the red eyes really seem to unnerve people. Still, it’s aggravating that people assume they have a right to harass you or trap you in long conversations about cosplaying anime villains [which is better than harassment, but still]. You know you have it a lot easier than other people—that prejudice can be far worse than ignorant remarks about eye color.
You sigh and shove your hands in your pockets, glancing over your shoulder again. They’re still following you, even after you’ve been walking for about ten minutes or so. Your jaw clenches. You’ve done this song and dance enough to know what you should do next. But you’re tired of running.
“I don’t have cash,” you say flatly, turning around to face the empty sidewalk behind you, “and I’ll just cancel my credit cards.”
The stranger who’d been following you finally makes himself known, stepping out from behind a lamppost. “Ah, I apologize,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. He takes a step forward and the afternoon sunlight strikes his face. He has broad shoulders and slicked black hair, a mustache above his lip and wire glasses resting on his nose. He’s wearing a brown suit and slacks. “That’s not what I’m here for, I assure you.” He holds his open palms out.
“Okay,” you say warily. You glance at the number above his head, then meet his eyes briefly. “Then… what are you here for?” You’d like to know why this man was following you for the better half of the day. You first noticed him shortly after you left work, though you convinced yourself you were imagining it. Clearly, you weren’t.
“My name is Soichiro Yagami,” the man explains, pulling out his badge and showing it to you. “Chief of police.”
“Oh,” you say warily. You’ve heard of him through your numerous unwilling visits to the police department, but you’ve never met him. Not until now, at least. “…Nice to meet you…” you bite out, struggling to keep your cool. Does the police chief really have nothing better to do than follow you around all day? What the fuck?
“You’re not in any trouble,” Soichiro assures you. His hands rest in his pockets, though you see the gun resting in his holster. If he wanted you to come with him, he could very well force you. Instead, Yagami only levels you with an expectant look. “I was hoping you would come with me. There’s someone who wants to speak to you.”
You frown. “About what?” This sounds fishy, but his badge looks real and you remember hearing about the man before. Actually, his last name sounds familiar too. Yagami. You think a guy at your school had that family name.
Soichiro looks to the left, then the right. The street around you is momentarily deserted, though cars pass by frequently. He takes a slow breath. “About Kira,” he answers.
“Kira?” you repeat. “What does that have to do with me?”
“He’ll explain everything,” Soichiro answers in lieu of a real response.
“Who’s ‘he’?”
An hour later, you find yourself seated in a scratchy armchair in a nondescript hotel room. Across from you sits a man around your age, with a lithe form, shaggy black hair, and black eyes framed by shadowed dark circles. The guy wears a white long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans, his knees pulled to his chest and exposing his bare feet as he perches on the chair like a bird of prey.
“My name is L,” he says without fanfare, “but you may call me Ryuzaki.”
You look over to Soichiro, who has the grace to look mildly embarrassed at the situation. “He is particularly fond of dramatics,” he admits, lingering by the door awkwardly.
“I had to ensure you weren’t followed,” L insists, eyes locked on the police chief. He blinks once slowly, as if the movement is unnatural to him. “You may wait outside.” At that blunt dismissal, Yagami promptly exits the room.
Great. Just great. You’re alone with the detective who’s supposedly in charge of the Kira investigation. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. You don’t know anything about Kira, so it’s clear why you’re here: he thinks you’re Kira.
“You don’t seem surprised that I’ve summoned you,” L notes, regarding you with a blank expression.
“I get pulled into this kind of stuff all the time,” you remark. It feels like any crime that happens within a five-mile radius of your apartment in Tokyo is automatically connected to you. You’re a regular at the police department now. And while the more experienced officers know you’re a good guy, the rookies always drag you in for questioning. Honestly, it’s kind of crazy that you’re only just meeting Soichiro Yagami today. You’ve been in the station more times than you can count. “Gotta say, I kinda expected better from the world’s best detective, though,” you blurt out.
L arches a brow. You continue before you can stop yourself. “Seems lazy,” you say, a bit unnerved by his unrelenting stare. He hasn’t once broken eye contact since Soichiro left the room. “But sure, red eyes mean evil and whatnot. I get it, you’re out of ideas.”
You’re trying to provoke him at this point, but it doesn’t really stick. The detective must sense the attempt, because he looks mildly amused for a split second before his face adopts a blank mask once more. He reaches out, his sleeve slipping up his forearm and revealing almost frighteningly pale skin, veins prominently running up and down his arms. You watch as he picks up some sort of cake with slender fingers, before proceeding to eat while still in that hunched position.
“Kira still eludes capture,” L says between bites. His eyes are locked on the cake, even as he speaks. “Logic hasn’t seemed to work. Therefore… I’m exploring the illogical.” He looks back up at you as he says that.
“...Okay,” you say awkwardly. If he’s admitting this is illogical, then why is he even bothering with it? Is his task force really that desperate? They must be running out of ideas, if Kira still hasn’t been caught. You suspect most of L’s cases don’t get the chance to escalate to a national—hell, global—scale like this. He probably resolves them before that happens. Not this time, it seems.
