The morgue was exactly as one would expect it to be. Three bare white walls, and one with nine three-by-three hatch doors. Files neatly organized on one desk, a chemistry set and other equipment on the other, surgical tools on a rickety cart, and a metal slab with a drain underneath.
L's heart rate picked up again as the odor of bleach filled his nostrils. The last time he'd set foot in the setting of his nightmares had been five years ago in London during his investigation of the Glass House murders. Before that, he'd only been to a morgue twice. Once to identify a killer. And once... to say goodbye.

The sleuth started at feeling C tug at his sleeve. He took his hand out of his pocket and brushed his pinky against hers. She returned the gesture. They glanced at each other from the corner of their eyes. L gave C a small nod, grateful that even though she was angry with him over Cassandra, she was still willing to help. God knows he needed it, especially in this lugubrious place.
When the doors creaked behind him, L pushed the harrowing memories of the night he became an orphan down and turned to meet the coroner, a Mr. Hayame. The man seemed to be in his late fifties, silver in his black hair and mustache, and bearing the haunted look of someone who'd seen far too many times what humans could do to one another.

"Oh, hello. You must be," the coroner raised his clipboard to read the top paper, "Detective Ryuzaki. And Miss...?"

"M-Misora," answered C, her lips turning down as she dabbed away non-existent tears from her cheeks with a kerchief she pulled from her sleeve.

"Thank you for seeing us so quickly, Mr. Hayame," said L. "My assistant told you why we're here?"

"He did. This way, please."

The coroner led them to the wall with the hatch doors and opened the one on the far right in the middle row. He rolled the slab out, revealing a body covered by a white sheet. L cringed at the sight, but kept a composed expression and allowed C to step before him. His eyes traveled to her hand. She tapped two fingers against her thigh.

"I was surprised to get a call from the NPA so quickly," said Mr. Hayame. "It usually takes a while longer to identify John Does, and forensics is still dredging the area around the bridge for any discernable clues."

"We had an alert up for bodies registered as such," said L. "Have you determined the cause of death?"

"Heart attack. Fell from the bridge into the river. But there's no way of telling if it occurred naturally or if this is Kira's doing. I know people are conflicted about his what he's doing, but I personally wouldn't mind if they caught him. I've never been so busy in my entire career."

L looked down at C's fingers again. Another tap. Good. Looks like the journey here wasn't a waste then.

"Are you ready, Miss Misora?" asked the coroner solemnly.

C made a sobbing noise in reply, hiding half her face with her kerchief. L silently marveled at her acting skills. Her ability to adapt quickly to any situation to garner information was one of the reasons he'd agreed to let her become his partner. When Mr. Hayame pulled back the sheet from the body, she uttered a strangled gasp and fell back against L. Instinct took over and he held her close, like he always did with Cassandra.

"It's not him," said C. "It's not Raye. Oh, thank God."

"Mr. Hayame, could I trouble you for a glass of water?" asked L. "The shock, I'm sure you understand."

"Yes, of course," said the coroner. "I'll be right back."

The moment the man disappeared between the doors, C straightened herself and looked at an empty spot on the other side of the slab. At least, that's how it appeared to L. No matter how many times he watched her interactions with spirits, he still found it a fascinating sight to behold.

"Yes, I can see you," said C. "What's your name?"

A pause.

"Howard Howe? Seriously? Okay, whatever. I noticed your reaction earlier when the coroner mentioned Kira, Howard. You died by his hand, didn't you?"

Another pause, longer this time.

"I'm really not interested in what you did or didn't do. Now stop whining about your backstabbing business partners and listen. We don't have much time. You're still here because you have unresolved issues. I can help you with those, so you can pass on, but I need something in return."

C reached into her purse. L's eyes darted to the doors, ears straining to hear the coroner. Nothing so far.

"We believe these people," C held up two pictures, "know Kira's true identity. Unfortunately, the man is dead, and the woman is missing, presumed dead. Their names are Raye Penber and Naomi Misora. I need you to look for either of them."

The ensuing brief silence was disturbed by her exasperated grunt. She put a hand to her hip and poked a finger at the space in front of her. If L didn't know what was going on, he'd think her crazy.

"Look here, you little piece of shit. You've been murdered, left with absolutely nothing, and you're stuck in limbo. Do you really think bargaining for a better deal is the way to go? This is the best you're gonna get, genius. Now find Penber and Misora, or so help me, I will send your ass to the deepest circle of Hell. Take it or leave it."

