Ito Izumi.
At 4:48 PM on April 1st—April Fool's Day—he was shot and killed by the police during a routine crime.
Before his death, on March 17th, he had watched the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department's press conference on television, where they reported Nishikawa Shigehiko's death.
Then, the following day, on March 18th at exactly 2:21:30 PM, he heard the same news broadcast during the Beika midday radio report.
— — — —
This was what Eitan had written in the Death Note the night before last.
He had no doubts about the notebook's lethality—what he truly wanted to test were the two additions written after Ito Izumi's cause of death.
The Death Note could control the target's actions before death.
If used cleverly, even the information the victim received—news broadcasts, public reactions, or other media exposure—could be treated as part of their "pre-death actions."
After all, hearing a piece of news wasn't physically impossible.
And the results had confirmed Eitan's theory.
After Nishikawa Shigehiko's death, the broadcast time of the announcement matched exactly what he had written for Ito Izumi.
Eitan wasn't sure when the news would have aired under normal circumstances. Maybe earlier, maybe later. But because he had written that Ito Izumi would hear it from the midday radio broadcast at exactly 2:21 PM, the world obliged.
That radio broadcast had aired—right on time—while Eitan was riding in a taxi.
Exactly like a script.
Which meant... if used flexibly, the Death Note could, to some extent, control this world.
However, this "control" had its limits.
First, it relied on the condition that the event being scripted was something that would happen naturally—eventually.
Nishikawa Shigehiko's death would have been reported. The notebook merely fixed when.
But if the news had never been meant to air in the first place, then what Eitan wrote would've been nullified.
Clearly, more tests were needed.
"…"
Thinking this, Eitan turned on his computer.
In the year since obtaining the Death Note, he had avoided killing unless necessary—usually targeting criminals. Fortunately, he had access to the kind of information that made finding them easier.
He waited patiently as the aging system whirred to life. Once connected to the internet, he navigated to a particular website.
Username. Password. Login.
He adjusted the angle of the external webcam.
As soon as the login was successful, an endless stream of data poured down the screen like a waterfall.
Beyond general messages and bulletin boards, several distinct sections stood out.
One of them was a shopping section.
Information, drugs, firearms, forged documents—everything from black-market pharmaceuticals to weapons-grade contraband.
For someone with the right access, it was as easy as buying chewing gum online.
This was no ordinary website—it was a black-market portal on the dark web. And though Eitan's permissions only allowed him to view the surface-level content, it was still more than enough.
One caveat: during his entire session, the webcam had to remain aimed squarely at his upper body. Presumably, someone on the other end was watching, ensuring he made no suspicious moves beyond simple mouse clicks.
Eitan knew full well that every click left a trace on the backend.
So, in addition to reviewing his target data, he deliberately browsed irrelevant sections to cover his tracks.
It wasn't until the sky outside had dimmed, the glow from the screen beginning to irritate his eyes, that he finally closed the browser.
He reached for a strip of black tape to cover the camera again—
Buzz~~ Buzz~~~!
His old flip phone vibrated twice on the desk.
Eitan picked it up, flipped it open, and checked the inbox.
A single anonymous message.
"Tonight at nine. Daikoku Building, top floor. 'Cocktail' bar."
Cocktail.
Eitan narrowed his eyes slightly at the familiar name.
After a pause, his lips curved into a faint smile as he murmured:
"…The sun's down. I should turn on the lights."
— — — —
(Author's Note: Some readers were curious about the black web camera… if you continue reading, you'll see the protagonist has now received a message from Gin. That should be a strong hint about the Organization's internal communications, right?)
---
Daikoku Building.
From the outside, it looked like just another standard commercial tower.
The Cocktail bar at the top floor was unassuming. It had few customers during the week and would occasionally shut its doors for long stretches.
Eitan arrived right on time.
He pushed open the door—and his first impression was silence.
The bar wasn't very large.
A dim yellow light poured down from the ceiling, illuminating the cypress-wood counter and the tall liquor shelves lining the back wall.
Behind the bar, the bartender stood calmly polishing glasses until they gleamed.
Two men dressed in black sat quietly at the counter.
Vodka—massive, towering like a bodyguard.
And Gin—a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.
"He's here, Aniki," Vodka muttered.
As Eitan approached, Vodka's wide face twisted into a faint, cold smile.
Gin lifted his gaze.
His pale face, half-concealed beneath the brim of his hat and a curtain of silver bangs, was unreadable.
Those dark green eyes fixed on Eitan—glinting with a chill that had nothing human in it.
"Good evening, Mr. Gin. Mr. Vodka."
