It was a good thing Dad wasn't home. We finally made it back to my house, and the two of us both immediately collapsed onto the sofa.

"Are you okay, Light?"

Light just blinked slowly. Right . . . he can't be okay. He's just . . . oh my god, Light's just killed two people. Then, he inhaled, exhaled, and said, "Am I okay? You could've gotten hit by that truck and you're asking if I'm okay?"

He's acting, I noted, stomach churning. I met his eyes. You can tell me anything, you know?

Light's mask didn't fall. He just kept looking at me with those wide, concerned eyes—probing. Not for any suspicions, but more likely than not, for my own wellbeing.

I suppressed a shudder as the crash replayed in my head. That was a scene that wouldn't leave my head for a long while.

And then, in a soft whisper, Light said, "I'm scared, Mikko. I don't know what I . . . how I . . ." Of course he won't want to talk about the Death Note, I realised belatedly. No normal person would ever admit to anything like that, even if they're—no, especially if they're as close as we are.

"It's okay," I mumbled, fidgeting with my fingers.

Light shook his head, mouth playing into a mirthless smile. "I didn't know it was you, you know? Until your hood fell when you ran from those guys. Then, not even a second after I realised that it was you who was there, that truck ran past." He shuddered. "I thought you had died then," he mumbled slower, softer. "What kind of person does that make me, Mikko? What if you'd been a few seconds slower? What if you'd died; what if I'd killed y—"

Light cut himself off abruptly.

"Light?"

"Sorry, I . . . I'm not . . . I don't really know what I'm feeling right now, Mikko. It's just throwing me off a little." His expression softened. "You should get some rest, okay? Call me if you can't sleep and you want to talk." His eyes were uncertain, but it was clear he'd sensed my own exhaustion despite it.

Come to think of it, I could feel the lethargy catching up to me, making my eyelids heavy. I nodded, and pulled a throw blanket over myself there on the couch, then fell asleep.

I woke up again in the middle of the night in my own room, with a plate on my bedside table. Under it was a note that said, Today must have been draining for you. Sweet dreams, Kimiko. —Dad

I looked at the plate itself. On it were a few small homemade peach tarts—my favourite treat. Slowly, I bit into one, the flavour bursting onto my tongue. He used Mum's recipe, I realised. And somehow, that calmed me down enough to sleep properly for the rest of the night.

The next few days passed by quickly. In the hopes of getting the Death Note, I ended up spending more time at Light's house, and even more time in his room, under the premise of studying. On the third day after he'd gotten the notebook, he'd been called by his mom to give something to the neighbours.

Now's my chance, I decided as Light left the room. Quickly, I looked through the drawers in Light's cabinet, finding the Death Note in the top one. I had about ten minutes before Light would get back. That should be enough time.

I took the Death Note out of the drawer, and flipped it open. The cover page had the How To Use It rules written on them in the same messy, chunky handwriting that was suddenly all too familiar. On the first actual page were the names of Kurou Otoharada, and seven variations of Takuo Shibuimaru's name. Then, a pencil line sharply drawn across the page, as though the book had been closed in a hurry and the pencil left a mark. That must have been from when he ran out of the store and—

I shook my head, clearing it of the memory—there was no time to waste.

Turning to the second page, I noted that it was significantly more organised than the first—there were four names on each line, written in neat columns. The second page was full, and a quick count showed that there were thirty-six lines on each page—that was a hundred and forty-four names that could fit on each page, and Light was already halfway through the third page, from the looks of it. Will I have time to count the number of pages? A quick glance outside the window showed me that Light was nowhere in sight.

I opened the Death Note to the halfway-point, where it was bound by thin thread—not staples, huh?—and counted the number of pages from the centre to the start—thirty in total. That made sixty whole pages, and a hundred and twenty sides.

"And done," I breathed, closing the Note, just as I heard the doorknob turn. Startled, I dumped the notebook into the drawer it had been in, and quickly shut it behind me.

"Kimiko, could you help me with this math question?" Oh . . . thank God it's just Sayu . . . Light would've noticed something was up if it had been him.

"Yeah, sure—what's the topic?"

