January, 2004
Tokyo, Japan

Shortly after midnight, there was a knock on the hotel suite door.

L took a deep breath. This was it. He was about to show his face as L for the first time.

He stepped over to the door and flipped the lock.

"It's unlocked," he said. "Please, let yourselves in."

He took a few steps backwards and stood with his hands in his pockets as the door opened.

Five men- all members of the Japanese Police- stood in the doorway. Their expressions turned from solemn to shocked almost immediately.

L, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable, used his toes to scratch his ankle.

"I am L," he said simply.

The men just stared.

L scratched the back of his head.

Finally, the man appearing to be in charge lifted his police badge.

"I am Yagami of the NPA," he said.

The other men did the same.

"Uh, Matsuda."

"I'm Aizawa."

"Mogi."

"Ukita."

L groaned inwardly. What were these people thinking? Didn't they know that Kira only needed a face and a name to kill? They were being so careless! The one who called himself Yagami was speaking, but L wasn't listening. Instead, he lifted his index finger and thumb and pointed at the group, as if holding a gun.

"Bang!"

Naturally, the men were quite taken aback by this. A few of them protested noisily.

L remained calm as he explained. "If I were Kira, you'd be dead, Mr. Soichiro Yagami, chief of the NPA," he said in an annoyed tone. "Kira needs a face and a name in order to commit murder. But I'm sure you've already figured that much out, haven't you? Please, do not give out your names so carelessly. Instead, let's value our lives."

With that said, he turned toward the living room and, after instructing everyone to turn off their cell phones, he took a seat in one of the chairs, bringing his knees to his chest like always.

There was a coffee tray on the table in front of him, and L didn't say a word until his hot drink was poured and properly sugared according to his excessive standards. Then, the meeting began. He started by requesting that everyone call him "Ryuzaki" from now on.

He spoke for awhile, going over his deductions and his plan for action. Picking up a black marker, he began writing directly on the coffee table.

Just then, one of the suite's bedroom doors opened.

The Task Force was all at once in a state of complete bewilderment as a small boy, appearing no older than four or five, stepped out. He clicked the door shut and turned to run with tiny steps over to L's chair. He then proceeded to crawl underneath it, and then he just... stayed there. He sat cross-legged, sticking his little face out from under the chair and looking at everyone curiously through strands of floppy, black hair that fell into his slender, electrifying blue eyes.

He was wearing patterned footie pajama pants and a hoodie with bear ears. The ends of both hoodie strings were in his mouth and his hands were stuffed in his front pockets.

L barely skipped a beat and continued talking about the case and the FBI agents as though nothing were amiss... but he realized quickly that no one was listening. He sighed.

"Alright," he said firmly. "I'll introduce you, but if we are going to be working together on this case, you cannot allow yourselves to be so easily distracted. Is that understood?"

The Task Force looked a little embarrassed, but they all agreed and some mumbled apologies.

"Everyone..." L leaned forward with his hands on his knees to look down at the small face that was now peering up at him. The little boy's mouth formed a smile around the hoodie strings he was chewing on.

"This," the detective spoke plainly, "is my son."

Chapter 1: The Thief from Moscow

October, 1997
Moscow, Russia

It's strange how the turn of one corner can alter one's surroundings completely.

The man in the long, grey trench coat glanced behind him, at the city lights and noisy traffic between the two, ominously tall, stone buildings on either side of him. Turning back around, he felt as though he had stepped into another world. Darkness stretched before him and was interrupted only by the dim flicker of a few fires contained in rusty, metal barrels. His footsteps echoed on the wet stone ground, and the eyes of those less fortunate than him followed his figure as he trod deeper into the grim alleyway.

The air felt heavier, somehow, and was thick with various smells, both stale and potent. Shadows loomed tall and sinister and the sound of dripping water echoed throughout the corridor. A dog barked from somewhere nearby. The man continued on, a single folder tucked under one arm.

At the end of the alleyway was half a building, the completion of its construction abandoned long ago. An old man with a tangled, white beard sat on a filthy blanket at the entrance, his head bowed and his arms wrapped around his bent-up knees.

The well-dressed, much younger man spoke. "Excuse me."

The old beggar did not look up.

The man with the folder tried again. "Excuse me, but I wondered if you could help me... I'm looking for someone."

Again, there was no response.

The young man sighed and reached into his pocket to extract some coins.

At the clink of currency, the homeless man lifted his gaze. A jagged scar raked across his face, rendering one eye dead and useless. "And just who are you looking for?" he queried, and immediately his slight form convulsed into a fit of hacking and coughing.

"Ah, well..." the man in the trench coat opened the folder and removed a print of a grainy, black and white security camera screenshot. He held it out for the old man to see. "I'm looking for her."

The old man's one good eye settled on the face in the photograph, then lifted to look at the inquirer under a mangy, white eyebrow. Slowly, he brought his arm out from the tattered shawl around him and held out a grimy hand with long, bony fingers and yellowed fingernails.

"Oh, right." The younger man dropped the coins into the upturned palm.

The hand retreated quickly back into the rags. The old man tipped his head toward the door of the unfinished building. "She's in there."

More hacking and coughing.

The young man nodded his thanks and moved to open the heavy, industrial door.

The inside of the building instantly reminded the man of pictures from history books of refugee camps during times of war. Wall frames were erected, but there was no drywall, making it feel like one, large room with wooden posts here and there. More fire barrels were set up, and tattered furniture was scattered about. Mattresses and cots, each one dirtier than the last, filled the space from end-to-end.

The man looked at the photo and then began searching the faces around him. He moved slowly through the poorly-lit rows of sorry excuses for beds, feeling slightly claustrophobic and a little sick to his stomach.

