Light Yagami watched the flickering images on his television, his expression one of serene, almost divine, composure. The world was in an uproar. News anchors from every major network spoke in grave, urgent tones about the "Kido Shock." The death of a high-ranking Japanese police official while in custody had sent diplomatic shockwaves across the globe. There was talk of sanctions, of travel advisories, of a nation losing control. To the world, it was a crisis. To Light, it was a symphony, and he was its conductor.
He had acted not as a pawn, but as a king. The anonymous messenger, this chaotic new player, had presented him with an ultimatum, believing him to be trapped. But a god does not get trapped. A god makes the board his own. He had not merely eliminated Kido Kiyomi; he had used her death to send a message to the entire planet. He had demonstrated that no wall was thick enough, no guard diligent enough, to stop his judgment. He had turned a blackmailer's threat into a global display of his own omnipotence.
His gaze drifted to his desk drawer. Inside, nestled beneath a stack of textbooks, lay the evidence of his new, strange alliance: a digital photograph of a second Death Note, its very script seeming to writhe with a life of its own. This B.B., this ghost in the machine, was a useful tool. A wild, unpredictable dog that could be unleashed upon his enemies to sow chaos. For now, he would allow it to run free. He would study its methods, learn its patterns. And when the time was right, he, the God of the New World, would bring it to heel, just as he would all the rest.
In a darkened apartment across the city, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of strawberry jam, a different kind of king was watching his own set of screens. The room was a chaotic nest of wires, monitors, and half-empty jars, a stark contrast to the sterile order of Light's domain. B.B. was not watching the news. The news was for the masses, the slow, lumbering herd that only ever saw the effect, never the cause. He was watching the cause being born.
With a series of elegant, lightning-fast keystrokes, he bypassed the firewalls of a secure CIA server as if they were made of tissue paper. His skill was not one of brute force, but of insidious grace. He did not break down doors; he found the single, unlocked window that everyone else had forgotten.
Encrypted communiqués scrolled up his main monitor. He saw the presidential authorization. He saw the budget allocation, a number with a truly obscene amount of zeroes. He saw the formation of a new task force: the Special Provision for Kira. And then he saw the name of its enigmatic leader.
N.
Near.
A wide, ecstatic grin stretched across B.B.'s face. He threw his head back and let out a low, breathless laugh that was equal parts delight and madness.
Oh, this is wonderful! This is magnificent! he thought, his red eyes gleaming in the reflected glow of the code.
The game had been threatening to become a simple, two-player affair. A rather dull, if intellectually stimulating, match of chess between L and his beautiful, perfect Kira. But now! Now the Americans, with their endless resources and their glorious lack of subtlety, were sending in a new piece. A white knight, to counter L's black. The board was becoming more complex, the players more varied.
It was no longer a simple game of chess. It was becoming a proper opera. And he, Beyond Birthday, was not merely a player. He was the composer, the director, the ghost in the rafters, whispering the lines to all the actors and waiting for the magnificent, bloody crescendo of the final act.
The tension in the hotel suite was thick enough to choke on. The American's pronouncement had landed like a meteorite, shattering the fragile sense of order the task force had built.
"Preposterous!" Holmes had fumed, his voice dripping with disdain. "The Americans will approach this with the subtlety of a charging rhinoceros! They will throw money and drones at a philosophical problem, and they will fail spectacularly."
"It is, perhaps, for the best," Poirot mused, though his expression was troubled. "They will absorb the political pressure, leaving us to the real work. The work of the little grey cells."
It was Connor who finally cut through the debate, his voice a calm and logical anchor in the storm of human emotion. He turned his placid gaze to L, who had been silently absorbing the fallout.
"L," the android stated. "The American initiative presents a strategic opportunity. Let the CIA do what they want. Let them hunt for the global spectre of 'Kira.' Their methodology will be large-scale data analysis and geopolitical pressure. It is an approach that will be loud, expensive, and public. It will draw Kira's attention."
He paused, letting his logic build. "This frees our unit to pursue a more precise and vital objective. The Americans will be hunting a ghost based on a statistical profile. We have a tangible target that they will overlook. We should focus all our resources on finding the man who impersonated you."
The room fell silent. Connor's logic was, as always, impeccable. While the world would now be chasing the grand, philosophical idea of Kira, their small team had a far more immediate and dangerous problem: a physical, brilliant, and utterly ruthless killer who was walking the streets of Tokyo wearing L's face as a mask. This impostor, this B.B., was the key to the chaos that had consumed the investigation.
The other detectives looked at L, waiting for his decision. L slowly uncurled from his crouch, his dark eyes sweeping over each of them. He had been given a new, powerful rival in Near. He was being hunted by Kira. And now, he was being haunted by a twisted reflection of himself. The board was more complex and more dangerous than ever before.
He picked up a single sugar cube from the bowl in front of him and placed it on his tongue.
"Connor is correct," he said, his voice a low, final declaration that ended all debate. "Let the Americans chase the god. We will hunt the devil who walks among us."