On Saturday, you comb through the recent deaths in the business world. If the Third Kira has mercenary motives, then surely he won't have kept the death toll to a mere three players. You know he hasn't—even three players out of the game wouldn't be enough to explain that consistent upward trend. It's possible that some of the deaths were covered up; these people have enough money to make something look like an accident.
But even so… eleven deaths that were beneficial to Yotsuba? Can Kira really cover up that many heart attacks in high places? Accident, disease, suicide… this would have to be an extensive system of bribery that reaches not just news outlets but medical examiners and autopsy reports…
You haven't slept well last night, but what's new. Nightmares about confinement had muddled in with other things you no longer quite remember, uneasy dreams that had kept you falling in and out of wakefulness through the dark hours and into the morning. The only people here today are Matsuda and Mogi, and the two detectives are talking lazily near the glass-topped table.
"What if Kira isn't a person, though?" Matsuda says.
"He's a person," Mogi says.
"But what if he isn't?" Matsuda asks. "What if he's some kind of monster? How are we supposed to kill him when we finally catch him?"
"I don't know," Mogi says. "Shoot him?"
Matsuda laughs, and the sound is more than a little frantic. "Yeah, okay, sure." He looks back down at the table. Frowns into the pile of deaths and scrubs his eyes. "This is pointless," he says. "There's nothing here. Kira just keeps killing criminals. He's not even talking to us anymore."
It's something everyone has noticed. Since Kira stopped killing on June first, there's been no more grand speeches or messages. There's been no more tapes with physical evidence like the ones that condemned Misa. Kira just keeps on killing, as though unknowing or uncaring of the detectives on his trail. He has stopped playing games.
Well, you think with dark amusement, at least that's what they think. Kira is here. And he hasn't stopped playing; it's just that the scope has become more personal.
You close the files on your computer; everything's beginning to run together into one big, undifferentiated mass. "Maybe he's a ghost," you say.
"A ghost?" Matsuda asks, looking over at you across the long, echoing floor. "You really think so?"
"Light-kun is right," Ryuzaki proclaims. "He's probably a ghost."
"Really?" Matsuda sounds excited. "Should we check through recent deaths of law enforcement?"
"Matsuda, they're joking," Mogi says.
"On the contrary," Ryuzaki says. "I'm deadly serious."
Mogi sighs.
"This is a whole new angle," Matsuda says, staring down at the table. "It makes sense, doesn't it? How else can he kill people like this?"
And that's the million dollar question right there. How does Kira kill people? You look over at Ryuzaki, but he's just sitting in his chair, turning it in idle circles while looking at the ceiling. "Hey, Ryuzaki," you say, leaning forward and smiling. "What do you think?"
"Telekinesis," Ryuzaki says, stopping his circles to face you.
"So you believe in that now?" you ask.
He shrugs. "I don't believe in anything. I've merely observed that Kira can manipulate the bodies of anyone he wants without having to be in proximity. Whatever the method used, whether it has a basis in classical mechanics or quantum physics or 'magic,' he has telekinesis. We've seen him use it," he says, and tugs on the chain, bracing himself against the computer table with one hand. You push against the floor with your feet, bringing your chair closer to his before his motion can send you tumbling to the floor. "Once we see him in action, we might have a better idea of how he acts," Ryuzaki says.
"But how will we know once we see him in action?" you say. "Do you think… maybe he has a big red button that says 'kill' on it?" you grin at him.
"That's a brilliant deduction," Ryuzaki says. "Matsuda-san, write that down."
"...That Kira has telekinesis?" Matsuda asks diffidently.
"No, the big red button," Ryuzaki says. "Keep up."
Matsuda opens his mouth, and then closes it. He crosses his arms. "I know when you're making fun of me," he says sulkily.
Ryuzaki looks over at him with wide eyes. "You do?" he says. "That's wonderful!"
"Okay, that's it," Mogi says. "Light-kun, why don't the two of you finish up here and Matsuda and I will take a break."
"I don't want to take a break," Matsuda says, glaring at Ryuzaki. Mogi grabs his arm.
"Come on," he says. "We can talk outside. It's nice, I went out an hour or so ago."
"It's dark out," Matsuda complains, as he follows Mogi towards the main doors onto the courtyard.
"The sun's not even down yet."
"Why do we have to leave when they're the ones being assholes?" Matsuda complains, and Mogi swings open the door. They step through, and it closes behind them, leaving a dim silence behind.
"…I thought the button idea was good," Ryuzaki says.
You shut down your computer, and it slowly dims, putting the room even further in gloom as the constant hum of the electronics quiets. "We could leave," you say.
"Hm?"
"We could leave this place right now," you say.
"Without solving the case? Light-kun, that isn't like you."
"Oh, and you're so keen on solving the case yourself?" you say.
"Yes," Ryuzaki says.
"Is that so?"
"No," Ryuzaki says. "I was lying."
"You're always lying."
"So are you," Ryuzaki says. "You don't really want to leave."
"How do you know?" you say.
Your chairs are close enough together that your knees bump when Ryuzaki puts his feet on the ground. "After you," he says. He powers down his own computer, and in the eerie top-lighting he seems washed out as though by the sea.
"What?" you ask. He's joking… right? Or does he really just expect you to wander out the doors without a word. Or are you supposed to pack?
Ryuzaki sighs. Then he carefully lifts the chain so it doesn't get caught on the chair and, without touching the ground, shuffles over, lifting his legs over yours until he's straddling you, sitting pressed with his chest against yours.
"That hurts, get off," you say, instead of the cameras are on and Matsuda and Mogi could come back any second. You push him, and he falls awkwardly, somehow managing to land in his usual crouch, catlike. He pulls himself to his feet and tugs the chain, and you stand up. You follow him up the glass stairs and into the elevators. In the muted wheeze of the mechanics starting up, he taps his fingers against the wall. You listen for a code, but it's just meaningless noise.
/
You're tired, but you've been tired for a long time. This is nothing new. Even the way, when you get under crisp sheets and wait unfathomably for sleep to sneak close, is nothing new. Ryuzaki has turned on the fake rain, and it sounds to your ears like static, a machine with no signal, complaining into a void. You reach your hand toward him, resting over the space of his closed mouth. Your gaze searches for his; in the dark, all the details are nothing but shadows; his form nothing but a waiting shape, a heat against the tips of your fingers which hover just beyond the span of his breath. Ryuzaki opens his mouth, and it pools around you; a pocket of warmed air. He leans forward just the slightest, and your fingernails clack against the tip of his teeth; he opens his mouth wider, sucks you into him until your hand is slick up to the knuckles, held against the guiding force of his tongue. When he pulls back, the sudden coolness of your wet skin makes you shudder, and he licks up the surface of your palm, stops at the pulse-point of your wrist, breathing against it, a steady pattern of breath, expanding and contracting—warm air drifting out, cool air pulling back in, until all the hairs on your arms are standing up on end, traveling over your body until it prickles over your scalp, a shiver.
He hums against your skin. Seems, for a moment, about to speak. But he doesn't. In the soundproofed room, the white noise crackles dully against the background. The sheets have barely begun to warm. They cascade like weights over your extremities as Ryuzaki presses his fingers to your forehead, presses slow, easy circles into your furrowed skin until you sigh. He traces your cheekbones and rests his cold hand there.
You've been tired for so long, and when you look up, the ceiling is nothing but darkness.
.
.
.