Prison, years later
The cell was clean.
Too clean.
Light sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded, posture perfect—like he was still being watched.
Old Habits.
The world no longer needed Kira.
That was the verdict history had quietly reached.
No notebooks.
No Shinigami.
No audience.
Just time.
Light closed his eyes.
They still don't understand.
They used my name like a warning, not a lesson.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor—routine, meaningless. No one stopped at his door anymore.
Once, every second mattered.
Now, seconds are infinite.
He had replayed that day thousands of times.
L not falling.
L speaking.
L smiling.
One delay.
That's all it took.
Light exhaled slowly.
Gods don't lose.
Men do.
His reflection stared back from the metal sink—older, thinner, unmistakably human.
This face judged criminals.
This face reshaped the world.
And now it aged.
A guard's voice drifted faintly from down the hall, announcing the date.
Light listened.
They're still counting days.
As if days mean anything.
He laid back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
No fear.
No regret—at least, not the kind people expected.
If L had died that day…
They would be worshipping me now.
A pause.
Then, softer:
…Or maybe I would've found another excuse.
The thought surprised him.
Silence followed.
Not dramatic.
Not poetic.
Just the quiet end of a man who once believed the world revolved around his will.
Somewhere beyond the walls, history continued without him.
And Light Yagami—
not Kira,
not a god—
became what he had always denied being.
Mortal.
Light died that day.
---