"Quadratic equations," she groaned, flopping onto Light's chair with her notebook. "I don't get them at all."

"Well, then, let's start with factorisation," I said, "do you know the FOIL method?"

"As in . . . tin foil?"

"No, it's an acronym in English," Light said, shrugging off his coat as he entered the room. "It stands for first, inner, outer, last, and that's how you're supposed to multiply the numbers in brackets."

"When did you get back?" I asked, folding my arms as I swivelled the chair around to face him.

"A minute ago," Light said, his tone airy and casual. Too casual, in fact. He's forcing it. I decided to put that issue aside for later, after Sayu left.

And so, the impromptu math class began. For the most part, everything was fine, until—

"My pencil's out of lead . . . Hey, Light, do you have any in here?" Sayu asked, reaching for the drawer that the Death Note was kept in.

"Here!" I supplied, scooping a small box of pencil lead off the floor.

"Thanks, Kimiko!"

I didn't dare to chance a glance at Light, but I did hear him exhale shakily. It's a good thing I've already touched the Note, and then some. Now, it was more likely than not that he'd be considering moving it to a different location.

Then again, there isn't much related to the heart attack deaths on the media yet, and there wouldn't be, until the confrontation with L that would be . . . soon. Maybe he'd think he wouldn't have too much to worry about?

When Sayu left the room to watch the latest airing of a drama, I turned to Light. "So, care to explain your newfound weariness, you old man?"

Light attempted to scowl, but it looked more like a pout. "It's been harder to sleep since . . . the incident the other day." Since he got the Death Note.

"You aren't eating properly, either," I pointed out, recalling his half-full lunchbox. The notebook's already screwing up his health. I felt sick. "Do you want to see a therapist or something?"

Light shook his head. "No, that's not . . . that's not it, Mikko. Don't worry," he said, smiling (and if I didn't know better, I would have believed it was genuine), "I'll be fine. Are you okay after that, though?"

"I'm more or less okay . . . I didn't see what happened to that Shibui-whatever guy, but I did hear the crash. That's about it, though."

"If you're okay, that's good."

"Yeah," I agreed. Obviously, I wasn't going to get any more out of Light tonight. I picked up my book bag. "Alright, guess I'll go back home now. See you tomorrow, Light," I said, and stepped closer to him.

Light stepped backward a little. "Light . . ." I tried not to feel hurt. I closed my eyes, sighing as I raised the back of my hand to his forehead. As I suspected, it was warm. I shook my head as I withdrew my hand. "Please take better care of yourself, Light, you're almost getting a fever." In fact, now that I noticed it, his face was pinkish, too.

Light nodded. "Goodnight, Mikko."

"Night," I returned, leaving.

I didn't go to Light's house the next day. If memory served (and I sure hoped it did), it was the day Ryuk would first show up, and if I was there when he did, it would probably have made things all the more confusing for him, Light, and myself. Plus, when I had an idea of the timeline, however vague, I didn't want to screw it up.

So that meant letting Light do as he pleased with the Death Note, for now. I hated the idea, if only because of how it was affecting Light—it wasn't only messing with his sleep schedule; I could also tell that he'd definitely looked paler and thinner too. Of course, since he hadn't been eating.

Almost as if he were trying to be a martyr of sorts.

"What are you doing to yourself, Light . . ." I mumbled aloud, switching on my computer. There still hadn't been any news from the mass media on Kira specifically, but the 'unexplained deaths of wanted criminals' was already a major headline. It's barely been four days, and we're already getting this far in . . . imagine how quickly this would have spread if I were still in 2016, I thought, stunned.

It was then that a gossip column caught my eye—Kira: Saviour or Sinner?—the first one I'd seen to acknowledge Kira.

I was wrong. This is where it begins.

I sat back in my chair, turning towards the window, only to see Ryuk sitting on a lamppost outside. I made eye contact with him for a brief moment, then spun around on my heel and turned away.

He saw me. And he knows I saw him. Please don't tell Light. Please don't tell him, please.

That night, I waited patiently for any messages or calls from Light, but none came. It was almost ten, in fact, when I heard footsteps behind me. "Who is it?" Even I could tell that the casual tone in my voice was fake.

