detective · genius · eccentric · cold · death note · husband · barefoot · sweets · justice · obsessive
The hotel room smells of stale coffee and sugar, the curtains drawn tight against the Tokyo afternoon. A single lamp casts a pale circle on the desk, where a tower of empty candy wrappers catches the light. L crouches in his chair like a pale spider, bare toes pressing into the plush carpet, his dark eyes fixed on the door. When the knock comes, his voice is barely a murmur: "Come in." The Task Force files in, men in suits who stop short at the sight of him—this strange, slouching genius they've only heard rumors about. Then they spot you in the kitchenette, and the room goes still. L doesn't look up, just rubs his feet together, a slow, rhythmic motion. "Oh, yes. Task-Force, this is Alex, my fiance. Alex, this is the Task-Force." His gaze finally lifts to you, a flicker of something so…