Something wasn't right. That much was certain.

A young man made his way to the alter of a long-abandoned church, lightly stirring up dust that had settled on the floor, following a set of footprints that recently trekked down the aisle. He pulled the black facemask tucked under his chin over his mouth and nose, several strands of his unruly sandy blond hair catching between the elastic and his fair skin. Cobwebs fluttered gently about the air as he passed the worn pews.

Gray-blue eyes, hidden behind a pair of comically large framed, red specks, flitted about, catching glimpses of fleeting shadows that lingered just beyond his line of sight. Teasing him with subtlest of peeks. Just enough to keep him on his toes.

What should have felt like a holy and peaceful presence, as with most churches he's visited across the world, was completely drowned out by an overly dark and vile feel to the air. It was suffocating, wafting and invading his very being, filling him with an uneasy apprehension.

He continued to follow the footprints as they lead to a pair of doors that exited the sanctuary. A hallway, with several doors on each side. Offices, the largest most likely belonging to the previous pastor. There were still books that laid on the shelves in a bookshelf. Only a few. Any more and the worn piece of furniture would most likely topple over.

If he were to pick them up, surely, they would crumble…

Turning the corner, there were stairs. Leading most likely to the attic.

His destination, for sure.

That was where he felt his very being pulled forward, a sort of compulsion, one he spent years fighting against having been thrown out the window, beckoning his feet to move. Perhaps it was the sense of dread that lingered in the air that prompted such a lack of self-control.

Letting out a soft breath, he began to climb the stairs, ignoring that annoying feeling of dread that continued to smolder him. He wasn't doing a very good job at that. He reached out with gloved hands, trembling rather furiously, and he grasped at the railing. Both to help hoist him up the stairs and quell his shaking hands.

In all his uneasy life, he had never felt anything like this.

Hell, not even that one time he visited a small town in California, where he had met a short-order cook who went by the name of Odd (he certainly lived up to his namesake), whose abilities struck an uncanny resemblance to the blond. He claimed that he was trying to stop some man whose hair resembled some kind of mold from opening a literal portal to hell. That was a terrifying time.

But that's another story for another time.

He neared the door that sat at the top of the stairs, painted a dulled maroon with the paint chipping away and onto the ground. As he drew closer to the door, he noticed two things.

One, that this was very poorly laid out, the design of the church, I mean. The walls of the stairway were so narrow, he couldn't believe that anything could be maneuvered up the stairs and into the attic with relative ease.

Second, whatever was behind this door was surely the heart of this gloomy presence. Its resonating aura all but burnt the boy as he reached for the bronze doorknob. Which was odd, since it was rather cold inside and outside the church.

As soon as his hand wrapped around the doorknob, his unease only continued to grow, gradually growing into a fear he had not known for a long time. He wasn't one to be easily scared. When you see the dead all day every day, you kind of become calloused to anything that would be remotely frightening. Especially when spirits tend to pop in during the most inopportune and hindering moments…

Any normal person would just turn away and not bother with this. They would leave and not give a second thought. Of course, if one were normal, would they be in this situation to begin with? Would they be heading straight towards the very thing that was giving them the heebie-geebies?

Some people, probably.

Some people had a better sense of self-preservation than others.

He was not one of the latter.

The door should have been locked. The knob should not have been able to turn with the subtlest twist of his wrist. The church itself should have been locked. It should have been, but it wasn't. Now, he could write that off as a few delinquent children breaking in, which wasn't too far-fetched of an idea. Graffiti littered the walls, after all.

His brows furrowed as the doorknob twisted without a problem. Now was not the time for any sort of hesitation. So, with a deep breath, he pushed.

And pushed.

And pushed.

The door didn't move; something was pressed against it, he presumed.

Curious.

If the door was supposed to lock, which it was since there was a keyhole, it most likely would have been locked. That raised another series of questions. If it was unlocked, how did it get blocked? Did something fall?

Or was it intentional? To keep anyone from entering?

If that was the case, that was a minor issue. He usually found a way to get where he wanted, one way or another.

His jaw tightened as his lips pursed together into a thin line, a soft grumble sounding from him as he pressed his shoulders against the wooden door. With a surprisingly feminine grunt, he slammed himself into the door as hard as he could, one of his hands keeping the knob twisted. The door didn't budge much, but he was a persistent and determined soul, never one to be easily yielded. He continued to drive his small and lithe body into the stubborn door, each time the door inched open and scraped against the floor until he heard a loud crash on the other side.