“You have red eyes,” L states.
“Yeah, I noticed,” you say dryly.
“Are they real?” he questions.
“Yes,” you confirm.
“Prove it.”
“How am I supposed to prove that?” you huff disbelievingly. “I’m not wearing contacts.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?” he drawls. “No. I refuse.” You watch as the detective unfolds himself, getting to his feet and walking over to you. His bare feet are noiseless on the hotel carpet, and you idly wonder if that plays into the whole not-wearing-shoes thing. It’s definitely an interesting choice—maybe it’s because of sensory issues? Though you would think that debris on the ground would be a sensory nightmare, and Tokyo’s streets aren’t exactly spotless. How does L even get around?
You’re so distracted by this line of thought that you don’t even notice him leaning forward until he’s a mere breath away from you, his lips nearly on your cheek. “Um,” you choke out, “what are you doing?”
“Verifying your claim,” he says, his arms clasped behind his back as the detective leans close. L’s eyes wander across your face, settling on your eyes and remaining there. “Look to the left.” You reluctantly follow the instruction. “Right.” You look to the right. This process continues a few more times, before he’s drawing back and pulling something from his pocket. And promptly blinding you.
“Ow, shit,” you hiss, slapping a hand over your eyes at the brightness of his flashlight. Your eyes immediately start to water and you wipe at them, before L is impatiently ordering that you ‘leave your eyes unobstructed’. “Warn a guy next time.”
“Follow my finger without moving your head,” L demands, ignoring your annoyance. You sigh and look over at his free hand, watching as he drags his finger through the air. The flashlight is annoyingly bright, but he must manage to see what he was looking for, because L soon clicks it off and leaves you to your grainy vision.
“They are natural,” L remarks with finality. You would almost say he sounds disappointed, if not for the rapt attention he’s paying you. Even after he returns to his armchair, he tilts his head and stares at you unabashedly. “Fascinating,” he remarks.
“Are we done yet?” you ask impatiently, wiping your watering eyes. Spots are rising across the ceiling and floor, your eyes protesting at the unexpected brightness you were subjected to a few minutes ago. “I promise you, I know virtually nothing about Kira. Aside from what the general public knows.”
“No, we are not,” L responds. “There’s something about you. I can feel it.”
“You can feel it,” you repeat dryly. “And that’s how you catch criminals? By feeling things?” you say sardonically.
“No,” he says with a slight scowl. L takes another bite of his cake, before pointing at you with his fork. “You haven’t told me everything. And I intend to figure out what you’re hiding.”
Silence. “Maybe you’re not asking the right questions,” you huff before you can stop yourself. Immediately you regret speaking. But it’s too late—L’s interest is already piqued. He knows that you’re not telling him something. Or, more accurately, many things. But you’re not sure about their relevance.
“Oh?”
“You shouldn’t be asking if my eyes are real,” you remark carefully, “but what they do.”
L blinks. His eyes lock onto you like he’s honing onto a target. You feel a shiver run down your spine.
“Never mind,” you say quickly, standing up and clumsily shrugging your jacket back on. You’ve said far too much. You don’t want to be here, and you sure as hell don’t want to sign yourself up to be an experiment for this guy. “I should get going.”
“No,” L refuses, swiftly getting to his feet and extending his arms as he blocks the door. “You can’t just say that and leave. You’re trapped now.”
“That’s all you’re getting from me,” you maintain, trying to sidestep him. “I don’t want to be involved in whatever this is.”
“No,” L asserts, standing firm. He looks pretty wiry, but looks are deceiving. And you’re not sure you have the energy to wrestle the guy away from the door. The detective stands there for several more moments, before burrowing his hands into his own pockets. He stares at you for a long moment. “You…” he says slowly, deep black eyes boring into you, “...could help.”
“Help,” you repeat skeptically, heart starting to race in your chest. What is happening? Why isn’t he letting you leave? And more importantly… “I don’t think you believe in asking for help, do you?”
“No,” L admits, finally stepping away from the door as he begins pacing the room. You’re left standing a short distance from the door, torn between leaving and staying. “But… I’m willing to put my pride aside.”
“Okay,” you frown. “That’s… good. I’m still not really interested.” Moreover, you have no idea how you would even be able to help him. Aside from revealing the truth about your Shinigami Eyes, you have no information to offer him. Nothing on Kira, nothing on criminals or murder victims. You’re not a detective, you’re not a police officer. You’re just… here.
L knows all of this, but he’s still speaking with you. Taking time out of his purportedly very busy schedule to converse. He must think that you’re hiding something important. And who knows? Maybe your Shinigami Eyes are important. Maybe, somehow, they’re related to Kira. You don’t really think so, but…
“And justice?” the detective asks, breaking through the uneasy silence.
You blink. “What about it?” you respond.
