Something troubled the Boy. An invisible finger prodded him, unspoken words gnawed at him. He lay on his cot, pressing his cheek against the too soft pillow. The thin strip of fabric between him and the floor slid as he flipped onto his back, ignoring the pain coursing through him. He glanced down at the back of his hand, studying his new burn. The Fiend placed it precisely in the center, an image which the Boy knew, but couldn't remember.

The world outside of the room, the one he could only experience through the cases that the Fiend provided, remained strange to him. He did not know what the sun looked like, although he knew it's name. He remembered grass, but couldn't think of a visual. Meadows and flowers, all words that wracked his thoughts, yet never produced more than the letters of the definitions. He retrieved knowledge, but never visuals. Besides the Fiend, he didn't know what other humans looked like. Not even himself.

He stretched his fingers. Pain washed across his skin, but it didn't bother him. He understood the concept of time, but could not remember what a clock looked like. And any sense of time that he once had, if he had any, completely faltered since he first entered that room. Days, nights, one with sun, one with out. He could only relate the visuals to darkness and light. If there was more, he couldn't remember.

Suddenly, he found himself standing up. His body ached, swaying. Still unable to retain any nutrition, his already thin frame continued to shrink. The Fiend noticed his slimming figure and when he asked, the Boy lied. An irking feeling that he was committing a blasphemous act when he lied grew by the day. The Fiend's law were not the only ones he knew; he remembered morals and ethics. He remembered police and the courts. Yet, the Fiend's laws were the only ones he began to recognize. The others, although it was entirely probable that they were once part of his life, imprinted little meaning on his conscience. And for some reason, it infuriated him.

Each time he vomited, he wondered what would happen if he starved. The thought of death scared him less every day. In fact, it became a growing comfort. It would free him from the room, from the Fiend. He would be able to breathe fresh air and maybe, just maybe, he would remember. He stopped resisting the urges to vomit. In fact, he would gorge himself so he became sick faster. Eternal sleep; heaven; hell; he was ready to die. He wanted to die. It should have scared him, a part of him said, but it didn't.

He wobbled towards the bathroom, unsure where he feet were carrying him. Just as he reached for the knob, the door on the opposite side of the room swung open. The Fiend clutched a plastic pouch, filled with an odd colored liquid. A long hose with a needle at the end was attached to the bottom of the bag. The Boy glanced at the Fiend and backed against the door.

"Lie down," The Fiend instructed.

The needle caught the fluorescent lighting, glimmering as a cat's eyes do in the dark. Anxiety rose in The Boy's chest. He attempted to suppress it as he obliged the Fiend's demand, but his knees trembled. The cot felt stiffer than normal as The Boy lied down. The Fiend grabbed his wrist and gripped it until the Boy's hand turned purple.

"Don't move," he muttered as he sank the needle into a bulging vein on the Boy's arm. The Boy watched as the depleting liquid crawled down the hose and poured into his vein. Whatever pumped through him, poison or not, he was ready to accept it. Besides, the thoughts of freedom comforted him far beyond anything else.

But no pain arose, even after a few minutes. The Fiend watched the bag, which was still almost full. The Boy refrained from questioning the odd liquid which coursed through him, afraid to bother the Fiend.

As if the Fiend could hear the Boy's thoughts, he informed the Boy that liquid nutrients were currently filling up his system in hopes to help him gain weight and become healthy again. Or at least how healthy the Boy was prior to his rapid weight loss.

The comfort of death, the hopes of freedom, slipped away as the pouch pumped more nutrients into the Boy's body. He withered, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to cry. A tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another. Suddenly, sobs wracked his chest and he yanked his arm from the Fiend. The needle, which was still jammed into his vein, ripped out of him, taking skin with it. He cried out, cradling his arm. Blood poured down him, dripping onto the cot.

A horrific pain, unlike any he encountered before, surged up his arm. He wailed, watching as a pool of blood formed by his knee. Then, he caught his own reflection. His cheeks were gaunt and his lips were pale. Solid black eyes, screened by a pink cloud and tears, gazed back at him. It was a strangers face, but he knew it was his. The tears stopped and the pain was pushed to the back of his mind. Since he arrived in the room, he had never seen anything so fascinating. With his good hand, he reached down and touched his reflection, causing a ripple.

The Fiend, who was watching him in silence, finally yanked the Boy's arm from him and applied pressure to the wound. "Why did you do that?" he asked coolly.

"I want to die," the Boy responded. The words eased him.

Suddenly, the side of the Fiend's lip twitched. His lip snaked upwards, his cheek indented, and his eyes lit up with a fire which singed the Boy. And a chortle erupted deep from within the Fiend's stomach. "You want to die?" he snarled, sneering and howling. "You want to die?"

As suddenly as he started, he composed himself and tightened his grip on the Boy's still bleeding arm. He lifted one finger and let it linger above the Boy's open wound before he plunged it into the Boy's skin. The Boy cried out, trying to pull his arm away. The Fiend snarled, laughing again. "I won't let you die."

