Hello, all! This is my first story to be published on here. I hope you all like it.... I don't find it exemplary, but it'll do until I can write something more exceptional. I actually wrote this thing about a year-and-[insert correct number of months here] ago.

x-posted on my [now dead] dA account, so if this this looks familiar, that would be why. it hasn't been plagiarized. artisticXexpressions over on dA = me. (please do not give me messages begging me to revive that account.... it'll probably just lie there collecting dust for the remainder of forever, since dA's web script is stupid and won't let me delete the account. . anywho.)

"Malum in Se" = Latin, btw. it means "evil in/of itself." it's supposed to be a legal phrase, but.... well.... Latin's Latin, so it means the same thing no matter what context, really. anywho, an example of malum in se would be murder; murder's generally considered an evil act in and of itself by society; a person wouldn't normally say, "Well, murder's bad, unless...." so yeah.

Obligatory Disclaimer: Since I'm not the stereotypical politician, I tend to suck at lying. So, yeah, I don't own Death Note or anything related. If I did, Matsuda would be way less annoying. Or he might just cease to exist. Both are pretty tempting...

When you're young and working in a corporation, nothing's a joke. When you're sitting down in one of those office "spaces" – given the honor of the quotation because they never fulfill the true definition of the word – there's nothing to laugh about. You feel like a machine, constantly churning out either masterpieces or less-than-perfect pieces of trash, checking off things on that never-ending list, and working overtime without extra pay until you feel that your twelfth cup of coffee wouldn't even save you from the mercy of Death. The computer screen and the various things on it have started to engrave themselves into your mind, making you see small bright spots even when you close your eyes.

When you finally get home, there's nothing on your mind except deadlines, figures, quotas, and empty promises from your boss of bonuses which will, most likely, never make it into your paycheck unless you happen to be a personal favorite. That bonus will be mine if I could only close off that deal on time.... I shouldn't have met up with the guy in the copy room, damn it; now I have to sleep since I have to get up by five o'clock, and that's just three hours away… Buzzing, buzzing all the time in your head, and the stress is good enough to send you straight to your grave if you're not careful.

Several of the young hopefuls don't have anything to hope for within a few months' time. Most of them end up just sitting back and watching all of their opportunities wave them goodbye and walk out the front door.

But there are a few who make it. Very few. And I was one of them.

Hello. I'm Light Yagami, Head of the Research and Human Resources Departments. It is, I assure you, a pleasure to meet you. I'm here to acquaint you with matters that concern both the clientele of this firm and this firm itself. Now, I would like to tell you more about our aim as a large corporation, with our business solely dependent on its people – all those who work in it, for it, and of course, people like you – those for whom we are always offering our services.

Did that bore you? Did it sound fake? Well, even if it did, get used to it, for that spoken paragraph of complete and utter bullshit is, in fact, the traditional way I introduce the place for which I work and myself. It's what others may call hard selling, but I simply call it charm. For almost three years, I've been responsible for enlisting about 300 permanent clients per year. It's definitely a hard sell, but I manage to get them all the time.

You see, I moved up. When I was first starting out, the higher-ups saw I had potential – I was brimming with it (of course, there were other reasons for my having moved up, but you need not know them). I oozed class and charm, and, because of this young, handsome face of mine, the company had much power over clients. When my father was still alive and running this firm, the "power-over-clients" about which I speak was nearly non-existent; he did not know how to exert extreme force over the people who worked for him and the people for whom the firm offered services. Well, after he died – and after I moved up along the company hierarchy – all that changed.

Now I am a young professional with a hefty paycheck, and everything in my life is going perfectly. Offering loans and presenting insurance plans is truly an exciting thing to do; I get to watch innocent customers' eyes glitter with joy when I feed them the almost too-reassuring propagandist lies. A few of my favorites are the classics such as, "Lowest interest rates in the country" and "No time restraints." Car insurance, medical insurance, education plans, pension plans – I know the magic formula for each. I make them sound delectable and irresistible by spicing up the offers and, in the end, making all of our clients run from rival firms back to me and simply begging on their knees, drooling for more. Okay, so maybe I exaggerated that a bit, but hey – such is life.

Of course, I can't say that I'm all clean or where I work is all clean. Far from it. I might sound like the perfect citizen, but once you really get to know me, you'll change your mind. Though, when dealing in my sort of business – in such a deadly and dangerous environment where competition is fierce – it helps to be like me; being a Godsend is what matters. As my mentor once told me, "They don't care how you give it or where you get it from, all they care about is the fact that they get it." So who cares about where all the cash comes from? It's flowing like a river, and I'll be damned if it isn't the most expensive river in town. I don't want to turn all Machiavellian on you, but it's true; I won't deny it. But as far as everyone is concerned, nobody really wants to play canary and sing to the authorities. There's just no use. Everyone on the Inside is being well paid, and everyone on the Outside doesn't know, doesn't want to know, or doesn't care.

