Chapter Text
The laughter of her mother was warm, full, and lilting—like a melody spun from the delicate threads of love itself. It filled the air alongside the gentle clinking of crystal glasses, the rustling of fabric as her father leaned forward to pour Jiro another drink, and the rhythmic crackling of the fireplace. The dinner had been wonderful, the conversation lighthearted, and the scent of citrus and ginger still lingered in the air, interwoven with the crisp, earthy breeze of Karuizawa’s night.
Misa curled into her mother’s side, the scent of her lavender-scented perfume comforting as Erika Amane gently stroked her hair. The fourteen-year-old barely listened as the two men talked, their voices a comfortable hum in the background as she soaked in the warmth of the moment. The holiday home was small but elegant, nestled between thick forest and the coast. When the wind came from the east, Misa could just make out the scent of saltwater.
“Jun,” Jiro Sakajo said suddenly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You’re a lucky man.”
Misa shifted slightly at his tone. It was off—not teasing like usual. There was something strange in his voice, something laced beneath the words that felt wrong.
Her father only smiled, oblivious. “I suppose I am.”
“You have a beautiful wife any man would kill for. A perfect daughter who adores you. And now you’re about to enter the Chief Prosecutor’s position.” Jiro’s gaze flickered to Misa and Erika, lingering just a fraction too long.
Misa’s fingers curled against her mother’s sleeve. She didn’t like it—the way her uncle’s gaze felt heavier than usual, like he was looking but not quite seeing . She’d never paid much attention to her father’s work, but she knew Jiro had been his friend for years. He had never married, never had a family of his own.
Jun exhaled, shaking his head. “Come now, Jiro. People have different paths in life. The Creator probably has something even bigger in store for you.”
Something in the air shifted. Misa didn’t realize when the warmth drained from the room, when her mother tensed beside her, or when her father’s relaxed posture suddenly seemed far too trusting. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind whistled through the trees.
And then—
A deafening bang.
Misa flinched. Warmth sprayed across her face. The scent of iron flooded her senses.
Her mother’s scream tore through the air, raw and feral.
Jun’s glasses slipped from his face, tumbling onto his lap. The blood on the lenses caught the firelight, making them glisten in a way that was almost beautiful.
Misa’s ears were ringing.
Her father slumped forward, his body jerking violently as more shots ripped through him. His mouth was slack. His eyes were wide. He wasn’t moving.
The warmth against Misa’s cheek was sticky. She didn’t understand. Her brain refused to understand .
Jiro stood. The gun in his hand was still pointed at her father, smoke curling from the barrel.
And then—he turned it on them.
Erika shoved Misa off her lap so violently that Misa barely had time to register the impact before she hit the floor. She heard, more than saw, the way her mother threw herself forward, hands raised in a desperate, trembling plea.
“Jiro— please ! Don’t—”
Another shot.
Erika jerked back. The light in her eyes flickered—gone before she even hit the floor.
Misa couldn’t move.
Jiro turned his gaze to her.
Her breath hitched.
Move. Move, Misa, move—
Her body acted before her mind did. She scrambled to her feet, slipping on something warm— her mother —before she staggered toward the door. A bang rang through the air. A white-hot pain seared through her leg. She screamed, but she didn’t stop.
She couldn’t stop.
The door slammed open, and she ran.
The cold air bit at her skin, but the pain in her leg barely registered. The trees were nothing but blurred shadows as she sprinted through the forest, branches tearing at her arms, her breath coming out in ragged gasps.
Behind her, footsteps. Slow. Unhurried.
He wasn’t running.
He didn’t need to.
Misa’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. The agony in her leg pulsed with every movement, but she forced herself forward.
Then—
A light.
Faint. Distant.
She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to reach it .
The church rose from the darkness like a beacon, its wooden frame illuminated by the warm glow of lanterns. Through the stained glass windows, shadows of people flickered—the congregation inside, lost in prayer.
Misa didn’t stop to think.
She reached the door, pounded against it with every ounce of strength she had left.
“Help— please! ”
She turned, expecting to see Jiro, expecting the end—
But there was nothing.
No movement. No sound.
He was gone .
The door opened, spilling warm light onto her trembling frame. The priest’s eyes widened, his mouth forming words she couldn’t hear.
Misa swayed. The world tilted.