“Catching Kira would be just,” L asserts.
“Sure,” you acquiesce. “But that’s not my job.” That’s your job, you want to say. Instead you continue, “Plus, they’re kinda doing us a favor at this point. People are finally starting to wake up to the problems all around them.” That’s both an understatement and an overexaggeration, but you settle for it anyway. You’d need a whole day to talk about Kira and their impact on society.
The detective doesn’t seem to particularly care about your stance on Kira. “You’re not interested,” L observes.
“Not really,” you agree. “If they start killing innocents, come back to me.”
L takes one step backwards, then one step forwards. “I’m back,” he states, hands still shoved in his pockets. You stifle a laugh. He took that way too literally. It was… sort of cute.
The look on his face convinces you of the serious nature of this conversation, though. You look at him expectantly. L sighs. “Two weeks ago,” he begins, “Kira killed an FBI agent: Naomi Misora.”
Silence. You’re standing there, waiting for more detail. He just remains quiet. You frown. Now he’s the one omitting information.
“...How?” you ask.
Indeed, the detective almost seems to scowl. Almost. “Suicide,” L answers.
You think L is grasping at straws. Kira kills people through heart attacks. The suicide of an FBI agent likely isn’t related. And if it really were, you think he’d have a lot more detail. There would be a more tangible connection between this person and their work on the Kira case, if they were even involved in it.
“That’s not enough for me,” you respond.
“She never would’ve—” L begins to say.
“What, never would’ve done it?” you interject before he can finish. “Yeah, no, we are not going into the ignorant narrative of ‘she didn’t look depressed’! You call yourself the greatest detective and you can’t recognize that mental health can be a hidden struggle? Come on.” You scoff.
He blinks. Stills for a moment. His back faces you as he looks at the wall, seemingly needing a moment for himself. Apparently, he doesn’t see you as a threat. Which… well. That’s correct. But still!
“That… is a fair criticism,” L admits begrudgingly.
You sigh, zipping up your jacket. “The offer still stands,” you remark, “but I’m leaving.”
L looks conflicted, but he doesn’t move to block the doorway again. “Very well,” he relents. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Sure,” you answer, hand finally on the doorknob now. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck,” the detective scoffs. You get the feeling he’s said that line before.
“It never hurts,” you huff, stepping into the hall.
You swear you feel L’s eyes boring into your back, even long after you leave the room.
Soichiro comes to visit you again a week later. You’re taken to a different hotel, though it’s a remarkably similar room. L is waiting for you, perched on the chair again. There’s cake on the table waiting for him. He blinks at you, asks you how your day is going. You frown and respond skeptically, confused by the turn in conversation.
That’s all he does. Just… talks. It’s so strange. Your last conversation had been focused on the Kira investigation. Not this one. At least, not explicitly. But you have a feeling this is all for the long con: L is trying to make you more comfortable in his presence, so that you’re more likely to give him the information you’re hiding. And damn it, it’s kind of working.
At least, until you realize something. It’s only through years of practice that you’re able to keep a straight face, as you look up at the number above L’s head and realize that it’s different. You remember it being much larger when you first met. There are less numbers now. You blink once, twice—convinced you’re seeing things. But no. The time until his death just dramatically shrunk, by years. Maybe even decades.
Honestly, you’re so accustomed to seeing people’s lifespans that it’s hard for you to remember a specific person’s number, unless it’s unusually high or low, or they’re particularly close to you. L’s hadn’t fit in either of those criteria before, but now, his lifespan is almost frighteningly low.
You swallow hard, tearing your eyes away. Unfortunately, the detective is looking at you now, clearly having noticed your preoccupation. “You’re staring,” he mentions. And while he doesn’t know what you were looking at, he must know you were looking at—or thinking about—something important.
You’re briefly thrown out of your reverie. “I know.” A pause. Your fingers jitter against your jeans. L’s eyes follow this motion. You pretend not to notice, instead taking a slow breath. “Would you consider yourself… important?” you ask carefully.
“Yes,” L answers without hesitation.
“How important?” you question. That number above his head is as bright as a beacon, nearly burning into your vision. “Quantitatively.”
It’s a testament to L’s nature that he doesn’t even flinch at the question. “I’ve solved over 3,500 cases,” he answers. “And I’ve put over 10,500 criminals in prison.”
Those numbers are staggering, for sure. You could go off on a tangent and ponder on how many of those were wrongful convictions, but you decide to focus on the matter at hand: the number above L’s head.
“How long do you plan to be a detective?” you continue. It’s very difficult to keep your eyes on him, instead of the numbers floating above his head. Somehow, you manage.
“As long as I can be,” L replies.
“Okay,” you remark. You know any other person would be confused and annoyed at the complete lack of explanation for those questions. L only raises an eyebrow, before returning his attention to his cake. A tactical retreat. He’s hoping you’ll crack eventually. And you just might.
You stare at the numbers flickering over his head.
17:03:18:34
You have two weeks and three days to make your decision.