Soichirou Yagami, Tota Matsuda, Kanzo Mogi, Shuichi Aizawa, Hideki Ide, Hirokazu Ukita. Quintessential and Japanese, politely announced, syllable-by-syllable—of course it was unnecessary (six out of three hundred and sixty-two; less than one point seven percent—lower than expected but who, even the Japanese police, had high expectations for the Japanese police), a formality, honestly: L had received data days earlier informing him who could be trusted among the NPA. Each name had a photograph (if I was Kira) and he mouthed each aloud, memorizing the sequence of lines across the screen and features for each.

They would, he thought, probably be bringing their names with them. Silliness. Then again, it was a name—sort of—they were coming to meet in a few days' time, at that name's invitation. A name was what you made of it. He liked the way the letter looked in old English calligraphy. He did not anticipate ever growing bored of that.

Himself and Watari, that made nine. Not accounting for aberrations.

…He'd see for himself. What they were like—

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

(If I was Kira)

If I were Kira, L thought that day, dryly, I would not be terrified of my adversaries.