"So, you can see me," Ryuk mused, voice gravelly and amused. If I remembered correctly, the best way to deal with Ryuk was to sass him. Interest him.

I swallowed thickly as I said, "Technically, I can hear you right now."

Ryuk cackled. "You're amusing."

"I get that a lot."

Ryuk cackled again, obviously satisfied. "You're surprisingly calm about seeing a Shinigami."

I closed my eyes, turned around to where I heard Ryuk's voice from, then looked at him. Ryuk looked exactly as I remembered he would, from the leathery clothes stapled onto him to the yellow-red eyes and spiked-up black hair. "What if I said that it's because I knew you would come? That I touched Light's Death Note because I knew, then, that I would be able to see you?"

Ryuk's already-wide grin stretched wider. "So you're one of them," he said, quietly enough for me to have barely heard it.

"One of whom?"

"Can't tell you that," Ryuk just said in response. "I'm breaking enough Shinigami rules already," he chuckled. He has to know something. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I can remember . . .

I shook my head. "In that case, you owe me—so you need to make sure that Light doesn't find out that I know about the notebook, or Shinigami, or that he's Ki— that he's the one who's killing criminals."

"Looks like we've got a deal then," Ryuk said, then took off.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. That's one issue solved. Now for the rest of them . . . ugh. Tomorrow . . . I decided, crawling into my bed. I'll deal with the rest of it tomorrow.

Two days passed, and nothing had changed from what I had expected. Ryuk hadn't been in my house since the last time, and Light didn't seem to suspect a thing.

I sat up straight, having been hunched over the coffee table while doing my homework. Why do we even need this many questions on the binomial theorem? I grumbled internally, letting my eyes drift to the television, where some romance drama was playing.

Better than math, I decided, and shifted my attention to it, even when I heard the door open and Dad step in. From what I could hear, he took off his shoes, and either sat down at the dining table, or was standing there.

"We are interrupting the program to bring you a live, globally televised broadcast from Interpol, with Japanese voiceover by Yoshio Anderson."

The broadcast . . . is today?

"I am Lind L. Tailor, more commonly known as 'L'—the sole person able to mobilise police in every country worldwide."

I stood up abruptly, forcing myself out of the narrow spot I was in. I have to stop Light from killing him—or at least, stall until the broadcast ends. I raced upstairs to get my socks and put them on, and then to the front door to get my shoes, when Dad called for me.

"What do you want?" I tapped my foot in a mixture of impatience and nervousness.

"I need to talk to you, Kimiko."

Now, after what, six years and a peach tart? "If a conversation can wait for six years, it can wait another half hour. Give me the house key, please."

"Kimiko."

"What do you want and why can't it wait?"

In the background, Lind L. Tailor had just declared Kira was evil. I won't be able to make it there in time, I realised. If Dad hadn't . . . no, I realised too late anyway. Damn . . . another inevitability.

Dad looked at me with an expression that I couldn't quite place—pity? "Kimiko, things can't change," he said, then dropped the house key in my hand. "Don't try to change them."

I felt a chill run down my spine. What did . . . what does that mean?

Tailor collapsed.

I sighed in defeat, and gave the keys back to Dad. There wasn't much point, anyway. Now . . . now Dad probably suspects something. He isn't stupid, but . . . he doesn't really care, does he?

I shook my head, picked up my math books, and headed back to my room. I didn't feel like watching the rest of the broadcast. I knew what it would say, anyway—that it was only being broadcast in this area, and that L had just proved that Kira existed, and had determined Kira's location.

Later that evening, I got a text from Light:

Did you see the broadcast?

I didn't respond. The thought made me sick.

Another text came in:

Dad's going to be back in Japan tomorrow, after that Interpol meeting.
Do you think the meeting was about Kira?
. . .
Mikko?
Are you asleep?
Message me when you see this.

I switched my phone off.

A/N: I'm trying to cut down on these notes, but I have a serious announcement to make this time! I'm starting up a Discord server for my writing (due to the encouragement of my friends) and discussions on it! The invite code (after the discord-dot-gg part) is xVF4Wm! There's also a direct link on my Tumblr, my-colour-undiminished. Hope to see you there!