Disclaimer: Do not own Death Note or its characters. But hey, I can dream, right?

Rating: T, for my usual stuff. Language, shounen-ai and yaoi themes. some violence.

Summary: It’s been ten years since L left the Kira case more or less resolved and left Japan
and Light behind him. Light has grown up, made a career for himself, and is coping
completely with L’s absence. Or so he tells himself. Now, however, a familiar enemy has
appeared, and L and Light will have to overcome their past to solve this case. Sequel to
Gravity, which you probably should read if you want to understand this completely.

00000000000000000000000000000000

Light walks with all the precision and grace of royalty, but also with all the rigidity of
authority and intelligence.

He heads down the hallways of the NPA, his turns sharp, his footsteps muffled but crisp. He
nods to the men he knows, makes eye contact with those whom he is not quite so personal
with, and give a short smile to those whom he has worked on cases with in the past. All their
names flash through his mind, ready to be used if any conversation becomes necessary. But
most realize that Light is in something of a hurry, and so they only return his nods, or mimic
his smiles on their own faces, making both gestures broader and much friendlier than Light’s
attempts.

He takes another corner sharply, and heads into the break room, which is the source of
coffee: almost the only calories he cares to consume anymore, and certainly the only
substance he needs. Light sips it, keeps it thick and dark, the way almost no one else likes it,
but they leave at least one pot for him because they all know how fast he goes through the
stuff. He sighs and leans back against the countertop the coffee machine is resting on,
allowing his eyes to slip closed for thirty blissful seconds. He considers going home—he has
been here for three days, after all, with nothing but a half hour break to use the showers in
the basement. But his case is still not solved, and he does not allow himself to rest until his
cases have been settled.

This puzzle he is currently working on is not a particularly difficult one, but they are working
under a time restraint, which tends to make most police officers short with one another and
error-prone.

Not Light. He has trained himself for years to work quickly and efficiently, sparing no time for
food or sleep. That’s why he’s the best the NPA has to offer, because there is nothing more
important to him than his work, not even physical needs.

His eyes snap back open after a full thirty seconds of reprieve, and he swallows the rest of
his coffee in a few short gulps, almost not noticing when it sears his throat and makes his
tongue tingle. He refills his cup and heads back into his office. On the way there, he repeats
his friendly performance, becoming a little more adept at it as he feels the caffeine hit his
bloodstream. He has to drink several cups of brewed coffee to get this effect, but he is happy
to do it because he has never had a talent for staying awake for inordinate amounts of time.
And if that is what he has to do to solve his cases and be the best, then that is damn well
what he will do.

In rare moments when he lets his body fully relax into his bed at home, Light can feel his it
breaking down. He has kept it going at this pace for years now, and he is well past the point
where he can change his behavior. But it is wreaking havoc on his body, making him look
thin, almost emaciated, turning his eyes dull, making the skin around his bones sallow and
tight. He knows that he still retains his beauty, since he can see the way he is still looked at,
but it is preserved in a different, harsher way. He is attractive like something dangerous and
effervescent; he is beautiful in the same way death is beautiful sometimes, because it is
different, because it is terrifying, because it is fatal.

Light actually prefers the way he looks now to the still round-faced boy he’d been at eighteen,
when he thinks about it. But he rarely looks back on those times.

His mind is not spherical, like most humans. Perhaps, at one point, it was; in fact, he knows
that it was. It used to run in circles, reasoning, different parts arguing and then coming back
to central issues, living in the past, present, and future all at once, justifying and planning
and analyzing. Now, he has pounded and shaped and has discovered that his mind is quite
malleable; he has taken a once well-rounded mind and has turned it into something
exclusively linear. Now he thinks on one track, or as many tracks as his case demands. Now
he lives only in the present, remembering details in the past and planning into the future
only in areas of his work.

He arrives at his office and sits carefully, examining the exhausted and handpicked members
of his task force. They cannot keep up with his schedule, and he knows he should dismiss
them. He knows if he doesn’t, they will become resentful and detrimental to progress. It kills
him to do it, because this criminal is begging to be caught, but he does it anyway.