Eitan's voice carried an unnatural calm, almost tranquil, as he smiled faintly. "Is there something you need from me?"
Compared to his appearance earlier in the day, his face now wore a pair of silver-rimmed glasses.
The curve of his smile hadn't changed.
Only his eyes, slightly narrowed behind the lenses, appeared longer and more refined—but the gentle expression they held gave off a subtle, unsettling impression. Like he was always up to something.
Vodka couldn't stand this type of refined schemer. His lip curled into a sneer.
Gin, however, bared his teeth slightly.
His pupils—smaller than average—were filled with icy sharpness.
"I have a job for you."
"What kind?"
Gin didn't answer.
Vodka instead slid an envelope across the counter.
Eitan reached out and took it, casually sitting down at the bar as the bartender behind the counter asked,
"What would you like to drink?"
"The same as them."
"Alright."
The bartender began to mix the drink in silence.
Eitan opened the envelope. The topmost item was a photograph of a man in his thirties. He wore a black turtleneck beneath a light blue jacket and had a rather handsome face.
Beneath the photo was a name and basic background information:
Yasuo Shinhiro
As soon as Eitan had finished memorizing the man's name and features, Gin finally spoke.
"Tomorrow night at 11 PM. Second alley west of Beika Aquarium. Kill him."
"Exactly 11 PM?" Eitan didn't hesitate. "Is it guaranteed he'll appear?"
"Of course," Vodka replied with a mocking tone. "He doesn't suspect a thing. Thinks it's just another routine meeting."
"So… a traitor?"
"Just a little rat sniffing around the edges," Gin muttered, the corners of his mouth curling. His gaze toward Eitan was sharp as knives. "If he were a real traitor, I'd kill him myself."
Impressive.
Gin's reputation as the Organization's model worker wasn't just a nickname—he was either killing moles or on his way to kill one.
And by all accounts, it was also what he enjoyed most.
He had no tolerance for betrayal.
Or incompetence.
The bar fell silent again, broken only by the soft clinks of cocktail mixing.
"'Gypsy,' please."
The bartender set a crystal-clear amber drink in front of Eitan.
He lifted it, took a small sip, then quietly set it back down.
Gypsy—vodka-based, mixed with French Bénédictine and a few drops of bitters. Slightly sweet, herbal on the nose, but the burning taste of high alcohol couldn't be masked.
The bartender didn't comment. He simply moved on to the next order.
"'Orange Blossom,' please."
A classic cocktail glass, filled with an orange-red drink, was served.
Eitan tasted it too.
This one—based on gin—was clearly more palatable. Though the Cointreau added a kick, the dominant flavors were citrus: a refreshing blend of orange juice, lime, and grenadine.
Vodka and Gin.
Both had ordered drinks named after their code names.
Fittingly, the actual liquors weren't that different—both derived from high-proof spirits.
The difference was in process. Gin infused its base with botanicals—juniper, orange peel, roots. Vodka? Just dilution. Plain, simple, direct.
No wonder Gin always had Vodka tagging along.
A diluted shadow.
Finishing the Orange Blossom slowly, Eitan slid the photo and documents back into the envelope, tucked it under his arm, and stood.
"If there's nothing else, I'll be leaving."
Neither of them responded.
Eitan exited the bar and stepped into the night.
---
At 9:30 PM, the streets were still alive with people.
He passed a particularly rough-looking man, then raised his hand to flag down a taxi.
Once inside, he gave the address and pulled out a pen and a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
This wasn't just any paper—it was torn from the Death Note.
Transmigrating into this world, Eitan hadn't expected to be pulled so quickly into the Organization's shadows. He didn't even have a code name—just a low-level member, an expendable piece.
Gin's "model worker" persona might've seemed exaggerated in the manga's later arcs, but Eitan knew better.
Gin was terrifying.
So he had prepared carefully before showing up.
After all, if the Death Note could script a death… then it could also script a witness.
Inoue Murao
On March 18th at 9:00 PM, he wandered near Daikoku Building in Beika City.
He stayed until he saw a young man wearing a black coat and silver-rimmed glasses calmly hail a taxi and leave.
He remained at the scene for another 48 minutes, then left.
He lived normally until April 10th at 3:46 AM, when he hanged himself.
The cause and time of death didn't matter.
What mattered was this: during that window, Inoue Murao would definitely see the man with glasses getting into a taxi and leaving.
That alone was enough.
"…"
As the taxi sped toward Mihua Second Apartment, Eitan sensed something—an itch at the back of his mind.
He raised his eyes to the rearview mirror.
Carefully… he scanned the vehicles behind them.
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