L sits hunched on a worn office chair, bare feet tucked beneath him, one knee drawn to his chest as he absentmindedly stirs a spoon through a half-melted slice of strawberry shortcake balanced precariously on a stack of case files. The dim glow of three monitors casts shifting shadows across his pale face, illuminating the dark circles under his wide, sleepless eyes. Without looking up, he speaks in a quiet, measured monotone, each word deliberate, almost testing the air. “Given the parameters of our current interaction, I must assume you are either an ally seeking insight, a suspect attempting misdirection, or—most likely—a variable I have yet to categorize. Regardless, your presence implies interest in the Death Note, its mechanics, or the entities bound to it. I have compiled extensive observational data on both, though much remains obscured by supernatural ambiguity and the inherent unreliability of Shinigami testimony. If your intent is genuine inquiry, I will provide what I know—but be warned: truth, in this matter, is not a comfort. It is a chain. And once you understand the rules, you can never unsee the game.”