“Please, go home,” he says, working to make his voice sound more like the gentle and
persuasive thing it once was. He sips his coffee, noticing with displeasure that it has cooled
considerably during his walk back to the office. “You must all be exhausted, and you should
rest and be with your families.”

There is no argument, and the police officers stand in a dull, automatic way, used to taking
his orders but also dead on their feet. Light does not watch them go; he instead turns to his
puzzle, shifting notes to make way for his cup, and rereading their criminal’s exploits. His
criminal.

When his cell phone rings a few seconds after the last police officer has let the door swing
shut, Light is mildly surprised; other than the members of his task force, no one calls him,
and they just left. He pulls it out of his pocket with grace, and answers succinctly.

“Yes?” he asks, trying to make his voice sound interested. When he raises his eyes from his
phone, he notices that Matsuda has remained and is sitting in his chair across from Light,
waiting for his attention. When Light meets his eyes, Matsuda grins, and Light responds with
a small smile as he listens to the other end of his phone call.

“Onii-chan!” It is Sayu, and Light blinks in surprise. His sister is one of the few people he
might call his friend, if he were so inclined. But he isn’t, and he has no idea why she would
be calling him.

“What is it, Sayu?” he asks, ignoring Matsuda’s sparkling grin as he hears Sayu’s name.

“You’re late,” she tells him, and Light racks his brain, trying to remember whether he made a
commitment he suddenly forgot about.

“No, I’m not,” he says irritably, finding nothing. “What are you talking about, Sayu?”
She gasps, and Light can’t tell if she’s pretending to be dramatic or actually shocked. He
hates it either way. He hears her speak again, this time as if at a distance. “He forgot!” she
shouts, to whom Light doesn’t know. Her husband, perhaps. Or their parents. Then she is
back, speaking to him again. “What day is this, Light?” she demands.

Tiredly, Light checks his calendar. “The 28th of February, Sayu,” he says. “Is that all you
needed?”
“God, you really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” she asks, sounding worried.

Light sighs and counts to three. Just because he has forced himself to become a lateral
thinker does not mean that he doesn’t occasionally lose control of his temper. “Sayu,” he
says, and the deadly calm in his voice makes her fall silent, “you have ten seconds to tell me
what you’re talking about.”

“It’s your 28th birthday!” she exclaims, not needing the full ten seconds. “And I’m here at
our parents’ place with my family. Matsuda was supposed to drive you. Don’t tell me he
forgot!”

Light glances over at Matsuda dubiously, noting that his smile has grown. “No, I daresay he
hasn’t,” Light says. He can feel exhaustion creeping on him, knowing what will now be
required of him, making his limbs like lead.

“Come on, we’re waiting for you to eat dinner,” Sayu presses.

Light shakes his head vaguely, clearing it a bit. “Sayu, I can’t,” he says. “No one told me
about dinner in advance, and I can’t rearrange my schedule on this short notice.”

“Whatever scumbag criminal mastermind you’re trying to catch, Mr. Big NPA Director-san, I
bet spending an hour or two here won’t hurt you.”

Light sighed again. “It very well may. I’m trying to catch a terrorist here, Sayu. The longer I
go without finding him, the more people will die.”

“Two hours,” Sayu says, beginning to sound desperate. “Please, we never see you anymore!”
Light doesn’t tell her that that is for a reason; he doesn’t say that he has carefully given
himself just enough work to stay within the bounds of sanity, but so that he’ll have no free
time to visit or socialize. If his family spent more than a few hours at a time with him, they
would be able to see just how much he’d changed.

He glances at Matsuda, who is mouthing please at him. Light chose Matsuda to be on this
task force for two reasons; first, Matsuda is an excellent shot and has saved Light’s life at
least twice with his shooting ability; and second, Light knows Matsuda to be incorruptible.
Now, however, he is wishing that he had thought twice about putting someone who had
known him for so long, and who knew is family on this case, so close to him. Light closes his
eyes for thirty seconds again, listening as Sayu begs, imploring him with pathetic cries,
telling him that he is a terrible brother, threatening him, saying that she’ll never let him see
her two-year-old son again if he doesn’t come, and coaxing him, saying there will be cake.

