Saturday, August 14th | 3:46 PM
"Just in—the third death this week. Matthew Timothy has passed away following a brutal collision between his convoy and a freight truck while en route to a high-profile meeting with Metamedia. Early investigations indicate the truck driver was intoxicated and also perished in the crash."
A cigarette dangled from the man's lips, glowing in the dim light of his phone screen. He scoffed, puffing out a thin cloud of smoke. His comrade approached, rifle held close.
"You catch that?"
"I saw it.And the one from the day before yesterday."
"Shit's getting weird.First McClain Chain, now Matthew Timothy."
They stood guard before a growing crowd—a sea of camera flashes and tailored suits, thick with competing perfumes and murmured expectation. A white sedan screeched to a halt on the asphalt, and armed escorts emerged, flanking a woman with sharp ginger hair and pale freckles. She moved briskly, but the crowd swarmed like flies to light.
Flashes erupted around her.
"What's your response to McClain Chain's death?"a reporter shouted.
"No comment,"she replied, exhaustion etched in her voice.
"Do you believe there's something mysterious about his passing?"
"No comment."
"McCain and Matthew were known associates.Do you think their deaths are coordinated?"
"Please step aside."
Her security team pushed through the throng, and she disappeared into the looming glass building.
Inside, the conference room was a theater of power. Important figures sat in polished silence as she entered, heels clicking against the marble floor.
"You're late, Miss Lisbon."
"My apologies.I was—"
"Oh,that's right. Your husband's funeral is today, isn't it? My condolences."
Wanda offered a tight,stressed smile. "Thank you. Now, if I may proceed with the tribute."
She took her place at the podium, her voice steady but thin.
"As per our tradition,I would like to express my deepest gratitude, and my profound grief, at the passing of McClain Chain. He was a mentor, a leader, and a driving force behind OpenAlware Communications. We would not be where we are without his vision."
Nods rippled through the room—not of sorrow, but of cold, professional acknowledgment. A system, waiting for its next command.
"And I intend to honor his legacy by giving my all to—"
Wanda's words caught in her throat. Her hand flew to her chest, fingers clawing at her blouse. Her eyes widened in silent horror as the air left her lungs. She dropped to her knees.
"What's wrong with this old hag?"
"She's really milking it."
But this was no performance. A guttural scream tore from her, raw and primal. She writhed on the floor, back arching as if something inside her were breaking out. Then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped.
Wanda Lisbon lay still, blue eyes fixed on the ceiling in a final, frozen mask of terror.
The room plunged into silence—then erupted into chaos.
Live on air, a nation watched a woman die.
"Jesus Christ…"
"Oh my God…"
---
Bateman Residence
Arthur watched from his desk, a cold smirk playing on his lips as he spun his pen between his fingers. On the screen, the news replayed Wanda's final moments in a muted loop.
"Didn't have to go that far," Altergott remarked, gesturing toward the television with one long, ringed finger.
"Perhaps not," Arthur replied without looking away. "But I needed to test something important. These three were… useful."
"Useful? You mean the last three names you wrote over the past week and a half?"
"Precisely.Wanda Lisbon, McClain Chain, Matthew Timothy. Each served a distinct purpose in my understanding of this notebook."
Altergott tilted his skull mask. "Oh? Do explain."
Arthur leaned forward, tapping the Death Note with his pen. "The rules state: if no cause of death is specified, the victim dies of a heart attack. However, if a cause is written, details of the death may be added within six minutes and forty seconds."
"I'm aware."
"With my first subject,I tested the extent to which I could manipulate events leading to death. With Matthew Timothy, I dictated the manner: suicide by self-inflicted wounds in a bathroom."
He slid a newspaper clipping toward Altergott, who scanned it with hollow-eyed interest.
"Basic use of the notebook. Nothing groundbreaking."
"Perhaps not,"Arthur conceded, his voice low and deliberate. "But it provided crucial data for the next target, and allowed for another experiment. Notice the timeline."
He jotted a few notes on a separate pad.