And then—
Darkness.
A choked gasp tore from her throat as she shot upright.
Her chest heaved. Her hands clawed at the sheets, fingers digging into the fabric as though she could still feel the sticky warmth of blood on her skin.
The dim glow of her bedroom greeted her instead of the wooden beams of her family’s holiday home. The walls were adorned with posters of designers and rock bands, her vanity cluttered with makeup, perfume bottles, dolls, and unopened fan letters. The faint scent of her floral-scented candles lingered in the air, so different from the metallic tang that still seemed to cling to her tongue.
Her body was trembling.
Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps.
It was a dream. A nightmare.
Just a nightmare.
She lifted a hand, pressing her palm against her damp cheek. Her fingers came away wet.
She had been crying .
Misa clenched her jaw. Pathetic.
She inhaled sharply, forcing down the nausea curling in her gut. Her heart was still racing, but she shoved the memories aside, ignoring the way her hands still trembled.
It had been five years.
Five years since that night in Karuizawa.
And yet, Jiro’s voice still lingered in her mind.
“You’re a lucky man, Jun.”
Her nails dug into her palms.
Half a decade had passed, and she had become Misa Amane , idol, model, and being Japan’s sweetheart was just on the horizon. The girl who had lost everything but still smiled for the cameras, still made her fans believe she was the luckiest girl alive.
But sometimes—sometimes, she woke up like this.
Alone. Trembling. Remembering.
Misa inhaled sharply through her nose, forcing her pulse to steady as she dragged a hand through her damp hair. Her fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against her scalp, but she ignored it. She had long learned how to shove past the nausea that nightmares left behind.
Her hand found the smooth plastic of the pill bottle on her bedside table. The lid clicked open with practiced ease, and she dry-swallowed one of the tiny, bitter tablets before chasing it down with lukewarm water from a glass beside it.
The relief was immediate. Or maybe it was just the act itself—knowing that soon, her nerves would dull, her thoughts would slow, and the sickening tremors in her hands would stop.
She had stopped checking the recommended dosage months ago.
Misa flipped open her Motorola with a flick of her wrist, the cool blue glow of the screen illuminating her face in the dim room. Her gaze flickered to the date displayed at the top.
July 17th, 2003.
She barely stifled a groan before flopping back against the mattress.
Another meeting with her lawyer.
She already knew how it would go. It was always the same tired, useless conversation.
“We understand your frustration, Miss Amane, but Prosecutor Sakajo is an influential man. These things take time—”
Bullshit. It had been five years. Five years of hearing the same excuses, of watching her father’s name get reduced to nothing, of seeing Jiro Sakajo thrive in the very position her father had earned. Five years of wasted time, wasted money, wasted hope.
Because at the end of the day, Sakajo was a man in power , and Misa was just a woman.
She sighed, rubbing at her temples before her eyes landed on the framed photo on her nightstand. One of the last her family had ever taken.
Her father’s gentle smile. Her mother’s soft eyes.
Misa swallowed the lump in her throat.
Five years. And yet, sometimes, she still felt like that fourteen-year-old girl banging on the doors of a church, praying someone would listen .
She exhaled sharply and sat up. She had no choice but to get through today.
Her hands moved automatically as she dressed, choosing a simple, dark ensemble—black skirt, fitted blouse, and a tailored jacket. Understated, but polished. Professional. She twisted her hair up neatly and added only the barest touch of makeup, just enough to keep from looking washed out under the fluorescent lights of the law office.
By the time she stepped out into the Tokyo morning, her expression was calm, her mask firmly in place.
The Iwasaki & Hayama Law Firm was located in one of the more prestigious districts of Tokyo, its glass exterior pristine and its name gleaming in silver lettering near the entrance. It was the kind of place that screamed power and wealth—exactly the kind of firm it took to go up against someone like Sakajo.
Misa stepped into the cool, air-conditioned lobby, ignoring the receptionist’s polite greeting as she headed toward the meeting rooms. The legal team had already gathered when she arrived, their expressions a little too cautious.
She sighed internally.
Here we go again.
The lead attorney, Toshio Hayama , was a sharp-eyed man in his forties, impeccably dressed with neatly combed dark hair. He had been handling her case for the past three years.
“Miss Amane,” he greeted, rising from his seat. “Please, have a seat.”