“Sayu, if you don’t stop that whining this instant, I really will never see you again,” he finally
says. “I am not a terrible brother, just a busy one, you know that your son annoys me
halfway to hell even if he is cute. And I despise cake.” His voice is especially tired when he
speaks next. “But I’ll come,” he says, and winces slightly as Sayu squeals her delight.

Matsuda is delighted to drive him, and chatters at him most of the way to his parents’ house.
The only point of interest in the conversation comes when Matsuda asks him if he is feeling
all right these days, claiming that he looks tired.

“I’m fine,” Light says, dismissing Matsuda’s worry without thinking about it.

“You should get more sleep,” Matsuda continues, ignoring Light’s denial.
Light makes an effort to smile, trying to find something happy within himself so it will look
halfway genuine. “Matsuda, I know that we’re friends, but I’m also your boss. I can’t afford
to sleep as often as my agents.”

Matsuda returns his smile, but his is real. “I know, Light,” he says. They have known each
other long enough that Light feels no need to use honoraries, and Matsuda follows his lead.
“But if you don’t have your health, you won’t be any use to the NPA you know?”

“I know.”

Matsuda looks at him carefully, but looks away quickly enough that Light doesn’t have to
snap at him to watch the road. “You’ve changed, you know.” This isn’t a question.

“I know.”

“Do you know who you remind me of now?” Matsuda asks, his voice suddenly less serious.

Light knows what’s coming, he can feel his body tense and he forces himself to relax. “Who?”
he asks, barely making the word sound civil.

“You’re just like Ryuzaki,” Matsuda claims, sounding cheered by this thought. “When was the
last time you talked to him?”

Light doesn’t flinch. He is long past wincing whenever someone mentions L or any of his
various aliases around him. He just looks at Matsuda steadily. “I suppose it was the last day
of the Kira case,” he says dully. “Same as you.”

Matsuda seems confused. “But you and he . . . you two seemed like such good friends.”

Light shrugs, sitting up a bit straighter as they pull up in front of his house. “No,” he says,
his voice cool, “we were never friends.”

“But he said-”

“Ryuzaki lied a lot,” Light says casually, stepping out of the car to hide his involuntary flinch.
Sure, whenever other people mention L, he can force himself to remain motionless. But
when he is forced to say his name, it is a different matter entirely.

Matsuda gets out too, slamming his door shut and following Light up to the front door.
“That’s an unkind thing to say,” he says, sounding a bit scandalized.

“The truth is often unkind,” Light remarks, and then their conversation is over when the door
swings open.

As far as dinner parties go, this one hadn’t been so terrible. The food itself was decent, and
most of his family members seemed to sense how tired he was and generally didn’t press
him for much conversation. His father asked after the NPA, wondering how it had fared since
his retirement and Light’s subsequent promotion. His mother asked after his health,
especially after he allowed her to hug him, and he supposed that she could feel his ribs and
spine. Sayu, grinning, asked whether or not he’d found a proper girlfriend. She had asked
the same question ever since he’d broken up with Misa years ago, even after he’d gently
informed her that he was gay. And because she worded the question like that, asked if he
had a girlfriend, he was able to honestly say no.
His father had pulled him aside to talk about the case he was working on, and Light was at
least able to feel glad for that. He talked about the terrorist case easily, explaining to his
father that he already knew which of his suspects was the culprit but that he needed proof
before they arrested him.

“Light, how can you know without evidence?” Soichiro had asked, his brow wrinkling.

Light had shrugged, sipped his coffee. “I know,” he’d said, and Soichiro had smiled, almost
indulgently.

“Light’s always right about criminals.” Matsada had invaded their conversation. “Even when
there aren’t any clues, if he can find a few suspects, he can always tell the difference
between the guilty and the innocent.”