However, being in white-collar crime does have its fallbacks. It's not as if I'm worried about being caught by the cops or anything – I've been operating for quite some time, and they haven't caught me yet – but I always have to plan everything out just so in order to prevent anything from happening. Though, on that same token, I'd much prefer living like this than living the life of a normal, "model" citizen. Living on edge is much more exciting. If you want to get all deep about it, then I guess you could say that it's kind of like driving, in a way; they're always telling you to watch a few cars ahead of you, but the real danger is the car right in front of you; that's the one you need to look out for. So if you're spending all your time looking two cars ahead of you instead of at the one right in front of you, then you'll probably end up dying from a crash. See, there's no reason to plan or "live for the future" or whatever; living on edge and living fast and living for the moment is what matters. You need to keep your eyes glued to just the car in front of you – just to what's going on right now.

There's really nothing to gain from being a model citizen – you won't even get a fucking Medal of Honor for it.

*********

So he walks in, and I give him one of those smiles, which is actually a sneer. I won't smile at him just yet, since I haven't really won him – just yet.

Either he's a few years younger than I am, or he's damned good at concealing his age. He looks straight back at me, and I know that for once, for a guy his age, he's pretty confident. He doesn't look too well-off, though. He has on a simple t-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans that make him look like a hapless resident of the slums. His hair is horribly messy. I seriously want to ask him where he went to college – or if he even bothered attending at all – but I'm still on office hours, which means that I have to keep up the polite front. Damn.

"Hi. I wanted to inquire about getting a loan...." he starts to say, his voice trailing off.

"You could've just talked to one of the people downstairs at the information desk." Okay, I'm putting down the polite front. I don't care to be polite or professional. If he's not smart enough to go to the damn information desk, then he doesn't deserve my professional politeness.

"They sent me up here because I'm not getting a loan from my own account." He pauses and bites the knuckle of his left index finger. His eyebrows come together, and he seems like he is trying to formulate a better explanation. I open my mouth to tell him to go back downstairs, but he continues before I can speak. "You see, it's a bit complicated. I'm trying to get a loan off my mom's insurance account here."

Trying to get a loan from his mom's account? I raise an eyebrow before answering him. "There's nothing… 'complicated'… about that. If you have your mother's letter of consent, or if you're a co-signatory, it shouldn't be a problem. Look, sir, I'm not the one with whom you should be consulting. You are in a normal situation, and –"

"My mom just passed away. And I'm not a co-signatory of… anything. I was legally disowned when I turned eighteen. My dad passed away before that. I've no siblings and no living relatives left. And I need money."

By the time he was done talking in his annoying choppy sentences, I had leaned closer to him. I listened to his explanation and all of his flowery excuses, and re-assurances and offers came to my mind. And of course, the curious side of me wanted to find out why he was disowned…

"Look, Mr…?"

"Um… We'll go with Coil," he replied after a slight pause. I arched an eyebrow. We'll go with? The hell is that supposed to mean? I didn't bother, though. I was probably just intimidating him enough as it was, which is nothing out of the ordinary; I tend to intimidate people quite often. It could be the fact that I've killed company workers' relatives before in order to get back at said workers for not keeping up with the insurance companies, but the fear could always stem from other things, as well. Of course, nobody can turn me in because they'd be too afraid to do so, and plus, I'm too much of an asset to the business; if I was incarcerated, the company would virtually collapse.

"Er… Mr. Coil, I would be glad to help you. But I am afraid you cannot be beneficiary to the insurance your mother left at her death given the circumstances. I really am sorry. It seems no one else can avail of it, either, because you say that you no longer have relatives. Now that we have that clear, you actually can still get a loan, but it requires you to set up an account with us, and you have to pledge to pay your insurance fees the moment you have a means of income or a permanent job –"

"I have a job," he interrupted, doing so abruptly enough to cause me to lose my train of thought for a small instant. I blinked.

"…Well, then. You will have to pay a monthly fee, but the insurance will cover you, I am sure, and you can make loans. All you have to do is set up an account. I'll personally help you pick an appropriate plan and help you through the process – including the loan. And I can assure you that we have the lowest interest rates in the country, and –"

"Look, I just want my mom's money."

I was taken aback. Did he listen at all? I offered the low interest rate gimmick! Everyone falls for that!

"You can't have it, alright? I'm sorry. You're not even legally her son anymore. You've lost the rights to inheritance or anything, unless she revoked the emancipation upon her death – perhaps in a will or something."

"She didn't."

"Then I can't help you. I'm sorry." And those two phrases were euphemistic for the single phrase, "Get lost, pal," which I could not use because I was still working.

He leans closer, and his voice softens. "You can pull strings, can't you?"