The sound of crackling fire and the occasional deep-chested cough were the only disturbances to the eerie silence. The man wondered if it was always thus, or if his presence was what was causing the hush.

He was about to ask someone else for assistance when a female voice spoke to him.

"Nice coat."

The man looked to his left. Perched atop a rather sad-looking couch with dingy upholstery was a girl of about 20. She sat comfortably with her back against the armrest and her legs stretched out before her with her ankles crossed. She wore black leggings that had a ragged hole in the knee and worn-out combat boots. The collar of her over-sized sweater hung lopsided over her thin shoulders, and her wavy, brown hair was cut short to her ears, save for two long, wispy strands that hung down on either side of her face to her collarbone.

"I beg your pardon?" the man asked, tipping his head questioningly.

The girl didn't look up. She reached her long fingers into a small snack bag and removed them again holding a pretzel twist. "Any chance you've got some food in that fancy coat of yours?" she asked plainly.

The man looked down at the photograph, then back up at the girl. "Forgive me, but... could I see your face?"

The girl was in no hurry to oblige. She calmly sat, rubbing her index finger and thumb together, the pretzel crunching between her teeth. Then, she turned her head and her eyes met his.

"I'm not that kind of girl," she said bluntly.

The two long stands of hair framed her face becomingly. Her mouth was small, and her lips were a soft shade of rosy pink. But her most striking feature, by a long shot, was her eyes. They were sleek and slender and bluer than a tropical ocean on a sunny day. In fact, the man with the photograph wondered if he had ever seen anything so blue. The outside corners of her eyes lifted ever so slightly under long, curved eyelashes, naturally achieving a look that many in the world of beauty and fashion attempt to fabricate.

"Ah, n-no," the man stammered. "But would you come with me, please? I've been looking for you."

The girl scoffed and reached into the pretzel bag again. "And what would a fancy-pants like you want with a street rat like me?" She popped another pretzel into her mouth and gestured dramatically outward with both arms. "Trust me, there's nothing I can- or am willing- to give you. So... buh bye now." She waved a hand at him dismissively.

But the man didn't back down. "You are Anya Petrova, yes?"

He received a look of uncomfortable surprise. "What's it to you?" she asked, her voice transparently annoyed.

"Look, I represent someone who just wants to talk to you," the man spoke slowly. "You'll get a hot meal out of it, and all you need to do is listen."

Anya's cerulean eyes sparked at the mention of food. She thought for a moment, then swung her legs over the couch to stand. "Alright, sounds easy enough, I guess. Lead the way," she said with a shrug.

The man led her out of the half-constructed building and back through the long, dreary alleyway. At last, they stepped out into the light of the city streetlamps.

Anya was then taken to a small, dimly-lit restaurant. It was the kind of place that served food, but most patrons only went for the bar. A man in a long, black dress coat sat at a table in the corner, and the man with Anya nodded toward him. She stepped forward and approached the mysterious gentleman.

"Hey," she said simply. Her arms hung down by her sides and her fingers fidgeted with the sleeve hems of her sweater.

The man in black lifted a hand toward the chair across from him. He knocked back his drink, then lifted his glass to the waiter, who nodded and left to get another.

Anya took a seat and folded her arms casually on the tabletop. "Who are you?" she asked bluntly.

The waiter came to the table before the man had a chance to answer. A full glass of a strong-smelling alcohol was placed on the table, and the aproned young lad turned to Anya. "What can I get for you?" he asked.

"Do you have stroganoff?" Anya asked, hopefully.

"We do, I'll bring it right out."

The waiter left and Anya turned to the brooding man across from her again. "Okay," she said, shrugging. "Here I am. What do you want with me?"

The man took a long drink of his liquor before answering. When he did, he spoke with a deep voice and a thick Mediterranean accent.

"I believe you will recognize my name," he said smoothly. "You have been an integral part of my homeless network on the streets of Moscow for a few years now."

Instantly, Anya knew who he was, but the man introduced himself anyway.

"Eraldo Coil," he said, extending a hand toward her. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Petrova."

Anya accepted the handshake. "You too," she said. "So... why are you here?"

The waiter arrived with a steaming plate of beef and potato stroganoff. Anya wasted no time digging in. The hot food burned her tongue, but she didn't care. It had been a long time since she'd had a proper meal, and it could very well be a long time before she got another one.

Detective Coil leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "I am here," he said, his voice rich like chocolate, "because I need a thief...a con-girl. And I need the best."

Anya looked up from her plate, her mouth full of meat and potatoes. She used her fork to catch some gravy on her bottom lip. "Keep talking," she said with her mouth full.

The man with the olive skin and black hair continued. "I need... a name," he said slowly.

"A name?" Anya swiped the back of her hand over her mouth before taking another bite.

Eraldo Coil nodded. "Yes. I need the name of the man who ruined me... the man who stole my identity and my life. And I need you to get it for me."

"And if I do?" Anya asked around gravy and potato. "What do I get?"

"An apartment. A job. A life." His words dripped with honey.

Anya paused, her fork halfway to her mouth.

Eraldo Coil spoke directly, never breaking contact with the Russian street girl's icy, blue eyes. "I am prepared to offer you a simple life of comfort and dignity. An apartment here in Moscow has already been procured, and there is a position being held for you at a clothing shop with good wages. Not to mention, there will be a decent sum of money to get you started with a new wardrobe and food to last you until you can pay for your own way. Get me this name... and all of it is yours."

Anya stared as though someone were offering her the moon. "And, uhh..." she spoke hesitantly. "W-what name do I have to get?"

The undone detective leaned in even closer. Fire sparked in his nearly black eyes and he hissed his words with venom.

"Get me the name of the detective known as L."