I don't cry.

I haven't cried since I was 9 years old, and I broke my arm falling from an unstable branch in the canopy of a tree I had managed to scale. That was warranted. It fucking hurt.

But as I trudge through the gardens watching layers of thick mud cake my boots, it's hard to maintain my composure. I can't stop myself from wondering if my reaction would have been the same to his death at my own hands. I held a gun to his head barely six months ago. Somewhere in the deepest caverns of my heart, I knew I could never go through with it. He knew that too. But God, was it tempting.

This is different. He was killed by the vile filth who's dominated the world like a human plague for the past six years. Light Yagami. I condemned that fucker to an eternity wasting away in the foulest pits of Hell, but not before he had the chance to wreak absolute havoc on the world.

First, he stole the life of my idol and indirect mentor. L. That was difficult enough to comprehend, and I'd never even met him. Then, every member of the SPK and the Japanese taskforce in that fucking warehouse; Near at the forefront.

It's a different feeling to lose someone I've known since I was seven years old. Regardless of how many matches he lit to ignite the raging fires in my chest, I grew up with him, and he's always been a constant in my life. Maybe I got too complacent with that fact. Perhaps I should have worked with him. I could have prevented this. Could I?

I come to a halt at his headstone, right beside L's, at the furthest point in the orphanage gardens. Wilting flowers have been haphazardly strewn over the top of the two graves; lame offerings in some poor effort to pay respect to the detectives. I almost resent Wammy's House for daring to pay tribute to the younger genius, when it was these very walls that were instrumental in his downfall.

He was only 13 when he was entrusted with the Kira investigation. What kind of fucked up institution leaves such a dangerous case in the hands of a child? Sure, he was more than capable, but even the world's best detective perished on the frontlines.

Now, it's my turn to carry the torch. It seems wrong to be so apprehensive at the notion. I have everything I ever thought I wanted. I am the new L. I have every justice system of an entire planet at my fingertips, and my only competition out of the way. But I haven't felt any semblance of relief or triumph. No, it seems more like a curse now that I'm infected with the title.

And to think of the cost that came with this role, too…

My fingers trace over the outlines of Near's pallid, round face in the laminated image fastened to his headstone. Often, in mourning, people will comment on just how 'alive' the deceased seem to look in pictures of themselves. On the contrary, Near already looked dead before he succumbed too early to his undeserved fate.

His complexion was sickly, unblemished like that of a child's but contrasted by sharp grey eyes that betrayed no remnants of naivety or innocence. That same pair of eyes saw more than any young boy should. A mane of thick, platinum blonde hair framed a perfectly symmetrical face, and two strands at the front of his head always sprung up into a slight curl from years of chronic twirling around his fingers.

I can't suppress the thought that he was beautiful. How did I never notice before?

It's the only photo that exists of him. I'm surprised he even kept the picture rather than burning or tearing it up. To be fair, I couldn't bring myself to part with mine either, which I claimed was for the nostalgia, but had a lot more to do with the 'Dear Mello' he wrote on the back than I would admit aloud. But Near isn't – wasn't – one to be sentimental.

I guess in the end, that didn't matter. He didn't die because of that damn photograph. He died because of an oversight, one that was so glaringly obvious, I keep torturing myself with the possibility that I could have found it; could have done something, anything, even if it meant that I would have been sacrificed in his place. It would have been worth it if it meant that I could spare him.

My hand separates from the photo for a moment to clear a fresh torrent of salty tears clinging to my cheeks. If the ground wasn't already wet enough in the aftermath of rain, it sure is now, with the puddle steadily growing beneath me at each droplet slipping from the tapered curve of my chin.

Grieving won't do me any good. I need to act. Yagami is out of the picture, but it's not enough. I'm going to hunt down Mikami, Amane, Takada, and every other of Light's accomplices involved in his rampage. I won't stop until every last Kira supporter is a pile of rubble below the ground.

I set down the red robot that had made small lacerations in my palm from the way my fist had clenched around it. I back away as its feet sink into the damp mud. A final look into those familiar vacant eyes cements my determination.

I'll avenge you, Near.

I swear it.