The observation room at the NPA headquarters was a pocket of cold, sterile silence. Behind the one-way glass, Chief Soichiro Yagami stood beside two of his most trusted officers, their faces illuminated by the pale, fluorescent glow of the interrogation suite beyond. Inside, Kido Kiyomi sat perfectly still at a steel table, her expression a mask of defiant contempt. For the past six hours, she had said nothing, offering no further explanation, merely repeating her core assertion: she had acted on the orders of L to purge a traitor.
The stalemate was absolute, a battle of wills between a woman of iron and the institution she now scorned. Soichiro ran a weary hand over his face. The entire situation was a nightmare. His best consultants were at odds, his most promising Deputy Director was a murderer, and the very man she implicated was the linchpin of the entire investigation.
He was about to order a fresh pot of coffee, to settle in for another fruitless hour of observation, when it happened.
Inside the room, Kido Kiyomi's expression of rigid control suddenly faltered. Her eyes, which had been fixed on a point on the far wall, widened with a look of profound, uncomprehending shock. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She raised a hand, her fingers trembling, and clutched at the front of her immaculate blazer, right over her heart. For a horrifying, frozen second, she stared directly at the one-way mirror, as if she could see the men watching her. Then, with a grace that was terrible in its finality, she slumped sideways in her chair and collapsed onto the floor.
The silence in the observation room was shattered by a chorus of panicked shouts. Medics were scrambled, alarms were triggered, but Soichiro Yagami did not move. He stood frozen, his blood turning to ice in his veins. He had seen that look before. That sudden, inexplicable seizure. That wide-eyed shock. It was the face of every criminal whose picture had been splashed across the news for the past several months.
It was the face of a victim of Kira.
The news hit the hotel suite not like a bomb, but like a vacuum, sucking all the air and reason out of the room. Kido Kiyomi, in a maximum-security interrogation cell, in the very heart of the National Police Agency, was dead. Of a heart attack.
"Poison," Sherlock Holmes declared instantly, already pacing, his mind a frantic engine seeking a rational explanation. "A slow-acting agent, administered before her arrest. Or perhaps a gas, introduced through the ventilation system. It is the only logical—"
"It is not logical at all, mon ami," Hercule Poirot interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically grim. He sat heavily in his chair, his usual fastidiousness forgotten. "Do you not see what this is? This is not an assassination. This is a proclamation. It is an act of pure, absolute dominance. The killer is telling us that our walls mean nothing. Our guards mean nothing. Our very presence here is an amusement to him."
Miss Marple, who had been listening with a sad, distant expression, finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "It is what a gardener does," she said, her words drawing the attention of everyone in the room. "When a plant has served its purpose, or grows in a way that displeases you, you do not scold it. You do not imprison it." She looked at the horrified faces around her. "You prune it from the garden."
A new, terrifying paranoia began to settle over them. The leak was not a passive entity. Kira was not some distant god passing judgment from afar. He was here. Among them. An active, omniscient, and utterly ruthless presence who could reach out and stop the heart of anyone who became an inconvenience.
L had remained silent throughout the initial chaos. He was crouched on the floor, building a teetering tower of sugar packets. But his hands were still, and his eyes were fixed on the blank television screen, as if he could see the face of his enemy in the reflection. He had prodded the beast. He had sent his pawns to test its defenses. And now, the beast had responded by devouring one of those pawns, not as an act of defence, but as a demonstration of power. A message, aimed directly at him. You cannot protect anyone. I am everywhere.
The secure line on L's laptop began to chime, a discreet, encrypted tone that signified a call from the highest echelons of global power. The others fell silent as he unfolded himself from the floor and answered it. A face appeared on the screen, a man whose features were sharp, severe, and quintessentially American. The text below his image identified him: STEPHEN GEVANNI, DEPUTY DIRECTOR, CIA.
"L," the man began, his voice devoid of any pleasantries. "We have been monitoring your progress, and the situation in Tokyo. The assassination of a sitting Deputy Director of the NPA while in custody has… escalated the threat matrix. The President of the United States has been briefed."
L's expression remained placid. "I assume you are not calling to offer your condolences."
"No," Gevanni replied, his tone as cold as polished steel. "I'm calling to inform you that the United States government no longer considers the Kira case to be a serial killer phenomenon. It is now officially designated as a global terrorist threat with a suspected weapon of mass destruction of unknown origin. As such, the President has authorized the formation of a new, parallel task force, operating with the full backing and resources of the United States intelligence community."
Holmes and Poirot exchanged a look of profound shock. The game had just changed irrevocably.
"We appreciate the work your team has done," Gevanni continued, a statement that was clearly a diplomatic formality. "And we are prepared to offer you a liaison position with our new task force, should you wish to collaborate. We believe our methods may prove more… direct."
"And what methods are those?" L asked, his voice betraying nothing.
A thin, confident smile touched Gevanni's lips. "We have assets you do not. Financial resources, satellite surveillance, and a global intelligence network. We fight wars, L, not mysteries. We also have our own specialist, a mind we believe is uniquely suited to this new, unconventional form of warfare."
He paused, letting the weight of his final words settle.
"We are activating a special project, one that has been quietly cultivated for just such an impossible scenario. We are bringing in our own consultant to lead the American effort."
Gevanni leaned closer to his camera, his eyes locking with L's through the screen, a silent declaration of a new rivalry.
"His name is Near."