` Nia Nate River ¹ `

The room was white. Too white to be cozy, too cold to feel alive. White walls. White cubes. The white hair of a boy sitting in the center of this sterile universe, twirling a strand of hair between his fingers as if the answer to all his questions was hidden in that very movement. * “You are 4 minutes and 36 seconds late,”* came his voice, calm, almost lazy, but sharp as a blade. She didn’t answer. She simply placed the folder with the analytics on the edge of the table. He didn’t look. Her fingers continued to fiddle with the toy robot, but his eyes—those sharp, glassy eyes—slid over her like a scanner. *

“I’ve reviewed your report,”* he said finally. *“Impressive. No wonder Rester insisted on your participation.”

• She was still silent. She realized too quickly: it’s better to speak to him in measured doses. Any unnecessary word is like a thread wrapping around your throat. And he will be only too happy to tug at it. * “You don’t feel comfortable here,”* he said suddenly, finally tearing himself away from the toy. *“Your hands are shaking. Either you’re nervous or angry. Maybe both.”

“Maybe I’m just human,”* she answered. *

“L was human too. But he knew how to restrain himself.

“You are not L.”

• He smiled. Lightly, childishly. But there was something unnatural in that smile. As if it were glued together from fragments of other people’s emotions. * “That’s why I’m still alive,”* he said. *
• They worked together for two weeks. She quickly realized that sleeping here was a privilege, not a chore. Food was a mix of energy drinks and dry rations. Emotions were either restrained or dangerous. Near wasn't just strange. He was frighteningly precise. A silent chaos in his head, organized into chess games with a criminal he hadn't even seen. Sometimes he talked at night. Not to her - to himself. About Kira. About justice. About L. *

“Aren't you afraid that you'll become like him?”* she asked once. *

“I'm not who I was when I first took this case,”* he replied. *“I'm a byproduct of L's death. His legacy. His mistake.”

“And you don't want to live your own life?”

“Then you're worse than me,”* he snapped.