Misa did, crossing her legs and waiting. The room was high-end—dark mahogany furniture, glass panels, soundproofed walls. The kind of place where important things should have happened.
But nothing ever did .
She studied the way the team exchanged nervous glances. She already knew what they were going to say.
Hayama cleared his throat. “We’ve been reviewing the recent developments in your case, and…”
Misa’s fingers tightened around the armrest of her chair.
“And?”
A beat of silence.
“Sakajo seems to be ... slipping away.”
Her jaw clenched.
Of course. Of course .
She barely resisted the urge to laugh—too sharp, too bitter. She had expected this. But somehow, hearing it still made something cold and helpless churn in her chest.
The lawyers must have noticed her visible tension because Hayama rushed to add, “However, we’ve recently acquired the assistance of someone with more experience handling complex cases of this nature.”
Misa stilled.
She narrowed her eyes. “Who?”
Hayama hesitated for only a second before answering.
“A world-renowned detective. He’s taken an interest in your case.”
Her fingers twitched.
“…Why?”
“That, we don’t know,” Hayama admitted. “But he’s known for selecting cases at random based on personal interest. Yours must have caught his attention.”
Misa frowned, considering.
She didn’t know much about the world’s top detectives, but she did know that the best of them rarely worked with normal police. They were elusive figures—ghosts, almost.
She swallowed. “Where is he?”
“He’s sent a proxy to assist us in gathering evidence. He’s waiting in an office down the hall.”
Misa exhaled and nodded.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected when she stepped into the adjacent office.
Some stiff, older man, probably. A retired officer with years of experience. Maybe a cold, no-nonsense type in a suit with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue.
She did not expect this .
The person waiting inside was… some scruffy-looking, skinny little thing, slouched in a chair with his knees pulled up. His black hair stuck out in every direction, his dark-rimmed eyes half-lidded with disinterest. His white long-sleeved shirt was loose, his baggy jeans looked barely held up, and his Converse had definitely seen better days.
Misa blinked.
He didn’t even look like he belonged in a law office.
Some old guy—who was dressed in a more formal, but still subtly nondescript outfit—stood in the corner, silent and watching.
Misa hesitated, eyeing the young man.
“…You’re the proxy?”
The boy didn’t blink. Instead, he popped a matcha wafer into his mouth and nodded as he chewed.
Then, with a swallow, he said flatly, “Rin Fujioka. It’s a pleasure.”
Misa stared.
For a second, she thought it had to be some kind of joke. But the way Hayama had spoken made it clear that this —whoever he was—was the person meant to be handling her case.
A part of her was irritated. But she forced herself to tamp it down. She was grateful , wasn’t she?
She sat down across from him, taking in his strange posture and quiet gaze. He wasn’t what she had expected, but if he was actually capable of doing what he claimed—
Fujioka didn’t say anything.
Minutes stretched.
Misa clenched her jaw before finally caving. “Who is your boss? And why does he want to help me?”
For the first time, something almost amused flickered in Rin’s gaze.
“My superior is a fan of yours,” he said simply. “He’s followed your career since the beginning. Consider my being here a gesture of goodwill.”
Misa blinked. That… caught her off guard.
She had expected some kind of cryptic answer, not that .
Before she could dwell on it, Fujioka fished a USB from his pocket and plugged it into the Macintosh laptop already waiting on the desk.
“You may review the evidence I've compiled,” he said, shifting slightly. “I will be assisting your legal team in presenting it in a manner that leaves no room for doubt. Rest assured—Sakajo will not escape.”
Misa clicked on the folder, scrolling through the files. Her chest tightened. This was real . This was more than she had ever had before.
She felt a lump rise in her throat.
Without thinking, she flung herself forward and hugged him tightly.
Fujioka went rigid .
Misa wasn’t sure how long she had been crying, only that she had pressed herself into Fujioka's—no ... Rin's—thin frame before she could stop herself, clutching the fabric of his long-sleeved white shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright. He stiffened immediately, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides as if uncertain where to place them.
“I—” he started, but Misa barely heard him, her breath shuddering against the rise and fall of his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, voice thick with emotion. “I just… no one’s ever helped me before. Not really. Not without asking for something in return. And now, after five years of trying, of fighting—” Her voice cracked, and she inhaled sharply, clinging harder. “I was starting to think it was impossible.”
