Another midnight.
Another call.
Ken rubbed his face with both hands, whispering to the empty apartment, "Not now."
The crime scene smelled of bleach and iron.
The lead investigator spoke in flat, practiced sentences:
"Stab wound. Lower abdomen. Intestines visible. Time of death estimated between 2:30 and 2:53. She suffered for most of it. No guardian home. Parents due back soon."
Ken listened while staring at the blood pattern on the kitchen floor—long streaks where she'd tried to crawl.
He'd become too familiar with rooms like this.
Still asked himself the same useless question every time:
Don't these people have hearts?
The silence that answered never changed.
They searched for hours.
Found fingerprints that belonged to the victim.
A half-eaten bowl of ramen.
A phone with three missed calls from "Mom."
Nothing else.
Later, alone in his apartment, Ken noticed the laptop screen glowing inside his open briefcase.
He never left it on.
First sip of coffee.
Second sip.
Something wrong.
Blrrr. Blrrr.
Colonel Prestz's ringtone—distinct, impossible to confuse.
Then a different voice.
Calm.
Metallic.
A single calligraphic L blooming across his screen like spilled ink.
Ken's mouth went dry.
"L?"
They spoke.
L dissected the case in seconds—called every lead useless, every effort inadequate.
Ken's temper finally snapped.
"If you're so damn perfect, why don't you come do it yourself?"
A long pause.
Then, quietly:
"I suppose I can't…
Or should I?"
The line went dead.
Soft footsteps behind him—too soft for an apartment that should have been empty.
He spun.
Something heavy cracked against the base of his skull.
The room tilted sideways.
Black water rushed in.
D6ath N01e
"121416171820"