I get the idea immediately, and I lean towards him, as well. "Look, kid, I can, but you're a nobody and I'm not going to risk it for you. Go to a damned bank or some shit."

He starts smiling as though I just said what he expected and that his response was something he had previously rehearsed. It irks me for a moment, but I shake off the feeling and give him a cold hard stare.

He finally whispers again, "All I need is money. I was lying. I don't have a job, never did, ever since I got out of rehab, which was financed by some woman I seduced."

"I can't hire you. I'm just another employee here." Hey, I can tell the guy's lying; I may as well lie too, right? After all, an eye for an eye.

"Oh, you are such a good liar," he practically purred. "Your family name's Yagami, isn't it? Your dad owned and ran this place up until he died. You're pretty famous around here. Head of two departments, your write-up brags in the brochures. You're in the Board of Directors, too, when I'm sure you don't have the credentials for it. Just your pretty family name."

I stop myself from jumping to my feet, literally throwing him out my office window, and watching him fall seven stories to crash-land a bloody death on the concrete sidewalks below. I only stop myself by gripping the edge of my desk as tightly as is humanly possible.

"You did your homework, kid," I hiss maliciously.

He shrugs before saying, "Wasn't much. All I had to do was ask the girl at the front desk. Funny how they know all about the company hierarchy."

"Of course they know it. Now you know it. And, really, what do you want from me? I could throw you out any minute, and you will never enter this building again." Another euphemistic phrase; of course he'd never enter here again; when you die, you are unable to walk anywhere.

"Just give me a job."

"I can't. Besides, what would you be, anyway?"

"Your assistant," he replied with a slight smirk. That smirk got on my nerves.

"And why would I give that to you? I have resumes lying on my desk. Graduates from all the important universities. Who are you that you're so special?"

"I head the nation's police."

"Burn in Hell."

He grins and says, "I knew you wouldn't believe me. But I know so much more."

"I can have you killed, you know that?" Hah. Screw that; I'll personally kill the bastard.

"Better to keep a close watch on me then, right? Every day, I'll be in your office, unable to phone authorities and expose the illegality of this place. Hire me now, or you'll regret it."

"You're pretty smart, coming up with all that. You look like a juvenile delinquent who got kicked out of college, not an undercover cop."

"That's the point, isn't it?"

Needless to say, I didn't believe him at all. There's no lurking fear in me that the man could even know anything. He doesn't even look credible; who would believe him? Later that day, after I actually up and gave the bastard the job of Executive Assistant, I phoned the son of one of my late father's most loyal friends. (Said friend keeps his loyalty because it was my family who saved his family's asses when they were starving on the backstreets of Japan after having immigrating here from Russia many years ago.)

"Good evening. Aizawa of the police agency speaking."

"It's me."

"Oh, hello, Light. How may I help you?"

"Some bastard came in here earlier, acting like he's the head of the fucking government, and he claims that he heads the national police. He says his name's Coil and that he's working undercover. I gave him a job as my assistant because he kept talking and wouldn't shut the hell up."

"What's that you're saying about undercovers? Hell, I would know if there were any, and there are none. Plus, the guy who heads the national police never shows his face, anyway."
"You swear? If you're lying, you do know that I can send in one of my people and have you shot down in front of your family while you're having your evening meal."

"I am certain, Light. I would know."

"Good."

"Light?"

"Yes?"

"I would never allow your dad's company to close down or anything. You know that, right?"

"I know. I was just making sure," I say with a smirk. God, scaring people like that gives me a high like no other.

"Okay," he replied.

I end the call and slip my cell phone back into my pocket. Actually, between you and me, it is not even really my cell phone, per se; I stole it from an employee. I erased all the memory from it before adding all my numbers into it. Hell, the phone looked sharp, and it was just lying on the information desk, totally without supervision; how was I supposed to resist myself? And it's not as if the idiot owner would ever suspect me.

*********

That Coil guy has been working for me for four months now, and he hasn't been doing anything suspicious at all. I have asked all the employees to keep a close watch on him, but there's never anything to report. I've had some of my men follow him to and from work, and nothing suspicious has happened then, either – no secret dark alley meet-ups, no cell phone conversations. I don't even know why I bothered in the first place.

I have to hand it to him, though – he came up with a good story. Good enough to land him a high-paying job.

It turns out he goes by the first name Eraldo. Provided the story he gave me is actually true, he was disowned after his parents, during a surprise visit, found him in his dorm room at college scoring another guy. If he were a close and trusted friend, I would tell him that I'm guilty of that, too. Actually, I've done that several times. Only I was never stupid enough to get found out, was therefore never disowned, and now, nobody could care less if anybody knew.

*********

It was in the second week of his fourth month when he started making advances on me.

He always makes sure to close the office door and keep the blinds down. Each time we talk, he leans close to me, and I always think he's going to kiss me. He likes touching my arm or my shoulder or whispering the day's schedule in my ear.