Rin remained silent, unmoving as if the entire situation had rendered him momentarily incapable of thought. He flicked his gaze toward his guardian, who stood in the corner, watching with an unreadable expression. Rin's eyes pleaded for assistance, but his guardian’s only response was a faint, knowing twinkle in his eye before he reached into his coat and wordlessly extended a pristine white handkerchief toward Misa.
Misa, still sniffling, loosened her grip on L’s shirt just enough to take it. She wiped at her face hurriedly, cheeks burning with the awareness of just how tightly she had thrown herself against him.
“I really am sorry,” she repeated, pulling away and bowing her head slightly. “I didn’t mean to—”
Rin shifted slightly, making her voice die in her throat. It was an awkward movement, hesitant and foreign, and then—
A hand.
A single, incredibly stiff hand, landing on her back with all the grace of a mechanical claw from a rigged arcade game.
“There, there,” he muttered.
Misa hiccupped out a weak, wet laugh.
God, he was so bad at this.
She lifted her head slightly, peeking up at him through damp lashes, and—
Oh.
He looked absolutely miserable.
His normally blank expression was conflicted, his wide, dark eyes darting toward the side in an obvious silent plea for assistance.
Misa followed his gaze—
Only to spot The Old Guy, standing a few feet away, with a glint of mirth in his aged eyes.
He was enjoying this.
The moment Rin caught his guardian’s amusement, his expression turned stony, something cold and vaguely betrayed crossing his features.
The elderly man merely smiled.
Misa swallowed down the last of her tears, exhaling shakily as she hesitated before finally pulling away from Rin. She felt oddly cold without his presence, but she ignored it. Or at least tried to.
She wiped at her eyes, composing herself, before glancing back at the man who had just unknowingly changed her life.
Rin still looked vaguely stunned, his hands now jammed into his pockets as if to protect himself from any future unexpected embraces.
She bit her lip, feeling a pang of guilt.
“Sorry for… y’know.” She gestured vaguely at his now tear and lipstick stained shirt. “The snot fest.”
Rin blinked at her, then tilted his head slightly. “It is fine.”
Simple.
Blunt.
Somehow, it was exactly what she needed to hear.
And with that, she smiled.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The weeks leading up to the trial were a blur of late nights, endless paperwork, and strategy meetings that always left Misa feeling simultaneously drained and anxious. Yet, for the first time in five years, there was a cautious flicker of hope beneath her exhaustion.
Rin—the strange, awkward man—was an enigma. He rarely spoke unless it was absolutely necessary, yet every time he opened his mouth, his words carried an almost unsettling precision. He had a way of pointing out inconsistencies in witness testimonies, of picking apart legal loopholes with sharp, almost lazy efficiency, as though the entire process bored him.
Misa still didn’t fully understand why he was helping her since the whole fan thing felt flimsy. But she had stopped questioning it.
7 August 2003
The courtroom was suffocating, thick with tension as Sakajo sat across from her, his expression unreadable.
Misa’s eyes flicked around, searching for Rin before the proceedings began. He wasn’t here. A small, almost childish pout formed on her lips before she forced herself to focus.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was the outcome.
And to Sakajo’s evident dismay, the evidence spoke for itself.
The sentencing came swift and brutal—two life sentences, no chance of parole.
Misa barely heard the final ruling over the rushing sound in her ears. It was over.
It was finally over.
Her fingers curled into fists against her lap as she exhaled shakily, trying to process the weight of it all. Five years of struggle, five years of nightmares and exhaustion, of losing faith in people, in justice, in everything. And now, after all this time… she had won.
So why didn’t it feel the way she thought it would?
L had been hoping for a quiet night.
For once, his motives were purely selfish—his recent string of successes in various cases meant that he could afford to indulge in small luxuries, and tonight’s luxury was Teito Hotel’s dessert bar. He had planned to work from his suite, but the idea of personally ensuring the quality of the hotel’s confectioneries had been too tempting to resist. He had not expected, in the midst of his silent evaluation of the dessert selection, to glance across the room and see her .
Misa Amane, slumped against the polished bar counter, golden hair draped messily over her shoulders, fingers curled around a half-finished drink.
Even from a distance, it was obvious she was drunk.
