It's 2016, and spring.

If it weren't dark, Light could see the luxuriant cherry blossoms in the grounds around the old Supreme Court building; the mob and its ways are never allowed close to Kira's government. He chose the location himself, of course; the kritocratic symbolism appealed.

From his window high up, he can see himself in the glass; he always does. The premature grey started appearing not long after he turned twenty-six; for about ten seconds, he'd considered dyeing it out, before scoffing at himself for considering such an indignity. He rather likes it by now. It's dignified, distinctive, as if he'd ever needed such a thing to make him stand out. Combined with the weight that's faded from him - nothing dramatic, just too many skipped meals and non-stop hard work - and the beginnings of creases in his face, he looks more like forty than thirty. Is it a side-effect of the note, his time running out faster than it should have? Ryuk doesn't seem to think so, but then, Ryuk is less use to Light with every year that passes.

He wears the silver crescent moon on his lapel, the way they all do; before he visits his mother, sad and defeated and alone as she is, he removes it. Sachiko must know at least his job title by now, but Light won't rub her face in this thing they don't speak of. Except he's going to have to, now. There's no choice. This evening his mother has two children; tomorrow she'll have but one.

Mikami had buzzed through to request an audience, that afternoon. He always does, even though he technically outranks Light. Light reports to Mikami, who reports to God: a neat little circle, camouflaged as a triangle, its apex at the bottom. Today he's even more nervous than usual, as if he never gets used to standing in the presence of God. "Ah, kami-sama..." - the other man insists on the title, when they're alone, and Light's objections were token - "... something on the list of condemned, for tomorrow morning. I thought I should draw your attention to it."

Light rarely hesitates, and even a madman like Mikami couldn't have missed it: the few seconds as he stared at the case report, and the photograph, until he'd evenly replied. "Thank you, Mikami-san. I'll handle this one." There's no doubt on Mikami's face that his living god will do the right thing; perhaps the too-bright thing he's trying to hide is sympathy, for Light's poor luck with his family, for having a sister who can't be made to see it, and a mother so young to be half-gone into dementia, and a fiancée who killed herself all those years ago. That hadn't even been Light's doing; Misa's time had been up, her life halved twice, and with her gone, the facade of deep mourning has so far kept him from having to go through it any of it again. And then Mikami had withdrawn from the office, giving Light the same overelaborate bow he always does in private, as if the man wishes he could scrape his face across the carpet till it bled. Most days, Light takes it as his due for all he's accomplished, or he rides it with secret glee, the way he does the crowds that scream his true name as he observes in secret, the way he still does every name he writes, every policy he sets from the very top. Who'd known being the god of the new world would turn out to be mostly paperwork?

Ryuk manages to contain his clotted, greedy amusement until the office is empty.

In the end, there's no hesitation, no doubt. How could there be? He's faced it years before, that moment of weakness when he failed to do what he should - a hotel room, and a watch with a space for a tiny picture of a loved one, and nothing there except a double thickness of lined paper. On his reversed reflection, the barely-raised eyebrow looks as if it's mocking him. What's one more sacrifice, Light? You always have a choice. Except that as the first two kanji go down, that family name that's part of him too, he remembers the rule that he can shorten his own life by using the notebook. He doesn't consider it; he doesn't pause, because he's not someone who does that sort of thing. Holding her face in his mind's eye, he adds the third character, then the fourth. Surplus adornment. "Leftover". Why did they call her that?

The characters go down one after the other. He ought to have handwriting like a doctor by now, illegible. Instead it becomes clearer and finer and smaller with each passing year, as if it, like him, is being refined to white ash, to base elements. The pen he uses is unique, so expensive you couldn't buy it in a shop; the ink whispers from it. The paper smells faintly of ammonia. This is what he was born for, and moments like this are what's made him everything he is. Finally, it's all he can give her: a death without pain. He thinks fear may be beyond the note. It's all I need: right, and wrong, and what I say they are. Forever.

Right?

Razoring the soiled row of paper from the notebook's page, he folds it into a neat square, then - click click click click snap - tucks it away in the secret panel of his watch.