I don't really mind at all. In fact, I catch myself smiling. Soon enough, I started trusting him. I even trusted him enough to tell him things about the business – how everything works, the lies that we tell our clients, the way we get all our money. He doesn't seem fazed by it in the least. He always just nods and absorbs the information like a sponge. He never shakes his head or comments on how wrong anything is. And that's what makes him particularly endearing to me. He also seems genuinely eager to learn about the business, so I indulge him, and soon enough, he has started repaying me with his affections.

After the first night that he slept with me – after the first night that I let him slip off my suit, pull off my necktie, and unbutton my shirt – I was starting to grapple with feelings I could neither easily distinguish nor fight. After all, I'd slept with plenty of people before and had thought absolutely nothing of it. Hell, that's just the way life goes; I prefer to think of it as the "E-K-S" method of living – "Embezzle, Kill, Score." However, this time, things were different.

Then one night, after I made him scream my name many times, he finally told me that he loved me. That only made me want to hear him scream my name again, not denying that we had made love. I did deny, however, saying that he was merely another score.

*********

He walks into the office and closes the door behind him before walking over to me and kissing me hard on the mouth. His tongue slips past my lips, and I feel my knees weaken. I lean back against the table, holding his body against my own. He starts playing with my hair and deepens the kiss. I know I can no longer control myself if we continue.

As though reading my mind, he pulls back and whispers, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips swollen, "Good morning." My hand grabs at the edge of the table as he leans towards me again, and that's when I knock down a pile of papers I had organized the day before.

"Shit," I mutter in irritation.

I pull away, and he moves back, allowing me space to kneel down and pick up the papers. After collecting the papers, I finally look up, about to stand, when I'm suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun.

He isn't smiling when he says, "They're coming," in an emotionless tone.

All I can think about is, How did he get past the security guards? All those officers…? Oh, of course… I look at him again, and I almost want to scream, not because I trusted him, but worse – because I've fallen in love with him.

Of course. He's a cop.

When the rest of the team finally barges in, he picks me up by the arm – not roughly, though, which surprises me. I easily follow him, and I look straight at him, but he won't meet my eyes. He pushes me on the shoulder, silently urging me to turn around, and he doesn't need to restrain me or push me down as he handcuffs me. Then, he retrieves a notebook from his pocket and reads from it. He sounds dead, and his voice is almost too soft.

"Light Yagami, you are being arrested for financial fraud, money laundering, embezzlement, racketeering, extortion, and murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights which I have just read to you?"

"Yes," I reply.

Then I am ushered out with him walking right behind me – into the elevator, out into the lobby, out of the building, and finally into the police car. I didn't even realize there were so many people around until I got into the car and looked out the window. So many cameras, photographers, reporters. The kind of media attention you love until you realize they're there to feed on you like scavengers – hungry and ready to get their hands on you.

It's a long way to the police station, and I close my eyes as I re-live those last moments in my office as well as the first moments when he had walked in through the door and immediately told me who he was, why he was there – and I didn't believe him. And now he's at the front seat, refusing to look back and to see how I'm doing. I can see he's looking straight ahead, his eyes glancing at the buildings and sidewalks we pass. Then I realize – he doesn't look so young anymore; he doesn't look as innocent. His clothes are different – older, even shabbier than before, and I didn't notice. I didn't notice.

*********

It's certainly not as sophisticated as betrayal; he did tell me who he was. It was just a matter of me not believing him, but believing him enough to take him in. And then it ended. I was convicted. The company closed down, as I had predicted, and the fucking media had a field day. I never heard from Aizawa again, or any of the business associates who managed to get away.

Being incarcerated isn't as horrible as everyone says. It's quiet – sometimes even lonely – but it isn't too bad. Nobody comes to visit; they're all afraid of getting jailed, too. It's only he who comes along several times every week. It's strange how he just comes in and looks at me through the bars. He's just standing there, and I don't look up for a while. I feel his eyes on me, though, and finally, when the weight of his stare has become too heavy, I look up at him, expecting a gun to my forehead. But he's quite far from me, and we look at each other. He nods at me, and I nod back as though there's anything in both of us worthy of respect.

Then he turns around slowly and walks away. I stand up, walk to the door of my cell, grasp the metal bars lightly, and watch. My gaze follows his retreating figure, which gets smaller and smaller as he walks on down the corridor. I watch several inmates' arms reach out to him through the bars of their cells, their fingers trying desperately to catch hold of his sleeves, of his arm – almost as though they're asking him for some sort of salvation, as though he's their savior.

But he doesn't stop walking; he doesn't even look at them. And I know there's something left between the two of us, no matter how small, because he still looks at me… he still looks at me. No one else but me. The only thing that matters now is Time.

~ Finis. ~

*********