Chapter Text
When Roger announced L’s death, the room did not feel shattered.. It felt restrained, like something fragile had been placed between them and no one dared to touch it. “L is dead,” Roger had said, his voice steady, almost formal. The words settled in the air without ceremony.
Mello remembered watching Near more than anything else. Near didn’t flinch. Didn’t protest. Didn’t break. He simply absorbed the information, pale fingers resting against the edge of his puzzle as though he was already calculating what came next. That quiet acceptance burned deeper than grief ever could. It wasn’t sadness that tightened in Mello’s chest. It was the silent implication that the future had already chosen its successor.
He is going to be L‘s successor no matter what.
…
He left Wammy’s House soon after. Not dramatically, not impulsively. Just decisively. If Near was going to inherit L’s legacy, then Mello would carve out something greater on his own terms. He refused to compete inside a system that had already measured him and found him second.
The Mafia was not an act of rebellion. It was strategy. Information flowed differently there faster, dirtier, unrestricted by moral hesitation. Over time, he adapted. He learned who to intimidate and who to observe. He learned that trust was a currency best kept unused. Alliances existed only as long as they were useful. Every conversation carried a layer beneath it. Every silence meant something.
The Kira case became his proof of worth. It was no longer just about stopping a killer.. it was about beating Near to the conclusion. If he reached the truth first, if he cornered Kira in a way Near couldn’t, then the argument would end without words.
But as the case deepened, obstacles emerged that brute force couldn’t remove. Complex encryption. Hidden communication chains. Networks that required precision rather than intimidation. His men were efficient, but none of them possessed the kind of technical instinct this required. More importantly, none of them were people he would ever trust with something this delicate.
That realization unsettled him.
He needed someone.
He hated the thought immediately. Needing someone implied dependence, and dependence was weakness. There were countless hackers in the world. Skilled ones. Anonymous ones. He could recruit one within hours if he wanted.
Yet none of them were him.
Matt..
The name surfaced quietly, almost against his will. Five years without contact. Five years since Wammy’s House. Five years since he had allowed himself to think about the only person who had understood him without competition.
Mello leaned back in his chair, staring at the dim glow of his screen. Contacting Matt would complicate things. It would drag someone from his past into a world built on violence and ambition. It would also mean admitting that he trusted someone enough to let them this close.
This isn’t personal, he told himself. It’s strategy.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard longer than they should have. He considered closing the window. He considered finding a stranger instead.
But strangers didn’t know how his mind worked.
After all these years, he still had Matts number..
Slowly, he began to type.
„I need your help.“
No greeting. No acknowledgment of the years between them. Just necessity. He didn’t want to seem desperate.
He pressed send before doubt could catch up to him, then remained still, staring at the screen as if it might accuse him of something.
For the first time since leaving Wammy’s House, the silence felt uncertain.
Mello didn’t move for several seconds. The screen glowed back at him, indifferent. The message was gone now, delivered into a silence he couldn’t control. He leaned back in his chair as if nothing had shifted, as if he hadn’t just reopened a door he had deliberately kept closed for five years.
He reached for the chocolate bar on his desk, breaking off a piece with unnecessary force. It was a habit more than hunger. Something to occupy his hands, something to chew instead of acknowledging the tension coiling under his ribs. This is strategic, he reminded himself again. Matt was a resource. A useful one. That was all.
He opened another file related to the Kira case and forced his focus onto lines of data, timelines, patterns. Numbers didn’t hesitate. Numbers didn’t complicate things. He worked through calculations methodically, the way he always did, refusing to check the secure line again. If Matt replied, he would see it. If he didn’t, it would change nothing.
At least that’s what he told himself..
…
The only light in the apartment came from the television.
It flickered cold blue across the walls, illuminating dust in the air and the quiet mess that had stopped bothering him months ago. Cables tangled near the floor. Empty cans gathered on the table. A window stood half-covered, letting in no real light from outside. He hadn’t opened it in days.
On the screen, bold white letters stared back at him.
GAME OVER.
The sound had faded into a low, looping menu theme. Soft. Meaningless.
Matt lay slouched on the sofa, one arm hanging loosely off the edge, the controller resting against his chest like it had slipped there by accident. His eyes were open, but they weren’t really focused on anything. The screen kept flashing, waiting for him to press a button and try again.
He didn’t.
The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly, ash growing longer without him tapping it off. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, blending into the dimness of the room. It was quiet enough that he could hear his own breathing. He hated that.
He preferred noise. Noise meant distraction.
The game had been running for hours. He couldn’t remember how many matches he had played or how many he had lost. It didn’t matter. Winning didn’t change anything. Losing didn’t either. It just filled time.
That was the point.
Fill the time.
He stared at the words on the screen again. GAME OVER.
He let out a dry, almost humorless breath.
“Yeah,” he muttered under it.
The apartment smelled faintly of smoke and something stale, like air that hadn’t moved in too long. Dishes sat untouched in the kitchen. Messages from unknown clients waited unanswered on encrypted platforms. He would get to them eventually. He always did. Work was simple. Work required nothing from him except skill.