To this day, L didn't know if C could really do that. She always spoke of helping the spirits cross over into the light, but she said nothing about sending someone to the underworld. He liked to believe it was a bluff. No, he hoped it was a bluff.

"I'll be at the north pavilion in the park every Sunday at three pm," said C. "Lead me to Penber and Misora, and I'll help you."

Footsteps echoed out in the corridor. L nudged his partner and grabbed the pictures from her. There were no words of goodbye between C and Howe, so he couldn't be sure if the spirit had actually left. The moment the doors opened, C sank onto a nearby chair, re-assuming her role and holding her kerchief to her cheek. The coroner passed her a glass of water and then turned to L as the latter asked, "Would it be all right if I left a picture of the man we're looking for?"

"Certainly, Detective," said Mr. Hayame.

"I'm also looking for this woman for another case." L handed the coroner the two pictures. "We have no leads showing she's dead yet, but it's been a few months since anyone has seen or heard from her."

"I don't immediately recognize her. I'll check records of the last month to be sure, and I'll inform my staff these two are priority. If they pass through my doors, I'll contact you."

"Please use the number my assistant gave you earlier. Miss Misora?"

C rose to her feet, hooking her arm with L's. They took their leave from the coroner and left the morgue, the sharp, pungent odor of formaldehyde and death following in their trail. By the time the pair reached the elevator, L's legs had turned to jelly. He wobbled into the elevator and leaned back, the metal of the wall cooling his clammy skin through his sweat-soaked clothes. Were it not for C holding him up and loosening the formal jacket she'd insisted he wore to convince the coroner he was a detective, he would've slithered down onto the floor.

"Well done," she said.

L swallowed before finding his voice. "You too. Hopefully, Mr. Howe finds Penber and Misora soon. Will you have any problems going to the park on Sundays?"

"No, I'll make sure I'm in control. We'll have to come up with believable excuses, though. Light's sharp. He'll notice my absence comes in patterns."

"You doubt our intellect and cunning over his?"

He met C's gaze. It'd been a long time since he saw such apprehension in those earth-and-sky colored dual eyes. 

"You challenged Kira," said C. "If I were him, I would want to hurt you by beating you at your own game. I'd want to come face to face with you and make you believe I wasn't Kira. I'd make myself an asset to your investigation. Lull you into believing you were following your own deductions, while really, I'd ensure you follow the breadcrumbs I left you."

"Hidden and patient," murmured L. "That does sound like Kira."

And somebody else we know...

The elevator dinged. When the sterile scent of the hospital corridors wafted in, L inhaled deeply. Anything was better than what currently clung to him. He then remembered he was supposed to support C while she sported her sunglasses and pretended to be blind. They changed into their new roles like actors changed into new costumes during a ten-second off-stage switch and walked out onto the third floor, hands never parting. 

"Did you listen to the tapes from the car yet?" asked C in a hushed tone. 

"I have," said L. "It seems Light can't form emotional connections. I expected none with Amane or Takada, but his answer to your inquiry about Sayu surprised me."

"Hm, you caught it too, didn't you?"

"He finds a sense of duty in being an older brother. A task he must carry out. He's aware he's not close to her, but doesn't appear to mind. In fact... he never said he loves her. That detachment is troubling. He fits the profile you made of Kira based on my first assessments of the case months ago, to a T."

Yes, the tape had revealed a lot. In more ways than one. The best lies were laced with truth, and C had spoken more truth than L had thought she would. It'd been a brilliant plot on her behalf to gain Light Yagami's trust, but her confession had not only rattled their number one suspect. It had given L much to ponder about. 

"Cassandra would understand if you really wanted to be with someone." He felt C stiffen at his words, her fingers clenching around his, and quickly continued. "We'd have to take some precautions, of course, but I'm certain we can arrange something. And please don't call yourself or her a freak. You're not. You have a —"

"Rare medical condition," finished C. "Save the speech. I don't wanna hear it again. And you can relax. There's no one I'm interested in, nor am I the kind to hook up with a guy an hour after meeting him. The privilege of picking this body's flower is all yours."

She let go. Losing the feel of her hand in his twisted L's insides. He hadn't lied when he said he wasn't comfortable with long physical contact. He just hadn't added he didn't mind if that contact was with the young woman currently crossing the glass walkway, her red hair dancing in a flaming prism from the permeating light of the afternoon sun.
There'd been only a few occasions since puberty hit that had prompted L to think about having sex. Just like C, he took care of himself in the odd moments he needed the relief. The very notion of intimacy had always seemed... absurd. At least, that's how it had been before his time in the Glass House. Before Cassandra. And in the last five years, whenever he was alone with her and she kissed him with those sweet full lips, L couldn't help his thoughts from straying and imagining what it would be like to go further. 

