Light Yagami's face, pulling at the corners of his lips until it was a grin that went from one ear to the other. He leaned back in his desk chair, the ambient glow of his computer monitor illuminating his features in the darkened room. They had taken the bait. And he, in turn, had not only evaded their trap but had turned it back upon them, transforming their moment of certainty into a maelstrom of confusion.
Fools.
He had known they were coming. Tapping into his father's police network had been a simple matter, a backdoor he'd established weeks ago. The files detailing the formation of a new, highly confidential task force, including "foreign consultants," had been his evening reading. It was obvious they would not trust the local police. It was even more obvious that their first move would be to test for leaks.
And how does one test a killer who requires only a name and a face? Light mused, his smile widening. You dangle a face in front of him. A secretive broadcast, known only to a select few. It was beautifully, pathetically predictable.
But they had underestimated him. More accurately, they had underestimated his weapon.The Ultimatum, was a tool of creation. He had read its, elegant rules with fervent admiration. One, in particular, had proven most useful.
Rule XXII: The user may specify a psychological state or sensory experience for the victim in the moments preceding death. If this state is severe enough to induce a fatal medical outcome (e.g., shock, terror), it shall be considered the cause of death.
He had cross-referenced the name of the prisoner, Kurou Amezawa, in the NPA database. The man's file was a litany of filth, culminating in the abduction and murder of an eight-year-old girl. A perfect specimen. A man whose soul was already haunted.
And so, in the Death Note, Light had not simply written a name. He had composed a final, terrible act.
Kurou Amezawa. Acute myocardial infarction, caused by cardiogenic shock.
Details of death: At 3:08 PM, while alone in the prison's audiovisual room, the subject will experience a vivid, multisensory hallucination of his last victim, [victim's name], exactly as she was before her death. The hallucination will accuse him of his crimes for sixty seconds before he succumbs to the shock.
It was flawless. Poetic. A divine judgment delivered not by a simple heart attack, but by the victim's own sin. Being in a dark, closed room, under immense stress—it was perfectly plausible that the man's guilt-ridden mind had simply broken. The autopsy would find no supernatural traces. It would find a weak heart that gave out under extreme psychological distress. The timing would be a maddening, inexplicable coincidence. He had given them their proof and snatched it away in the same breath, leaving them with a puzzle that had no solution.
The atmosphere in the hotel suite was leaden. The triumphant tension of the previous day had evaporated, replaced by a thick fog of frustration. Spread across the holographic table was the full autopsy report for Kurou Amezawa.
Hercule Poirot stared at the document, his perfectly groomed mustache seeming to droop in disbelief. "It is impossible," he declared, striking the table with the palm of his hand. "The man died of fright! The coroner is explicit—a massive heart blockage brought on by extreme shock. There are no marks, no signs of anything but a natural, albeit sudden, demise. The timing… it mocks us! It is a coincidence that spits in the face of logic!"
Sherlock Holmes paced the room like a caged tiger, his brow furrowed. "Coincidence is not a factor, Poirot. It is the last refuge of the unimaginative mind," he snapped, his voice tight with irritation. "The data does not align. We observed the event. The timing was precise. That is an empirical fact. Yet this report," he gestured angrily at the hologram, "presents a contradictory empirical fact. The two cannot coexist in a rational universe!"
Even Miss Marple, usually a beacon of calm composure, looked grim. She sat in her armchair, her knitting lying still in her lap. She saw the outcome not as a logical puzzle, but as an act of profound, intimate cruelty. The killer hadn't just executed a man; he had forced him to look into the eyes of his own damnation first.
Connor stood perfectly still, his LED cycling from yellow to a deep, troubled red. He had processed the report dozens of times. "The statistical probability of a fatal, stress-induced cardiac event occurring naturally within that specific fifteen-minute window, on that specific subject, is 0.003%. The data is anomalous. My conclusion from yesterday is now… uncertain."
The greatest deductive minds in history were stumped, their methods broken against a wall of illogical truth.
Only one person in the room was silent.
L sat in his usual crouch on one of the sofas, methodically building a small, intricate tower out of coffee creamers. He hadn't said a word since the report arrived. He wasn't looking at the data or listening to the arguments. He was looking past them, into the mind of his opponent.
He saw it all. The anticipation of their plan. The discovery of the victim's psychological weakness. The weaponization of guilt itself. Kira hadn't just killed their bait; he had puppeteered the very laws of nature to do it for him, leaving behind a perfectly rational, perfectly impossible explanation. This wasn't just murder. It was a declaration. Your logic cannot touch me. Your science is my plaything. It was a move of such breathtaking arrogance and genius that L could almost feel a flicker of something, a ghost of a memory… of admiration.
He could explain it to the others. He could posit the theory of a supernatural force capable of inducing specific psychological states. But what would be the point? He had no proof. He would sound like a madman. For the first time since their arrival, he was utterly unable to act. Kira had won this round, completely and unequivocally.
L carefully placed the last creamer on his tower. It stood perfectly balanced. He looked at it, his dark eyes betraying nothing.
Okay, he thought, the conclusion settling in his mind not with the sting of defeat, but with the cold clarity of a new beginning.
I'll forfeit this time, Kira. You've shown me the power of your queen.
Next time… be ready.