An alarm sounds and Teru is awake.
A shower is run, and Teru is washing, silently, hot water cascading over muscled flesh.
Black framed glasses are snapped open, slipped over brilliant eyes, perfect black hair is combed into neat locks running onto broad shoulders.
As coffee warms, a white shirt is pulled on. A black tie and suit complete the attire.
A briefcase is collected and the house is left, flawless, untouched, impersonal.
The train, and children dressed for school push one another, hitting out again and again. One is a victim. Teru watches, silently, brilliant eyes watching from a newspaper held in hand to the children, to the victim and the bullies, to the victim and the bullies, and Teru is remembering. Teru drops the paper. Puts a hand on the bully's shoulder.
A child's game, petty teasing, nothing more. Wrongs cannot go unpunished, unchecked.
An office, leatherbound books of law pay witness to a stream of unhappy faces, abused or abusive, undefended or unpunished. Teru speaks eloquently, and without compassion, passing justice as uselessly and ineffectively as a prosecutor can.
Changing one life after one life. Not enough, not nearly enough. It never changes.
The day moves on and Teru is straining, chest muscles pounding, pumping the steel arms of a machine again and again. Repetition, determination, devotion, arms aching. Teru is done with his exercise and leaves the gym.
The day has ended and Teru is home, at last truly working, at last truly serving justice, at last truly serving kami, at last truly serving Kira.
His pen strikes. His whisper is soft, and sudden, as one in rapture.
"Sakujo."