Everything else required energy.
He didn’t have much of that left.
He shifted slightly, sinking deeper into the sofa as if gravity had increased. The television light washed over his face, making his skin look paler than it already was. His eyes felt heavy, but sleep wasn’t waiting for him. It rarely did.
Five years since he left wammy’s had passed in a strange, quiet blur. He had built a life that functioned. That was enough. It didn’t need to be meaningful. Meaning was exhausting.
The cigarette burned down to the filter before he realized it. He crushed it into the ashtray without looking, immediately reaching for another out of habit more than desire. The small click of the lighter echoed too loudly in the still room.
Then..
A vibration cut through the silence.
He froze slightly, lighter still hovering near the tip of the new cigarette.
Another vibration followed, sharper this time against the glass table.
His phone.
He stared at it for a moment without moving. Most messages were automated. Work requests. System alerts. Some bots. Nothing personal. Nothing that mattered.
Still, something about the timing made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t appreciate.
He leaned forward slowly, set the unlit cigarette down, and reached for the phone buried under cables and scattered notes. The TV light reflected against the screen as he turned it over.
Unknown secure line.
That was unusual.
He unlocked it, more out of habit than curiosity.
Three words filled the screen.
„I need your help.“
He read them once. Then again, slower.
His eyes dropped to the sender ID.
And for a second, his breathing stopped.
Mello..
The name felt like it belonged to a different version of himself. A version that had existed before this apartment, before the silence, before everything became something he simply endured.
The cigarette lay forgotten beside him.
His heart skipped. Not dramatically. Just enough to make him aware that it was there.
Five years.
No contact. No explanation.
And now this.
Not even a „how are you“
Just..
„I need your help.“
He stared at the message while the TV continued to flash GAME OVER behind the reflection of his face. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
He told himself it didn’t mean anything.
It was probably work. Probably strategic. Probably nothing personal.
But his chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with smoke.
After everything, after convincing himself he didn’t care anymore..
He still reacted.
And that scared him more than the message itself.
„Yeah?“
„Can we meet somewhere?“.
Mello didn’t move for several seconds after sending the message. His fingers lingered over the edge of the desk, breaking a piece of chocolate off almost mechanically. He pretended not to care.
Matt stared at the screen for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard, cigarette forgotten on the table. His thumb brushed the edge of the phone. He could type something. Anything. But the words didn’t come. He didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t feel like reacting.
Finally, he typed.
“Where?”
No emojis. No exclamation points. No small talk. Just cold, bare.
The reply was almost immediate.
“Café Étoile. 7 p.m. Come. We need to talk.”
Matt stared at it. He didn’t move. Didn’t set down the phone. His heart felt… heavier than usual. He hated that it mattered. Five years of distance, and somehow, his chest still reacted.
He exhaled, slow and controlled, not really smoke, just air. He felt a flicker of something.. uncertainty, maybe curiosity?.. but buried it under a thin layer of coldness.
He didn’t respond again. Not yet. He just leaned back, letting the glow of the TV wash over him. He felt empty. He didn’t want to go.. but he needed to.
Meanwhile, somewhere else, Mello sat back after sending the message. He didn’t breathe differently. He didn’t look at the screen again. He wasn’t worried. He knew Matt. He knew the hesitation, the cold. He could wait. Patience wasn’t a problem. The moment Matt walked through the door of that café, everything would become clearer.
And Mello would finally speak.
…
Mello parked his motorcycle in front of the café and swung his leg off, boots hitting the pavement softly. He stood there for a moment, helmet tucked under one arm, glancing at the small outdoor tables and the glass doors. He tried to appear nonchalant, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, but inside, his heart was doing something stupid.. What should he say? How should he explain it to Matt? Could he trust Matt? Did Matt even know what he looked like right now? Had he imagined it all wrong after five years? His mind ran in circles, even though he told himself to stay cool.
And then… a figure appeared in front of him. Smaller than he remembered, almost fragile next to his own frame, yet impossibly striking. Red and black striped shirt barely visible under a slightly oversized fur jacket, dark messy hair falling into his face in a way that was perfect. Goggles covering his eyes made him mysterious, untouchable, but the way he stood there, hands brushing the edges of the jacket, made Mello forget to breathe for a second.
Matt. Five years. And he looked unreal. Gorgeous. Flawed in all the right ways. Smaller, yes, but somehow even more… alive, more present. Hair sticking up just enough to look effortlessly messy, shoulders relaxed yet strong, every little movement magnetic. Even under the faint light of the streetlamps, he had presence.
Mello’s chest tightened. Shy, just for a moment. A hesitation that felt foreign. But he swallowed it, forcing his usual sharpness back into his voice. “Matt,” he said, low, steady, a little teasing edge creeping in, “didn’t think you’d actually show up.”
The figure shifted slightly. Matt tilted his head, fingers brushing the jacket closer, hair falling over the goggles. He didn’t speak immediately, just watched Mello, small flickers of recognition and something softer in his posture.