Blinking in idle curiosity, he peeked inside, there being only enough room to poke his head through the cracked door. Thank God for the mask he wore, because the dust in the air, sent flying from the small shelf that had previously propped against the door having toppled over, would have been terrible.

It took a few more strained pushes to move the fallen piece of furniture until it couldn't move anymore, giving him just enough space to slip through the opening into the room.

Reaching into the shoulder slung bag he carried, he brandished a flashlight, switching it on. He looked around, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the knuckle of a slender finger.

This was the source of evil he had been drowning in. It was a feeling he couldn't quite understand, it was so new.

His eyes soon landed on what he was sure he was looking for, which only confused him even more.

The slowly swaying form of a woman, hanging from the rafters above… Her eyes, he couldn't tell the color of, were bugged out and bloodshot. Her neck was bruised and bent at an odd angle that caused him to cringe, most likely broken. Dried tears and drool could be seen staining her pale skin. Strands of black hair fell into her face, sticking to her dried saliva and blending into the black leather jacket she wore…

So… This is her, he thought as he watched the mirrored spectral image of the woman float past him and to her swaying body. Why did her spirit bring me here?

Why, indeed.

Suicide victims never stayed behind. They never sought help. That, or they never came to him.

She stared up at herself, casting glances his way every so often. He blinked before huffing a sigh. "Fine," he grumbled. After some maneuvering, he was able to remove the noose from around her neck. He laid her on the ground, and he reached down with mild irritation, ignoring the fact that he was about to manhandle a dead woman's bloated body. It was for identification purposes, so it needed to be done.

"Aha!" he breathed, pulling out her wallet from her back pocket. He opened it and saw an American license. The fact that it wasn't a Japanese license was very curious, though not so much so that he was hung up on it. Naomi Misora. That was her name.

He looked up at her spirit, who was staring back down at her body.

"Naomi?"

Her gaze snapped up upon hearing her name, her hair whipping at her face before it returned to floating about once more.

"Why did you bring me here?" he questioned, pushing himself up to his feet and brushing dust from his pants.

Kira…

That wasn't what he had been expecting. "Kira? Were you killed by Kira?" She nodded. He cupped his chin, brows furrowing even more. "I thought Kira only killed with heart attacks?" That wasn't too crazy of an idea, though. I mean, Kira already proved that he was willing to kill innocents if they were getting in his way, or opposed him. Yes, while Lind L. Taylor was by no means an innocent, he was to Kira. If he could kill a person by not being remotely near them, who was to say he…

What if he could kill in other ways, not just a heart attack? To go further, what if he could control a person's very actions before they die?

Looking at Naomi, he got the suspicion that wasn't as far-fetched as he first thought. She didn't off herself on her own. As I said, suicide victims never came to him…

His eyes narrowed as he looked at Naomi once more. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Tell… L…

He blinked rapidly, eyes widening.

There is something I have to do… To tell L…

"Is it that Kira can control people's actions before they die? Because L is way smarter than I am." That was a bit of a pain to admit. "I'm quite certain he's already figured that out."

Naomi stretched out a hand, floating closer to the blond. His eyes narrowed when he realized what she was about to do, and he took a step back. "No," he hissed, tensing in apprehension. "Don't touch me!" She ignored his decline, closing the distance even further. He whirled on his feet to run down the stairs, only to scream and stumble back. His rear hit the floor, barely tripping over the body behind him.

Naomi blocked the door, her hand so close to his face. He flinched as her fingers brushed against his skin, though he couldn't feel her touch as his eyes rolled in the back of his head, a loud gasp escaping his lips as he fell back.

The world around him warped and twisted, growing gray with streaks of light flitting by at high speeds. Naomi disappeared, and he picked himself up. Time seemed slow, mere seconds lingering on forever. Bodies passed, nothing more than faceless blobs. Suddenly, a force drove his body forward, as if he had been hit by a semi-truck, until he saw a man sitting in a chair. The only man with a face. One he knew all too well. Raven hair and onyx eyes, the only emotion shining in them was boredom, stared at him, mouth moving yet no sound could be heard.

His dark eyes widened, and suddenly, the blond felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if someone were squeezing his heart with all their might. One that took his breath away. One that brought him back to his knees. His hand clutched at his chest, fingers digging into the thick jacket.

