Author's Note: Many thanks to everyone for not only their desire to keep reading and their encouraging reviews, but for their patience in waiting until today for this update. I was at a banquet-y thing last night where I ate awesome mushroom gravy, a slice of tiny, elegant cake, and coffee so strong that it practically melted my spoon. Our next installment was supposed to be focused on the mafia, but in true Mello fashion, I decided to follow my own emotions instead. Not a very disciplined writing decision, but what can I say? Get ready for a big, ol' time jump.

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or any of the characters used in this story.

People like to divide the world into black and white, good and evil, light and dark, but the truth is things very rarely split themselves so easily. Only in old paintings are light and shadows defined. For instance, one might call someone who helps a lost child an angel, but what if that someone is a notorious criminal? What if they hand the child a gun? Suddenly their halo transforms from pure light into barbed wire. Such sharp, grey angels are the very beings to which I owe my life.

The crushing disappointment of B's storehouse apartment left me broken in a way that is impossible to describe. I spent that night there, sleeping in the bed of my fallen predecessor. My funds, Matt's funds, were drained. I had nowhere else to go.

The next morning a group of cars pulled up to the building and I learned of the new purpose it had since gained, and the unwholesome stock its basement held.

They thought I was trying to steal drugs. They cornered me.

Matt's cautionary words rang through my head and I was certain they were the last thoughts I would ever think.

Then an angel of deepest grey flew to my rescue in a storm of bullets and blood.

A rival gang. No, they were far too organized to be a gang. They had to be mafia.

I don't know why they pitied me, but I was in no position to refuse kindness. Even the kind that smelled of vodka and gunpowder.

I had no problem proving myself to them, and it was not long before my mind was devoted to unlawful strategies and my hand felt empty without a .45.

In the midst of it all, I learned what it was to kill. I can remember doubling over and vomiting the first time one of my bullets tore through a man's chest, sickened by what I had done. One of my associates had handed me a chocolate bar to wash the taste from my mouth. He told me to suck it up, that it would get easier.

It never did. The bitter flavor of death and guilt hung almost perpetually on my tongue, prompting me to seek relief on a constant basis…

We involved ourselves in all manner of criminal schemes in those years before Kira once again became a focus. The most meaningful of which was some kind of insurance fraud at a local hospital. I call it meaningful because it was thanks to that plot that I got to see the hospital's personnel files. I got to see the grainy picture of a red-headed man who serviced their computer systems. I got to record his phone number, telling myself that one day I would work up the courage to dial it.

That day would come, but it would not be the mere conversation I expected. It would be a desperate plea for my life.

The detonator felt like it was being held in someone else's hand, like the plastic held only half the weight it should have.

The Japanese police had left me with only one option.

I said a quick prayer and hoped that if this failed, my meager repentance would be enough to get me to Heaven.

This was it, B. Somehow we both knew it was better to face the flames than to take things on any less than our own terms.

Click.

The noise was extraordinary. Who knew utter destruction could be so loud?

And then there was the fire.

I screamed until my throat ached with more than smoke, and then I screamed some more. I rolled and flailed and begged the pain to stop. What the hell, B? There was no dignity in this!

I have no idea how long it was before the heat subsided, but eventually the demolished building stood still.

My thoughts came in interrupted snippets as I laid on the ground struggling for breath. Fragmented scraps of my life played before me like a black and white movie, each excruciating rise of my chest turning the reels of the projector. For a moment the screen froze on the image of Matt's smiling face.

I was not thinking clearly then, and I cannot remember if there was more to my decision to pull out my cell phone than a frantic will to survive. The number was still in there. Send.

"Y'ello?" came a voice at the other end.

I gasped the address of my once hideout into the receiver.

There was nothing but breathing, and then…

"On my way."

I slipped in and out of consciousness as I waited, hoping the phone call had actually happened. Echoing footsteps soon confirmed its reality.

Through tears of pain and smoke, I saw a red-haired man approach me. He was dressed in some kind of weird jacket and had goggles strapped over his forehead.

He froze when he caught sight of me, able to mutter only one thing.

"…Holy shit."

I blacked out again.

As I began to awaken from that blissful, numb feeling of oblivion, I heard sounds that I could not identify. They were fuzzy and otherworldly like they were being pumped from an electronic speaker. I forced open my eyelids and saw that I was right on the money.

Matt sat at the foot of my bed staring at a television mounted on the adjacent dresser. He wrung his hands nervously as smoke drifted from a cigarette held between his lips.

I chanced a look around the room and noticed faint blue walls, a pile of laundry, and a calendar with the passing days marked by X's.

It was so surreal… Like a scene from a dream.

I finally had the chance to apologize. To take the beating I deserved and atone for my sins. I opened my mouth and began to rasp out the first words to my abandoned friend in years.

"I'm sorry."

Matt turned faster than I had ever seen him move in youth and looked down at me. A faint smile played across his tired eyes.

"Well, good morning."

I groaned and waited for him to rip me a new one. I waited for the guilt trip, the tears, and the anger.

No such a thing came. Only that weak smile.

"Did you hear me?"

The smile widened, threatening to push the cigarette from its perch.

"I heard something, but I think it was just the TV. The shows they have these days… Only Hollywood could come up with something so ridiculous."

"I said I was sorry," I repeated a little angrily.

"Yeah," Matt continued as if he heard nothing at all. "That guy there," he pointed at the screen, "he's trying to convince himself that he did something wrong. What a load. What bad writing. All he ever did was take the road that suited him. They'd better make up for this trash next season."

I looked up at the screen.

All that was playing was a commercial for laundry detergent.

Experiencing grace is a lot like experiencing a terrible burn. It hurts as it tears through your outer flesh, revealing the sum of what lies inside you. You may look down at the blood and sinew only to turn away in disgust. You may want to be punished for harboring such detestable qualities, but the only punishment is the burn itself. To the one granting you mercy, even your tainted blood holds a measure of beauty.

When you agree to accept their perception of you and leave guilt behind, you find that the most magnificent works of art are painted not with pigment and turpentine, but with the very liquid that has flowed through your veins the entire time.

Author's Note: Matt! I may have rushed into his return, and the time warp may be a huge cop-out, but I'm glad he's back. Thank you for reading! The next chapter is on its way.