I can't, he mused. C may be strong enough to maintain control, but Cassandra isn't. If Mercy were to take advantage of that... distraction, she would never forgive herself. Nor would I. 

It wasn't to be. No matter what L felt for Cassandra, he refused to do anything that would compromise her safety or that of anyone around her. Too many had already died because he'd been blind to the truth once before. He couldn't allow that again. Never again. 

📓💀📓

Five years ago - March 2, 2002

Over two weeks had gone by since L had engaged with Cassandra. She was taken into solitary confinement for twenty-four hours after attacking him. When she'd been allowed out, she'd locked herself in her room and only came out for meals. The super-sleuth had observed from a distance at first, the bruises on his throat a reminder that he had seriously underestimated this girl. But as time passed, L was determined to make her speak to him again. 

"Sir... forgive me, but are you certain you wish to remain here?" asked Watari as he served L tea. "You've sat out in the corridor for the past four nights and found no evidence she ever left. I've spoken to the staff members who found Mrs. Downey this morning. They confirmed the door was locked from the inside. Preliminary reports shows she died peacefully in her sleep."

"A thirty-five-year-old with no medical history doesn't simply die like that, Watari," argued L. 

"Perhaps not, but there is nothing indicating murder, either."

The raven-haired nineteen-year-old huffed and wiggled his toes, the soft texture of the office couch tickling his skin. Nobody believed him. Not Scotland Yard, and not even Watari. But L was certain of his case.
Apart from a few suicides and accidents, all deaths reported in the Glass House for the past six years had been deemed natural. Too natural. As if they'd all went to sleep and simply decided to never wake up again. Even those with clear medical issues hadn't died from their affliction. That detail alone had been enough to spark L's interest.

"Do you deny there is a pattern?" he asked of Watari. 

"No, sir," answered the graying man. 

"Do you deny there is far too little information about Cassandra for a place who is so meticulous in patient care as this clinic?"

"No, sir."

L's dark-circled eyes peered over the edge of his teacup. "Do you believe in me?"

Watari sat back in his chair. His expression betrayed nothing as his gaze settled on his young protégé. A robin's happy twittering fluttered through the open window, clashing with the unyielding ticking of the grandfather clock that stood against the only wall that wasn't lined with bookcases. The pendulum swung left. Tick. To the right. Tock. Left again. Tick. Right again. Tock. Still no answer. Tick...
L turned his head at the sudden silence, finding the pendulum hung motionless. A sudden chill made him shiver. He got up from his crouched position on the couch and sauntered to the window. But as he was about to pull it shut, his attention was drawn to a quaint sight outside.

A red-haired girl sat on her knees beneath the tree outside the office Watari had been given. In front of her lay a robin. Was it hurt? No, it was... L gasped. His head snapped back to the grandfather clock. Both hands were on the four. 
In England, the number four meant little to nothing. It was just another digit. In Japan, though, where L's father was from, it held a very grave meaning. People avoided the number as much as they could, even more so than some Western cultures omitted the number thirteen. For four... meant death.

As L slowly returned to look out the window, the girl raised her head. An aura of red illuminated her eyes as they locked onto L's. The most harrowing sensation crept up inside him. As if claws had plunged into his body. They puttered, scraping at his flesh, scratching at his bones, tearing at his organs. His breath caught in his throat. Shadows obscured his vision. His heart ceased to beat. Laughter resonated. Then, as suddenly as it came, the feeling was gone. Watari could barely catch L as he stumbled back.  

"Sir! Are you all right?"

But L was tongue-tied. He broke out in a sweat, his body shaking beyond his control. With great effort, he pushed away from Watari and lurched forward, seeking support on the windowsill. The girl with the red hair still sat under the tree with the robin at her knees. And as L met her eyes again — one hazel, one blue — he witnessed what he'd missed two weeks ago. 
A blink. Just one blink, and Cassandra's entire demeanor changed. No longer did she appear daring or even malicious, but utterly confused. She looked around and then jumped to her feet when she saw the dead bird. Like L, she stumbled, clearly in shock. Cassandra raised her eyes to him again before she ran away, hair billowing in her flight. He'd never seen someone that afraid before. 

What L felt in that moment wasn't a desire to capture a killer. It was a need to learn. A want to protect. A yearning... to hold and comfort. 

Why did he feel like this?

What had happened to him?

And who or what was Cassandra?