"McClain Chain died on August 7th.Matthew Timothy died two days later. For Matthew, I specified not only the manner and time, but additional conditions—the drunk truck driver, the public spectacle. I wanted to see how much environmental detail I could embed."
Altergott rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So you used information from the first death to craft the second."
"Close,but not quite. All three were part of a single design. My frustration was the time constraint—six minutes and forty seconds is enough to write, but what if I wanted to… pre-write the details? Plan the death first, insert the name later?"
For the first time, Altergott seemed genuinely surprised. His posture shifted subtly.
"I… hadn't considered that application."
"Neither had I,until I tried it. But the real revelation," Arthur continued, his smirk returning, "was Wanda."
"The heart attack? That seemed straightforward."
"Ah,but it wasn't. She was always the primary target. McClain and Matthew were merely… supporting actors. Their deaths were set pieces in her tragedy."
Altergott went very still. A flicker of something—amusement? intrigue?—passed behind the mask.
"You didn't kill them sequentially. You planned all three deaths as a single narrative, testing multiple rules at once."
"I needed to know the notebook's limits.How it handles causality, timing, public perception. Now I know."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, spinning slowly. "Hard work requires hard lessons. I've simply been… studying."
The Shinigami watched him, head cocked at an unnatural angle.
"Four names.Only four. And you've already dissected the mechanics this deeply." He sighed, a dry, rasping sound. "I'll be stuck here forever at this rate."
"I haven't uncovered all its secrets yet," Arthur replied, standing. "But I will. And as for your boredom… allow me to show you how a god should run the world."
"Big words for a human."
Arthur paused at the door,glancing back with a cool, detached glint in his eye.
"Then watch closely."
__
Saint Louis Metropolitan Police Department
The police building towered over the street, its windows reflecting the pale morning light. Inside, the air hummed with low voices, ringing phones, and the muffled footsteps of officers moving between cubicles stacked with files.
In the office of Inspector Melware John, the atmosphere was tense. Danny Woods entered without knocking, a thick stack of papers tucked under his arm.
"Already?" Melware asked, not looking up from the case photographs spread across his desk.
"Yes, sir. We've interviewed everyone present at the scene, eyewitnesses, security, staff. All accounts match. Officially, it's being ruled a heart attack."
Melware finally looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing. "But?"
Danny placed the file on the desk. "But it doesn't feel right. So we dug deeper. Started talking to her family, her kids." He paused. "Things got… bizarre."
Melware opened the folder. His gaze moved methodically across the pages—autopsy reports, witness statements, prescription records. He lingered on the toxicology sheet.
"She was on antidepressants. A high dosage, purchased the day before she died."
"It could be grief," Danny suggested. "Her husband's funeral was that morning. The kids mentioned she'd had an episode earlier—panic, shortness of breath. They thought it was stress."
Melware stood, pushing his chair back with a low scrape. He moved to the window, rubbing his temple. Outside, the city moved on, unaware.
"Three people," he said quietly. "All linked to the same company. All dead within a week. What do we have on the other employees at OpenAlware Communications?"
"Nothing solid. We spoke to the board members, senior staff. They all gave polished answers—praised the deceased, called it a tragedy. No visible conflicts, no obvious motives."
"Of course there aren't." Melware turned, his expression hardening. "In the span of one week, three high-profile individuals connected to the same corporation drop dead from 'random accidents'? That's not a coincidence. That's a pattern."
Danny's shoulders slumped slightly. "Maybe it's just… bad luck. Stress, high pressure—"
"It's a sequence, Woods. A sequence means intention." Melware grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. "I want every employee at OpenAlware re-interviewed. Cross-reference financials, personal conflicts, internal emails. Somebody knows something. This wasn't an accident, it's something else"
He headed for the door, coat draped over his arm. Danny lingered for a moment, staring at the file on the desk.
"You really think it's murder?"
Melware paused in the doorway,his back to the room. "I think when people this powerful die this close together, it's never just tragedy. It's a message."
He didn't wait for a reply. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Danny alone with the silence and the case that was already beginning to smell like something far darker than heart attacks.