The Shinigami Realm was a wasteland of decay. Jagged cliffs stretched into a sky the color of ash, and dust drifted through the stagnant air like the remnants of something long dead. Creatures of bone and shadow lounged in boredom, their hollow eyes reflecting the emptiness of eternity.
One such Shinigami yawned, leaning back against a crumbling stone. His bony fingers toyed carelessly with the black notebook resting in his lap. He wasn't paying attention. None of them ever did. What was another Death Note in a realm where nothing changed, where existence was nothing more than waiting for time to end?
The notebook slipped from his grasp.
It spun as it fell, tumbling out of the Shinigami's careless reach, plunging through the void that separated their world from the human one. Faster and faster it fell, until it broke through into the night sky over Tokyo.
Down below, in the shadows of towering buildings, the black cover struck the ground with a dull thud. The words etched into it gleamed faintly under the neon glow of the city: Death Note.
Hours passed before footsteps echoed in the alley. A young man stopped in his tracks, his hood casting a shadow over sharp, calculating eyes. He crouched, picking up the notebook, his gaze scanning the letters. His expression betrayed no confusion, no disbelief. Only quiet interest.
"Death Note," he murmured. His fingers brushed the cover with something like recognition, as though he had been waiting for this moment without ever knowing it.
He opened the first page and read the rules. His lips curved into the faintest smile.
By the time he closed the book and slipped it into his coat, his decision was already made.
The night swallowed him whole.
The shrill cry of an alarm clock shattered the stillness of morning.
Light Yagami stirred beneath his blanket, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before sitting up. The pale glow of early sunlight slipped through the curtains, casting soft patterns across his desk. His textbooks sat stacked neatly in a row, notebooks aligned perfectly beside them. Even his pens were laid out in order, as if disorder itself offended him.
He reached out to silence the alarm, his movements precise, practiced. Another day of the same routine. Another day of perfection.
Downstairs, the familiar sounds of family life drifted through the house. His mother humming in the kitchen. His younger sister Sayu muttering sleepily as she wrestled with her uniform. His father rustling the morning paper before leaving for work.
Everything in its place. Predictable.
Light pulled on his school uniform, tying the knot of his necktie with practiced ease. He glanced once at the mirror—sharp eyes, smooth features, a face that carried both intelligence and detachment—and then he turned away.
School was no different from any other day.
Teachers praised him for his flawless answers. Classmates admired him, whispered about him, but never truly reached him. During breaks, they huddled in groups, laughing about dramas, gossiping about relationships, scrolling endlessly through their phones. Light sat by the window, chin resting against his hand, his eyes wandering beyond the walls of the classroom.
Cars streamed endlessly below. Advertisements flashed across glass towers. People hurried with shallow purpose.
To them, this was life.
To him, it was noise.
The world is rotten, Light thought, not for the first time. Every newspaper headline confirmed it. Every news broadcast. Murderers walked free. Corrupt officials smiled on camera. Courts dragged cases on until victims' voices faded into silence.
It was unbearable—not because he cared too much, but because he cared enough to notice.
And yet, there was nothing he could do. No one could.
So he lived his days in flawless monotony. A model student. A dutiful son. A ghost of the future he might have wanted.
When classes ended, he lingered at the library, finishing assignments long before anyone else. On the walk home, he passed the same cafés, the same couples laughing at tables, the same businessmen barking into phones. He slipped through the rhythm of the city like a shadow no one noticed, untouched by its chaos, disconnected from its joy.
At home, Sayu sprawled on the couch with her homework. His mother fussed over dinner. His father was still at work, no doubt buried beneath piles of case files. Light retreated to his room, closing the door softly behind him.
Here, everything was in order. His world of silence and control. He studied, though he had little left to learn. He read, though the words rarely surprised him. His mind itched for something greater, something sharper than the dull edges of daily life.
Hours passed.
The television in the corner played idly as he flipped through his notes. He wasn't paying attention until the words breaking news flashed across the screen.
The anchor's voice was calm, professional: "In the United States, a convicted murderer collapsed suddenly during the middle of his trial. Doctors confirmed cardiac arrest as the cause of death. Officials are calling the incident unusual, though not linked to foul play."
Light blinked, lowering his pen.
A criminal. Dead. Just like that.
The broadcast moved on quickly, but the thought clung to him. Coincidences happened every day. People died suddenly. Yet something about the report—its timing, its simplicity—stirred in the back of his mind.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the glow of the screen until the anchor's voice blurred into noise.
Then he shook his head and returned to his studies.
It was nothing. Probably nothing.
But somewhere, deep inside, curiosity flickered to life.
Across the city, the young man with the hooded gaze sat in a darkened room. The Death Note lay open on his desk, the ink of a single name drying across the page.
On the television before him, the same report replayed. The murderer collapsed in the middle of the trial, eyes wide in shock, the courtroom thrown into chaos.
The young man's lips curved faintly. His hand closed the notebook with quiet finality.
"One," he whispered.
The city outside buzzed on, unaware. But the world had already shifted.
And no one—not Light Yagami, not the police, not even the man who called himself L—had yet realized that history had just taken a darker turn.