He reached into his back pocket and plunged another needle, attached to a tourniquet, into the Boy's arm. He injected the clear liquid inside and, before the Boy could even protest, a strange sensation started to bubble through his body. Sleep swept him away, cradling him in its warm arms.

Light winced as his doctor pulled the needle from his arm. "You're all set," the doctor smiled at him. "I'll see you in a few months."

"Yeah, thanks," Light muttered and hopped off the table. Outside, in the waiting area, Ryuk was reading over the secretary's shoulder. In fact, his chin was perched on the woman's shoulder. If anyone else had seen the Shinigami, they would have assumed he merely enjoyed what he read. However, the large grin always remained planted on his face, no matter what the circumstances. As if he thought the whole world was a joke. Light couldn't blame him for taking life so lightly. Ryuk couldn't comprehend mortality; he didn't understand how important life was.

But Light did, which was why he tried to protect as many as he could by taking just a few away. Well, maybe more than a few. With a subtle head nod, he signaled at Ryuk to follow him. The Shinigami immediately rose his chin from the secretary's shoulder and floated towards Light.

"Oy, Light, how did the doctors go?" Light simply glowered at Ryuk in a response. "We should go back to that apple market."

As they exited the doctor's office, Light turned on his heels, almost brushing noses with Ryuk. "What have you done recently for me?"

Ryuk just chuckled, but left the question unanswered. They walked in silence for most of the walk. L's dubious plans, which kept catching Light by his toes, were becoming too much of a hassle. After he killed the random criminal, instead of the real L, Light knew he had to be a lot more carful with his Death Note. Even though it would be almost impossible to pinpoint who Kira is, Light couldn't risk it. L knew what he was doing; he was the world's greatest detective for a reason. Maybe Light didn't have to beat him, just avoid him.

"Light," Ryuk dragged his name out, almost as if to taunt him. Light ignored him.

"Liiight," Ryuk repeated.

"What?" Light snapped.

"There's someone following us."

Light froze in his tracks. He didn't turn his head, in fear of revealing that he was on to his stalker. But he perked his attention, listening for footsteps, shuffling, or even breathing. Nothing. Maybe Ryuk was just paranoid, or attempting to play some sot of sick game with him. Light wouldn't have been surprised.

He kept walking, with Ryuk floating casually behind him. The Death Note was tucked away in his drawer, out of harms way, in case his stalker was just a mugger. A part of Light wanted to confront his follower, in fact. If he could learn the man's name, he might find out he's committed just enough crimes to become one of Kira's new targets. He stopped again and pivoted on his heels.

"I know you're following me," he called out into the darkness. He waited, listened, for something, but there was no response. He threw Ryuk a glare, almost disappointed that no one was there. Just before he turned around, though, footsteps echoed in the night.

A shadowed figure, cloaked by a large hat and a beige trench coat, stepped under the street lamp. The light washed over him, creating a shadow which reached it's dark fingers towards Light. The hat shielded the man's eyes, but Light could see his thin lips, parted and relaxed.

"Who are you?"

"Kira," the man responded. Light's heart pounded in his chest. He took a step back, but maintained his calm demeanor. There was no use in becoming frantic over a liar. Besides, this man didn't know who he was speaking to.

"Well, Kira," Light narrowed his eyes. "What can I do for you?"

"Do I not frighten you?"

"Not particularly. According to the media, you're a vigilante of sorts. I have no criminal record, nor have I done anything which the law would consider wrong."

"How about God?"

Light raised his eyebrow. The corner of his lip twitched as he suppressed a smile. "I don't believe in God."

The stranger remained silent. He slipped his hands into his pockets and opened his mouth, as if about to say something. Ryuk's sudden chuckle broke the silence. Light shifted his gaze from the stranger to the floating Shinagami. Ryuk tilted his head as the corner of his lips crawled farther up his cheeks.

"Light, are you going to allow this man to lie to you?" he snickered.

Under the stranger's watch, Light couldn't retaliate. Instead, he turned his attention back to the shadowed statue. A plane flew over them, roaring until it vanished into the night's clouds.

"What do you want?" Light finally called. "I don't have time for games, Kira."

"Why do you not fear me?" the stranger asked again, his voice too calm.

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Light's neck, and it took him a moment to realize that his hands were trembling. The man suddenly smiled; he must have noticed. This man knew something. He knew something, and he was dangling it above Light's head. Though it seemed almost unimaginable, an inkling that this stranger knew Light's secret irked him. But how?

Light couldn't respond. Fear smothered his logic. He suddenly wanted to run, but his feet were rooted into the concrete.

"Why do you not fear me, Kira?" The man purred.

The fog of fear suddenly cleared. This man had no proof, and he certainly could not know about the Death Note. Unless the man standing before him was L. Light suddenly turned on his heels, too sick to fight his honor. He just had to flee before…before what? He started to run.

Something snipped into the back of his neck. A sudden calming sensation rushed through his veins. His legs slowed down, but he had to keep going. He stumbled on into the dark, clutching anything that could hold him up. His muscles relaxed and his vision began to blur. "Ryuk. Help me," he mumbled, although the words jumbled together.

He fell forward as a dark haze swallowed him whole.