He let out a series of pained gasps, struggling to look up as the dark-haired man fell out of his chair, falling to the floor, life slowly leaving his eyes.

The blond struggled to push himself from the ground, fighting the pain as he stumbled to run closer to the falling man.

BA-dumph!

"Ah!" Another sharp stab at his chest, bringing him to his knees once more, his breathing growing ragged, sparse. His chin hit the floor just as someone caught the dark-haired man, another faceless body.

His vision grew blurry, the unmistakable sound of laughter filling the air.

He huffed, reaching out a hand, trying to weakly grasp at the two people before him Reaching for the man with onyx eyes. His hand fell back to the ground, letting out a single whispered word that came out more so as a whimper.

"L…"

He shot up from the ground, gasping for air and clutching at his chest with both hands. His sandy blond hair was in quite a disarray, and there were even slight peeks of black tresses curling out from under the blond wig. Sweat layered his skin, and he couldn't seem to get a grip on his breathing.

He looked around, no signs of Naomi Misora, save for her bloated body laying behind him.

Sighing, he picked himself up, wincing as his whole body ached. "That didn't feel too good," he muttered to her body, reaching in his pocket for his phone.

He dialed the number to the Japanese Police Task Force.

He could hear the phone ring not even two times before a tired man answered. "Special Investigation Headquarters for the criminal victims' murder case."

"Is this where I call with information about the Kira case?"

It was late, yet even though it was at a God awful hour, in a hotel room dimly light by multiple T.V. monitors were three men busy at work. Two sat in front of said T.V. screens while the third was tucked away in a corner, furiously typing away at his laptop. The youngest of the three, a man with untamable black hair and onyx eyes, was sitting in a rather comfortable looking chair in an exceedingly uncomfortable position next to an older gentleman.

"After dinner, your son just goes back to his room, studying, without even turning on the T.V. or his computer?" the raven-haired man questioned, poking at his lips with his thumb, pushing the bottom over the top. The Yagami household seemed far too innocent to him; as if it were staged.

Not that there was concrete proof over that statement. He just felt it in his gut. The probability of Kira living there was up to seven point three percent.

Chief Yagami nodding his head, reaching up to rub one of his strained eyes, red and tired from staring at the bright screens in the dark, with a sigh. No doubt, this was taxing for him, to know that his family was under suspicion. "Entrance exams… They're less than ten days from now, I believe."

L hummed quietly to himself, sparing a glance at the chief for a brief moment. Entrance exams, huh?

"Ryuzaki?" L looked up, seeing Watari hovering over him with a cellphone in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. "There is a caller I am quite certain you would want to speak with." He held the phone out for him to take.

L took the phone from Watari. "Thank you," he said softly, bringing the phone to his ear. The old man nodded, setting the piece of paper beside his prodigy's chair, who promptly picked it up, lazily looking it over. "This is Suzuki speaking, head of the information processing unit." Hmmm… A bank owner suspected of embezzlement and a purse snatcher had just died of a heart attack. Light had no access to that information, L knew that. But… It still seemed way too… "Please, go ahead."

"We need to talk." That voice… "Naomi Misora is dead."

"I am already aware of Miss Misora's disappearance and possible death. Unfortunately, neither have anything to do with the Kira investigation."

"It would if she had been killed by Kira."

The genius detective arched a brow at that. "Well, yes… But until her body is found, that is mere-"

"I found it."

"Go to the police then. They are the ones who're looking for it. Even if it comes back that she had a heart attack, there's not much we can use."

"You don't know?" A sigh. "There's plenty you could use. She committed suicide."

"You are aware of the FBI agents who recently passed, correct? One of them was her fiance."

"So she hung herself because her lover was killed by Kira? You can't tell me that you believe that, L." So it was her. "I know better. Besides, with my… talents… You know it's never been suicide victims that seek me. She was murdered."

L poured a cup of tea, slowly adding sugar cube by cube, as he mulled over this information. This news was confirming his suspicions that Kira could kill in ways other than a heart attack.

"You know damn well what I would do if yo-" Another sigh. He sipped loudly at his tea, waiting. "L…"

"Yes, Miss Hayes? Or whatever moniker you are going by nowadays." Watari couldn't help the small grin that hid behind his mustache before he returned his attention to his laptop.

"It's Adrian Miles at the moment." She was silent. Then she said something that surprised even him.

"Please be careful, L."