L’s grip tightened slightly on his newly acquired bag of strawberry jelly straws as he observed her, calculating. There was no sign of a manager escorting her out, no security hovering nearby to ensure her safety. That in itself was odd—Misa was a public figure, and yet she had come here alone? Without anyone watching over her?
His gaze flickered to the far side of the room, where a group of sharply dressed men sat nursing their drinks, their gazes shifting toward Misa at intervals that were far too frequent to be coincidental.
L sighed.
It wasn’t his problem.
And yet, before he had fully registered the decision, he found himself moving toward her.
Misa felt groggy, weightless, like she was floating in some half-dreamed space between sleep and wakefulness.
A voice cut through the fog.
“Is Miss Amane having a good time?”
The words barely registered at first, her brain sluggish from the alcohol. But then, something tugged at her awareness—something familiar. She blinked, bleary and unfocused, before turning her head.
Dark eyes.
Wide, inky black, peering at her with a mixture of curiosity and the faintest trace of regret.
She startled, sucking in a sharp breath, her surroundings suddenly rushing back to her. The bar, the dim lighting, the faint hum of low voices and glassware clinking in the background. And standing in front of her, holding a bag of jelly straws weirdly between two fingers, was Rin.
Or at least, the person she knew as Rin.
She inhaled again, shakier this time, and before she could stop herself, she sniffled. “No.”
L stiffened, immediately regretting approaching her.
This was precisely why he disliked dealing with emotional people—there was no clear logic, no structured pattern to follow. Her reactions were unpredictable, and worse, they came with expectations that he wasn’t entirely equipped to handle.
Still, he had already inserted himself into the situation. There was no backing out now.
Misa rubbed at her eyes, her mascara smudging slightly. “I thought I’d be happy,” she mumbled. “It’s over. I should be happy.”
L tilted his head, studying her. Ah, so she's all over the place due to Sakajo.
“It is not unusual,” he said after a long moment of silence, voice flat. “You have spent five years dedicated to a singular goal. Now that the objective has been met, your brain is struggling to recalibrate. Your emotional investment does not vanish the moment the court makes its ruling.”
Misa sniffled again, staring at him through slightly glassy eyes. “That was the worst attempt at comfort I’ve ever heard.”
L blinked. “It was not an attempt at comfort. It was an explanation.”
Misa gave a weak laugh, covering her face with one hand. “God, you’re impossible.”
L hesitated. He wasn’t sure why he was still here, still engaging in this conversation. He had already ensured she wasn’t in immediate danger. His role in this should be over.
And yet…
He glanced over her shoulder again. The men at the far end of the bar were still there. Still watching.
L sighed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. “Watari,” he said, his voice as steady as ever. “Prepare a room for Misa Amane. Secure floor.”
Misa lifted her head sluggishly. “Huh?”
“You are inebriated,” L said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “You require rest. You will stay here for the night.”
Misa wrinkled her nose, her lips parting to argue, but L fixed her with a stare. “It is the most efficient solution.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but she was too tired, too emotionally drained to put up much of a fight.
“Fine,” she mumbled.
L moved to help her up, but the moment she was on her feet, she wobbled dangerously.
He sighed again.
“You are very unsteady.”
“No kidding,” she muttered, pressing a hand to her temple. “It’s like the world’s spinny.”
L considered his options. The most logical course of action would be to call someone to assist him. But he had already ruled out the possibility of finding her home address, and bringing an unknown party into the situation would be unnecessary exposure.
Which left only one solution.
L crouched slightly, turning his back to her. “Get on.”
Misa blinked slowly. “What?”
“I will carry you,” L said, voice completely devoid of embarrassment or hesitation. “It is the most effective way to transport you without causing a scene.”
Misa stared at him for a long moment before, with some difficulty, climbing onto his back.
The moment her arms wrapped loosely around his neck, she went limp against him, exhausted. “You’re stronger than you look,” she murmured.
L huffed, adjusting his grip under her knees. “You are heavier than expected.”
Misa smiled sleepily against his shoulder.
“Meanie fat shamer,” she mumbled. "...Rin."
L tensed slightly, but she was too out of it to notice.
“I’m glad you were here.”
He said nothing.
Instead, he adjusted his grip once more, steadying her weight as he walked toward the elevator.