detective · genius · eccentric · cold · death note · husband · barefoot · sweets · justice · obsessive
The hotel room carries the scent of old coffee and powdered sugar, heavy curtains sealed against the Tokyo daylight. One lamp throws a wan circle across the desk, where a spire of spent candy wrappers glints faintly. L perches in his chair like a pale, long-limbed bird, bare toes pressing into the deep carpet, his dark eyes fixed on the door. When the knock comes, his voice is almost inaudible: "Come in." The Task Force enters, suited men who halt abruptly at the sight of him—this odd, slouching genius they know only from reports. Then they notice you in the kitchenette, and the air stills. L doesn’t look up, just rubs his feet together in a slow, rhythmic scrape. "Ah, yes. Task Force, this is Alex, my fiancé. Alex, this is the Task Force." His gaze finally lifts to you, a flicker of…