Mello stepped a little closer, hands still in his jacket pockets, trying to appear casual while failing miserably. “It’s… been a long time,” he said, letting the words drop slowly.
Matt tilted his head again, just slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest, almost imperceptible smile. Mello felt heat rise in his chest. He could tease. He should tease. He leaned slightly over Matt’s smaller frame, voice dropping to a slightly sharper tone: “And you’re still the same little troublemaker I remember.”
Matt’s gaze flickered under the goggles, unreadable, but there was something there a recognition, a pause, maybe relief.
Mello swallowed again.. “I… uh… didn’t know if you’d even come.” Another pause. Matt lifted a hand slowly, brushing some hair out of his face, the jacket slipping just slightly. He nodded. One simple movement. Enough to make Mello’s confidence teeter and then rebuild.
“Good,” Mello said finally, stepping a bit closer. “Because we need to talk.”
Matt just looked up at him, smaller, sharp, alive, standing there with that impossible quiet in his presence. And for a second, Mello thought maybe the world could stop, just so they could exist there for a little while, like this, teasing, tense, and unspoken.
They didn’t look at each other while walking inside.
The café was warm compared to the cold air outside, low lights hanging from the ceiling, quiet conversations blending into soft background noise. Mello chose a table in the corner without asking, back to the wall, clear view of the entrance. Matt followed, hands in his jacket pockets, movements unhurried.
They sat across from each other.
For a second, neither spoke.
Matt leaned back slightly, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and placing it between his lips before glancing toward the small “no smoking” sign near the counter. He ignored it. A lighter clicked softly. The flame reflected faintly in his goggles before disappearing.
Mello watched the motion, eyes narrowing slightly. “Since when do you smoke?”
Matt exhaled slowly, smoke curling between them. “Yeah, life’s been tough..” He shrugged faintly. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Mello didn’t answer immediately. He studied him instead. There was something different. Not just older. Thinner, maybe. Quieter. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel natural. But he pushed the observation aside.
“It doesn’t concern me,” Mello said flatly. “You can ruin your lungs if you want.”
Matt gave a small, almost dry huff of amusement. “Good to know you’re still charming.”
Silence stretched for a moment.
“So,” Matt said eventually, tone casual but eyes fixed on Mello. “How’ve you been? Bit random to call me after five years.”
Mello’s expression didn’t change. “There was only one reason.”
Straight to it. No hesitation.
Matt tapped ash into a small dish on the table. “Figured.”
“Where are you staying?” Mello asked suddenly.
Matt glanced up. “Why?”
“Answer.”
A pause. Then, “About thirty minutes from here. Far enough.”
Mello nodded once, filing that away. Then he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, voice lowering.
“I’m not going to waste time Matt,” he said. “I’m involved in the Kira case.”
That got a reaction. Not dramatic, but real. Matt’s fingers stilled slightly around the cigarette.
“I’m going to surpass Near,” Mello continued, tone sharp now, intensity creeping in. “And to do that, I need someone who understands systems the way you do. I need you to work for me.”
Matt didn’t respond immediately. The café noise seemed louder in the gap between them.
“You’re serious,” he said finally.
“Obviously.”
Matt looked away, smoke drifting upward. “That’s not a small thing, Mello.. Kira? Near? That’s not some side project. People die in that kind of case.”
Mello’s jaw tightened. “I’m aware.”
“I don’t want to get dragged into something like that.” Matt’s voice wasn’t emotional, just tired. Honest in a blunt way. “I didn’t sign up for a war.”
“You didn’t sign up for anything,” Mello shot back. “You’re wasting your talent sitting in some apartment playing games.”
Matt’s head snapped slightly toward him. “You don’t know anything about what I’m doing.”
“I know enough,” Mello replied coldly. “You’re better than whatever this is.”
The tension sharpened.
Matt crushed the cigarette into the dish, leaning forward now. “And what makes you think I want to help you win against Near?”
“Because you always preferred me,” Mello said without thinking.
Silence.
That landed heavier than expected.
Matt’s expression shifted just slightly, unreadable behind the goggles. “That’s not a reason.”
Mello exhaled slowly, recalibrating. Fine. If pride didn’t work.
“I’ll pay you,” he said simply. “More than anyone else would. Enough that you won’t have to worry about anything again.”
Money.
Practical. Concrete. Safe.
Matt didn’t speak for several seconds. His fingers traced absent patterns against the edge of the table. The café lights reflected faintly off his goggles.
“You’re serious about this,” he muttered.
“I don’t do half-measures.”
Another pause.
Matt didn’t want to, but he need the money.
Then, finally, Matt leaned back again. “Fine.”
Mello’s eyes sharpened. “Fine?”
“I’ll do it.” His tone was flat, almost detached. “But this is business. Nothing else.”
Mello held his gaze for a long second, then nodded once. “Of course.”
But something about the way Matt had agreed not excited, not motivated, just… resigned lingered longer than Mello expected.
He ignored it.
This was strategy.
Nothing more.