The news of Hercule Poirot's audacious and successful gambit spread through the fractured remains of the task force with the speed of a lit fuse. It was a single, brilliant spark in a world that had been plunged into an oppressive darkness.
In Miss Marple's suite, she sat with her assistant, Isabelle Dubois, a pot of fresh tea steeping between them. The younger woman, her face a mask of professional admiration and profound confusion, was the first to give voice to the question that hung in the air.
"It was magnificent, Ma'am," Isabelle said, her hands clasped tightly. "A masterstroke of psychology. But… I must confess, I don't entirely understand it. How could Monsieur Poirot have been so certain? And why that specific location? It seemed, from the reports, to be just… a random street. To risk his own life on such a random chance…"
Miss Marple smiled, a faint, knowing expression. She poured two cups of tea, the simple, domestic ritual a soothing counterpoint to the chaotic events. "He wasn't certain at all, my dear," she said, her voice gentle. "He was not taking a chance. He was, as he would say, conducting an experiment of pure method. Certainty is a luxury we no longer have. What we have is logic, and Monsieur Poirot has returned to it, as a man dying of thirst returns to a well."
She offered a cup to Isabelle, who took it, her gaze still fixed on the older woman.
"You see, my dear, that location was anything but random. It was, perhaps, the only place in the entire Kanto region where his plan could have worked. Monsieur Poirot and Mr. Holmes spent a full day poring over city maps and surveillance grids. They found that specific intersection, a blind spot. It is a main road, yes, but for a stretch of nearly three hundred meters, there is not a single police-accessible CCTV camera. No bank machines, no private security feeds. The only 'eyes' on that street are the large 'Fanasonic' billboards."
"But those are broadcast screens," Isabelle countered, her brow furrowing. "They don't record."
"Precisely," Miss Marple said, a twinkle in her eye. "He created a public stage in a theatre where he knew the audience could see the performance, but where the theatre owners themselves were not filming it. He was testing, in the most dramatic way possible, the original theory that L—our L—proposed: that Kira needs a name and a face. He provided both, in a live performance, and waited to see if the god in the rafters was watching."
"But that only explains the how," Isabelle pressed. "It doesn't explain the why. Why there? There must be other blind spots in the city."
"Ah," Miss Marple said, taking a delicate sip. "Now we come to the truly clever bit. The why is the part that proves Monsieur Poirot's mind is as sharp as it has ever been. It goes back to the very beginning of this affair. It goes back to that original list of suspects. The one that Mr. L and poor Connor compiled."
Isabelle looked skeptical. "But that was L's list. We suspect him now. And several on that list are dead or have been cleared. Surely, that data is compromised."
"Just because the cook has turned out to be a scoundrel, my dear, does not mean his original recipe was wrong," Miss Marple said simply. "The logic that created that list—that Kira must have access to the internal police network—remains the most solid, fundamental piece of reasoning we have. Everything else has been smoke and shadows, but that, that is a foundation of rock. Monsieur Poirot, being a man of supreme order, has returned to that foundation."
She leaned forward, her voice becoming confidential. "He took the remaining eight names on that list and he cross-referenced their home addresses. Of those eight, three of them… Mr. Hayashi, the retired forensics man with his grim philosophies… another young data analyst… and, of course, that brilliant, cold young man, Light Yagami… all live within a one-kilometer radius of that very intersection."
Isabelle's eyes widened, the full, beautiful, and terrifying logic of the plan finally settling upon her.
"Monsieur Poirot did not, as Captain Hastings believed, cast a line into the entire ocean," Miss Marple concluded. "He cast his line into a very small, very specific pond, one where he had every reason to believe his fish were swimming."
The two women sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the implications. The hunt, which had become a global, almost supernatural affair, had just shrunk to a single, definable neighborhood.
"But Ma'am," Isabelle said at last, her voice quiet. "What of L? All this... it does not explain his betrayal."
Miss Marple's expression softened into one of profound sadness. "No, dear. It does not. That... that is a different sort of puzzle entirely. It is not a 'what' or a 'where,' it is a 'why.' A question of the human heart, and a most dreadful one." She looked down at her hands. "Captain Hastings raised a very good point. L had a gun. He had them all at his mercy. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson... they were all there. Why only shoot the android? Why leave all those witnesses?"
"Perhaps his gun jammed?" Isabelle offered, grasping for a rational explanation.
"No, dear," Miss Marple said with a sigh. "A man like L, so precise in all things, would not be undone by a simple mechanical failure. He is not a creature of chance. He chose not to shoot them. He chose to leave them alive. And that is the part that is so very troubling. One only leaves witnesses to one's own crime for a very specific reason. Either... either he is so supremely arrogant that he believes they can never catch him... or he was sending a message. But what, and to whom... that, I am afraid, is a very sad and very dark question."
________________________________________
Light Yagami stood in the center of his bedroom, his body rigid, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. The initial rush of divine satisfaction he had felt after striking down the criminal Akio Tanaka had evaporated, replaced by a cold, seeping dread that was now solidifying into a block of pure, incandescent rage.
It had been too perfect. Too convenient. A notorious, escaped criminal, a hostage situation, all unfolding with a perfect line of sight from his own window.
His mind, a precision instrument, replayed the scene. The Belgian man with the ridiculous moustache. The way the supposed 'police' had been medics, arriving with a speed that defied all logistics. The way the hostage, far from being traumatized, had been whisked away with an efficiency that spoke not of an emergency, but of a plan.
FUCK.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. It was a trap. A performance. A grotesque, elaborate piece of street theatre, and he had been its star actor.
DAMN IT! He slammed his fist onto his desk. He, the God of the New World, the master of the ultimate power, had been manipulated. He had been tricked. He had been played like a common fool. They had dangled a piece of filth in front of him, and he had struck at it like a mindless, predictable animal.
Such a fucking petty little trick.
He began to pace his room, a caged tiger. The rage was not just at them, but at himself. At his own arrogance. He had allowed his contempt for the world's criminals to be used as a weapon against him. He had fallen for it. They weren't just guessing anymore. They had been testing a theory. They had been testing the location.
They had just narrowed their hunting ground from the entire planet... to a single, one-kilometer radius. To his neighborhood. To him.
"Well," he hissed to the empty room, forcing his breathing to slow, forcing the cold logic to return. "They have nothing. They have a theory. A suspicion. They have no proof." He had been outsmarted, yes, but the game was far from over. He was still a god. He still held the power. He just needed to be more careful.
"Seems like I have to stay low," he muttered, his mind already formulating new strategies. "No more judgments in this area. No more obvious moves. Let them search their tiny little pond. They will find nothing."
He sat at his desk, the anger cooling into a hard, diamond-sharp resolve. He would regain control. He would...
A single, soft ping from his computer interrupted his thoughts. He looked at the screen. A new, encrypted email had arrived.
His blood ran cold. He knew the sender.
From: Anonymous [UID: 7h3_4r7157]