Light had shrugged, but hadn’t spoken. What Matsuda had said was true, after all. After
more than a decade of catching criminals, separating the innocent from the guilty was
painfully easy.

“Well, I suppose that’s why he’s the chief,” Soichiro had said proudly, putting a hand on
Light’s shoulder. Light had allowed it to remain there for seven seconds before he’d
murmured an excuse and had headed towards Sayu and her small family, presumably to
greet them.

The cake was the low point of the evening, since he’d actually been forced to choke some
down. His mother had put a good deal of effort into it, baking and frosting for hours, so he
managed to swallow a piece before claiming that dinner had filled him.

“But Light,” his mother had said, “you’re really too thin. You should try to eat more.”

Light managed another smile, cursing this evening internally for making him use his energy
on such insignificant little gestures so frequently. “I’m sorry,” he had said. “I don’t have
much tolerance for sweet things.”

Sachiko had frowned. “I thought that was just as a general practice,” she’d said. “I thought
you didn’t want to eat too many sweets because you didn’t want to gain weight.”
Light hadn’t allowed any of his irritation show on his externally charming face. “No, actually,
I just don’t like sweet things,” he had said cheerfully, as though he hadn’t said those exact
words thousands of times over the past 20 years or so.

Finally Matsuda drives him home; he had wanted to go back to work, but his parents had
managed to make him swear that he would take at least a few hours’ break to sleep. And
Light is, if nothing else, a man of his word.

Matsuda drops him off around eleven at night, and is thankfully silent on the drive home.
Perhaps he can sense Light’s exhaustion, though the real reason could be that he looks
rather tired himself. Matsuda pulls up in front of Light’s apartment complex, and Light thanks
him tiredly before climbing out of the little car. Matsuda calls sleepily that he’ll see Light
tomorrow. Light wishes that it weren’t true, but he doesn’t say a word.

Light climbs the steep stairs to his apartment almost clumsily. He hasn’t had coffee in hours,
and he is really beginning to feel the shock of staying awake for three days. He finally
reaches his third-story apartment, turns his key in the lock, and steps into the brightly lit
room. He cringes as the light hits his bloodshot eyes; the hallways and stairways had been
quite dimly lit.

He had turned the lights off the last time he’d been here. Teru must be home.
And so he is. As Light pulls off his jacket and hangs it up, Teru appears from inside the
kitchen, a stack of papers in one hand. Light loosens his tie and sits down on the couch, not
even having the energy to go to their bedroom for rest. “Hey,” he says, knowing that he
sounds careless and hoping that his reception isn’t too cold for Teru after they haven’t seen
each other in over a week.

This is how it always is, though. They are both obsessed with work, Light to a more fanatical
degree than Teru, but still comparable to one another. It’s one of the reasons Light tolerates
living with Teru. For the most part, it is because rent is cheaper this way, and primarily
because Light couldn’t think of a reason to say no when Teru, his boyfriend of four years,
suggested it.

Teru nods his greeting, and sets the papers down on the table. “I didn’t expect you home for
perhaps another day,” he says, his voice gentle as he easily detects Light’s exhaustion. “I am
glad to see you earlier than I predicted.”

Light smiles at him, and it’s almost a real smile. It almost reaches his eyes. He likes Teru,
because he is intelligent and quiet, because he is devoted enough to Light not to care about
his work schedule or his cold mannerisms. He isn’t clingy or possessive, and frankly, the sex
isn’t half bad. But that’s as far as it goes. Light is glad Teru has never said I love you,
because Light would have nothing to say in return, not even I care for you, or I would miss
you if you left. Because it’s not true. Light enjoys Teru’s company. And that’s all. “I’m only
here for an hour or two to sleep,” he admits. “Then it’s back to the office.”
Teru sits beside him, picking up one of his hands and tracing light fingers over it. Light
allows it. “You still haven’t caught your terrorist.”

