Chapter 1

Winter had been such an enchanting season to him. Small, white crystals fell gracefully to the ground and created a pillow of white all over the town. Night would come early, enveloping the city in a soft atmosphere full of lit lanterns on the street and the pedestrians hiding in their dark coats and long boots, accompanied by pairs of hand gloves to prevent their delicate skins from freezing. Under these circumstances it had never been much of a surprise to find young couples sitting on cold benches, holding hands and cuddling to keep the small bit of heat around them stable. Others preferred a good, hot cup of chocolate while they lugged around at some corner of a coffee shop seat. It has always been this way, every winter. But people did not witness the strange thing about the annual cold season: The more snow fell, the more people were killed.

Unfortunately for the rest of the population, a certain man hated the colour white. Hate was such a strong word, but it described this sickening feeling inside him perfectly. White had to become tainted with red. Only then it was acceptable. The reason he despised the colour of snow was what he associated with it. Or rather, who it made him think of. Spidery long fingers clenched to a tight fist at the mere thought of that white haired sheep. A sheep he was indeed, innocent, emotionless, and cowardly. Hiding behind the several monitors in a room full of childish entertainment material such as cards, legos and robots, he sat, silently mocking the blond. Not one day did the blond man appreciate this behaviour that only resulted in the idea of killing people in the sheep's favourite time of the year. Idiotic, little sheep…

Sapphire blue eyes wandered in the dim-lighted office and finally rested on what he was looking for. Removing himself from the windowsill, he made his way over to the two large armchairs. The shimmering black leather was a beautiful sight, but he rarely found anyone trustworthy enough to sit on the chair next to his own, the one with the imprinted, golden "M" letter. Settling himself onto the marked armchair, he picked up the metallic item, which lay carefully on top of the coffee table between the two seats. The blond man's gaze fell onto the shiny gun. This sufficient weapon had been his one and only companion for all these years, from the moment he entered that abandoned building in the outskirts of Winchester, England.

It had been a long night for a fifteen year old guy like him. His poorly clad feet froze bit by bit with every step he took on his race through the thick layer of snow. With nothing but a backpack, the boy ran away from the place he had once called home. The great orphanage for gifted children, Whammy's House, also less commonly known as the place where children mentally worked themselves to death, was nothing more than a copy machine. Its only purpose was to create a copy of the brilliant mind of the detective called "L". That man resembled the biggest mystery in most people's lives. No one had the privilege to meet the greatest detective of all times –that is, except for a young boy with the given name Mello. He was one of the orphans at Whammy's and belonged to the fourth generation of copies.

Until this day the genius couldn't grasp L's intentions behind it, but for whatever reason he had chosen to talk to the second best. Near held the top spot and, much to Mello's dismay, was adored by absolutely everyone. Yet this person didn't stand up for his name, for he preferred to push people away from him. They were like fruit flies eager to explore a bowl of grapes on a hot summer day, but the grapes were protected by a thin cloth, which covered up those oh-so-precious grapes. The thin cloth in this silly, but quite accurate metaphor hadn't been anyone else but our caretaker, Roger.

There wasn't a single person, whose hate for children could be compared to Roger's loathing of the poor orphans. Paradoxical as it may seem to be, but Roger had taken a liking in only one person, which was the top successor of L, the next big thing, the greatest of them all. That's why seven years ago a grumpy Roger came into his room and reluctantly dragged not the top successor but an emotional fourteen year old guy to a room he had never seen before to meet a man he'd never dreamed to cross paths with. Mello learnt not to have high expectations of people, so he approached L with an open and serious mind set. The blond fixed his eyes onto a man, whose looks could trick you into thinking he's a lanky, young man suffering from constant fatigue. The detective had clothes on that were more than baggy on his obviously underweight figure and stood with hunched shoulders at the window. Roger had left him with a freak, he had first thought. It wasn't until L had turned around and his dark eyes bore into Mello's soul that Mello took a few steps closer to the man. Neither of them talked as they looked at each other. The young genius was the first to avert his gaze to the floor.

"Take a seat."

Funnily enough, the room lacked furniture as much as Near lacked colour in his white hair, which forced Mello to sit down on the cold ground. The lights were dim, giving the room a somewhat eerie touch. Minutes passed and the man before him hadn't introduced himself yet.

"Why do you want to speak to me?"

The older guy sat down, right in front of him with his knees pulled close to his chest.

"We're alike, Mello."

A million questions boiled inside the teenager's mind, yet he held back any sudden movements. Their breath was the only sound in the room. There were no clocks, no pictures, just a window, the ground and the four lanterns in each corner. Their conversation that night seemed endless. L gave Mello even more reason to despise Near. He found out things he would have never expected, understood things from a completely different level and heard stories, which could have never been any more marvellous. He held a mature, interesting, magnificent conversation with a man ten years ahead of his age and nothing could ever compare to that moment in his life when he felt that he was wasting time in the most perfect way possible. Almost everything about this man had been peculiar. His diet consisting of a variety of the world's sweetest confect; his sitting manners that allowed his thinking process to improve by forty percent; the bags underneath his eyes that symbolized his huge lack of sleep – never had a man been this interesting.

It wasn't until before Mello was escorted back to his room that the man bent down to the level of the boy's ear and whispered those little words to him. "I'm L." Full of wonder and gratefulness, Mello hadn't been able to sleep that night. Of course this would stay a secret between him and the greatest detective, but the blond would have loved to brag about his newly gained information to Near. The happiness began to wear off soon. L hadn't come back ever again and neither did he talk to Mello a second time. Just as Mello started to lose hope, he had received a letter from L, which contained only a few verses of a poem.

Whose face it is, so pale? Whose lips they are, so chapped?

Whose arms so thin, whose body frail? May it belong to this miserable soul?

May it be a person half dead? May it be, may it be me?

But is half good enough? I ask myself. The longing stronger yet, bit by bit.

A kiss from you, some pain by you. I will await you, sweet sweet death. -L

It was a cold November night when Mello heard the news. L is dead. Suicide, most people thought. L didn't kill himself though. Mello knew. He knew L's lover and he knew it would happen. He knew who the sweet death was. Mello couldn't have stopped him. So he kept the letter a secret and carried this secret with him.

A week later, they announced that L had chosen Near to be his successor. Mello left Whammy's on the 12th of November.