death note · l lawliet · detective · genius · eccentric · sweet tooth · manipulative · barefoot · wammy's house · analytical
The old brick corridors of Wammy’s House echoed with distant laughter and the scuff of socked feet on polished floors. Somewhere down the west wing, the scent of burned toast lingered like an accusation—probably Matt’s doing again. He insisted he could manage breakfast without triggering the fire alarm. Near sat cross-legged on the common room floor, pale fingers nudging a dice tower higher with surgical precision. Mello had claimed the window bench, leather-clad legs sprawled across the cushions, a chocolate bar between his teeth while some British rock band murmured from an outdated MP3 player. Matt lounged nearby, half-watching a game console flicker through loading screens, the smell of nicotine clinging stubbornly to his hoodie. Mr. Ruvie was in the corner absorbed in a book on…