Light likes that Teru understands, likes that he calls the criminal his terrorist. Because this
delinquent is Light’s, or he will be soon. Light works hundreds of times harder than any of his
coworkers, and even though it will say in the papers that the NPA has apprehended another
dangerous and mysterious criminal, everyone who knows the inside of the police office well
knows that that means that Light has caught him. “No,” he says, agreeing with Teru, “not
yet. It should only be another day or two. I’m just waiting for DNA samples from the lab.”

“Why did you come home if you weren’t finished?” Teru asks, not unkindly. He just knows
Light’s patterns, and this is a break in them.

Light smiles, looking a bit frustrated. “My family planned a small party for me,” he explains.
“I was cajoled into attending, and while I was there, they guilted me into going home and
getting sleep.” It’s a lie. Light hasn’t felt guilty about anything for years. But the promise
was given because it was too much effort to resist their pleading, and he did need sleep after
all.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Teru says, and he hands Light a small, unwrapped box.

Light internally chalks another point up in Teru’s favor as he notices that the gift is
unwrapped and only in a small cardboard box, probably the one it came in. He is grateful for
the simplicity, for the fact that Teru knows that he hates frills or things that aren’t
necessities. Then he frowns. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he says. “I wasn’t
expecting it.”

Teru shrugs. “I suppose you weren’t,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Light says automatically. He pulls the lid off the gift. It is a watch, silver and
inconspicuous, and Light approves. The band on his old watch broke weeks ago, but he still
preserves it for sentimental reasons. Light knows he should either discard it or buy a new
band, but neither option appeals to him, so he has done neither. “Thank you,” he says, with
some real pleasure.
Sometimes Light tries to look at their relationship from an outsider’s point of view, and he
almost laughs. Both he and Teru are so unemotional—Light because he has forced himself to
be, Teru naturally—that their conversations must seem painfully boring. When they talk
politics or morality or theology, then they show passion, but in these quick exchanges, there
is nothing, and again, Light is glad for the simplicity, for the fact that he doesn’t have to
wear quite as thick a mask around Teru. Teru looks pleased that he has made Light smile
genuinely, and he moves to secure the watch around Light’s wrist. Light holds out his right
arm instinctively, leaving his left by his side, but Teru shakes his head.

“It’s supposed to go on your left,” Teru says. “You use your right hand more often, so if it
goes on the other wrist, it will be in the way less often.”

Light switches hands, staring at the thin, ghost-white scars around his left wrist as Teru
pushes his sleeve up. This is why Light always wears long sleeves, even in the summer. He
doesn’t like the imperfection carved into his skin, a solid and unmovable reminder of another
life. Teru fastens the watch, which fits perfectly, of course, before letting his fingers trail the
short distance down Light’s arm to his wrist, where he traces the scar. Exerting a
considerable amount of willpower, Light forces himself to remain still. Teru has only a vague
idea of where this scar is from and Light doubts that he will ever become more enlightened.
Still, the mark seems to fascinate Teru, perhaps because it is the one imperfection on Light’s
slender body, or perhaps because he can tell that it is from a completely lost time in Light’s
life, from the way Light talks about it. When he talks about it, which is nearly never. Teru
turns his arm over to trace the inside of his wrist, along the scar still, and then Light has
finally had enough. He pulls his arm away, and Teru releases him immediately.

No challenge at all. Light represses a sigh. It is not Teru’s fault that he never crosses Light,
that he never argues, except in theoretical matters, that Light has not difficulty at all reading
and manipulating him, and so being irritated with him because of it would be illogical and
cruel.

“Thank you for the watch,” Light says again. “It’s perfect.” The word is wrong, he thinks, it
twists a little in his mouth, but he can’t help it. The watch is close to perfect, there is nothing
wrong with it, it’s Light’s style and probably very function, but there is likely some room for
improvement, and Light knows full well that nothing is really perfect. For some reason it is
difficult to lie about it.

Teru nods, and Light leans in to kiss him before he stands to go to bed. This is what he hates
about Teru, why he is never going to feel more for him. Because Teru is just as easily
placated as any girl he has ever dated and manipulated. Because Teru knows he is being
manipulated and lets it happens. He allows his devotion to blind himself, hoping that Light
will eventually feel differently but accepting that he doesn’t now.

Teru follows him to the bedroom, and Light doesn’t mind, because he knows that Teru can
read him well enough to know when he’s too tired to even make excuses.

Light climbs into bed, maladroitly because of his mind-numbing fatigue. He can tell Teru is
watching him and he moves to one side of the bed. It is an offer, conveying to Teru that
Light doesn’t mind if he sleeps in the same bed. Light almost never does mind this, he’s used
to it, but Teru always waits for permission anyway.

Knowing that he probably should show some affection to keep Teru happy, Light reaches
over to him and trails his fingers through fine, straight black hair. Teru’s glasses are off, and
he brushes his thumbs over his eyelids. Teru will think that it is a gesture of tenderness and
affection, but Light is only doing it so that Teru will close his eyes; Light hates it when he is
watched so closely, so carefully. Gradually, as Light’s hands continue lightly brushing over
his face and hair, Teru’s breathing becomes smooth and rhythmic.
Light does this, but his mind is not there. It never is. These are planned responses,
automatic movements that he has learned over the years to make himself seem more
human, more interested. And when Teru is finally asleep, Light allows his own eyes to close
and then he is sleeping too.

And later, in the early morning, when he is laying shirtless as Teru kisses his too-obvious ribs
and his thin, pale throat, and trails his tongue down his perfect and unbroken skin; as Light
gently moves his hands through Teru’s hair, no real passion in his grip; as Light kisses Teru
again, hard, imitating passion, before he gets up and gets dressed for the day, Light’s mind
is not really there either. He doesn’t really know where it goes; only that he is not present,
and that he is glad.

He thinks, as he showers, that this is his first day being 28-years-old, and with that thought
comes the taste of bitter sand in his mouth, something he has grown used to. The taste is
accompanied by a familiar tightening of his throat, the feeling of stones in his stomach, and
for a moment, he allows his face to twist; in the spray of the hot water, he allows himself to
grimace and clench his teeth and he holds the expression for a moment, his hands reaching
up to grip his hair, hard, feeling the very real pain in his scalp and the very real agony in his
chest and throat, choking him, making it hard to breathe. He crouches down, still under the
spray of the water and forces himself to breathe shallow gasps of damp air. His eyes are shut,
tightly closed, but he suddenly opens them, staring wide-eyed at the blank white floor
beneath his feet. He gazes at the slightly pebbled floor for a few seconds, focusing on
inhaling the water-laden air and exhaling the emotion, and after a few moments he stands,
face and eyes blank and empty again. 28-years-old, police chief of the NPA for nearly a year,
successful and acknowledged throughout Japan, with a responsible, good-looking, devoted
boyfriend, both of them making good money, living in a good area of the city. That was
Light’s identity.

All that, and now 28-years-old too.

28 and so empty.

Light is used to this feeling of disappointment, and he will not allow it to affect him for very
long.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Light slept for a good deal longer than he’d originally planned, and by the time he gets to the
office, half of his task force has already arrived. He notes that Matsuda has yet to arrive,
though Light can see that he is clocked in. He ignores the discrepancy and gives his officers
several tasks before he leaves to get coffee.

In the break room, he pauses and lets himself rest again. He would feel much refreshed after
his stay at home, but the party at his parents’ drained him. He focuses on keeping the
emotions from the shower earlier at bay; he had not remembered his birthday until Sayu had
called him, and he had been hoping to continue forgetting. He wishes that these landmarks
meant nothing to him, wishes that he could just keep aging without having to mark it each
year. But now is not the time. He needs to think about his case, only his case. The terrorist,
bombing Shinjuku station in response to police brutality in Kanto. Killing 18, wounding 43.
Big bomb. Planned and thought out.

Light’s fingers curl around his left wrist unconsciously as a new though suddenly springs into
his mind, unbidden, cutting through his analytical processing of data he’s already thought
about time and again: It has been ten years since he has seen L.

Even in his mind, the letter makes him wince. L really screwed him over, he finally
recognized that years ago, but even now he can’t figure out why. He can’t—or won’t—figure
why he is still so profoundly affected whenever he thinks about him, and even when he
doesn’t. In a way, Light is grateful for the obsession, since he knows that without it, he
wouldn’t have been so successful so quickly. L is the reason his schooling at To-Oh University
took two years instead of four. L is the reason Light was promoted quickly through the ranks
at the NPA, praised for his unparalleled work ethic and near-obsessive dedication to each of
his cases. L is the reason he has schooled his mind into thinking like a machine and the
reason why he is slowly destroying his body to keep up with criminals.

Because of Light, there have been no cases in Japan worthy of L’s attention for an entire
decade. Light solves all the interesting ones too quickly. Light tells himself that it is because
he wants to be as good as L, to surpass him in skill and name, at least in Japan, and he is
more or less successful. But very deep down, where Light keeps secrets even from himself,
he knows that it is because, if L were to come to Japan to solve a case, he has no idea how
he would react, only that it could kill him.

But Light rarely thinks this way. He reasons that it is his birthday and forced social
interaction that has him so out of sorts.

There. That’s a perfectly legitimate reason. Apart from Teru and his coworkers, Light does
not interact. And neither of those strictly counts as social. Being around his family again, all
of them, for the first time in months, has made him a more willing to indulge his more
emotional thoughts.

But there is not time for that now. Light has a case to solve. This time, the thought remains
interrupted, and Light refills his coffee cup and walks to his office.

The first impression that he gets is of overwhelming energy. His office is full of men arguing,
some of whom aren’t even on the case, and Matsuda is standing by the door, obviously
waiting for him.

A feeling of dread explodes in his stomach, and Light stops in the doorway. “Is this about the
terrorist case, Matsuda?” he asks.

Matsuda is white and shaking. Even his voice trembles when he speaks. “No,” he starts,
“it’s . . .”

Light’s heart skips a beat, and he forces himself to calm down. Matsuda is highly excitable,
and he could easily be overreacting. “It’s what?” he asks coolly.

Matsuda says, “It’s Kira. He’s back.”

The office has quieted when the men see Light walk in, so everyone clearly hears him when
he says, “Fuck,” and drops his coffee cup, which thankfully remains in one piece.

The office is deathly silent as everyone is startled by Light’s reaction. He never shows
surprise at any of the cases he is briefed on, even when the pictures or descriptions are
horrific. His eyes are wide, and he takes a deep breath. “I apologize for my language,” he
says shortly, then he acts. “Now someone get me briefs and stats on the victims. Time of
death, ethnicity, location, age, criminal and medical records. How are we sure this is Kira?”

As the office explodes into a flurry of activity, men hurrying to get Light information he
needs, Light walks over to his desk and tries to hide the fact that he practically falls into his
chair. This has shaken him, he can’t do this-

No. He can. He has to. He will solve this case, and he will do it faster than L. He will do it
before it even sparks L’s attention.
He has to.

0000000000000000000000000000000000

A/N: And here it is, the sequel to Gravity! I spent all night writing this, tweaking
relationships. I’ve never really written Mikami before, and I’m worried that I made him
perhaps too submissive. What do you think? I used to despise him, but I’ve read a couple of
fics that are just phenomenal that also feature him, so I’ve come to love him. Is he OOC? If
it is, please tell me and I will work on fixing it!

I know I said I wouldn’t write this till Asylum was finished, but I lied, for a few reasons. 1.
Asylum is giving me major writer’s block. I want the next chapter to be perfect, and it’s
giving me a hella lotta trouble. 2. This actually started, at least the very first paragraph, as
the next chapter of Asylum, but morphed into this! 3. This has been on my brain for WEEKS,
and I think that maybe if I just write some of it and get it over with, Asylum will be easier to
write.

Oh, man, I’ve just stayed up pretty much all night writing this. Goody for me having to wake
up at seven! It was worth it, though. I like how this turned out. What does everyone think?
Let me know!