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Chapter Text

౨ৎ .  death note au 

.ᐟ  言 - death note!characters x fem! reader

...

..

.

" 罪"

sin

" 死"

death

"判断"

judgement

⋅ warnings !!

this story will mention..

rape

sex

cursing

smoking

sexual assault

death

blood

suicide

alcohol

⋅ disclaimer !!

this book won't update consistently,

but chapters will be lengthy.

       ꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱

Chapter Text

2003, Tokyo.

 time..

              7:45 a.m.

You wake up before your alarm. 

You always do.

The room is clean, still, and dim. 

Minimalist. 

The only color is the faint blue of morning filtering through the blinds. You don't like clutter. Everything has its place.

You sit up, spine straight, and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold beneath your feet, but you don't flinch. You never flinch.

Your apartment smells faintly of bergamot and vetiver—your cologne, which you apply religiously after every shower, like ritual. It's one of the few indulgences you allow yourself. That, and black coffee.

You walk naked to the bathroom. There's a full-length mirror on the way, and you glance at yourself, but only briefly. Your body is tight and sculpted, but not in a way that screams effort. You don't work out to be attractive. You do it to survive. To win.

Your chest is perky...the base of femininity...your waist is tight, and your hips are slender. You're the kind of attractive that feels intentional, dangerous. Beautiful in a way that makes people think twice before speaking. 

Maybe a quiet threat to most.

The water in the shower is ice cold. 

You prefer it that way.

Afterward, you dress with precision 

── Black turtleneck, tight around your frame. Dark-washed jeans, tailored to your legs. A black belt with a silver buckle. Thin rectangular glasses, you didn't need...more for aesthetics—cleaned, positioned, and pushed up the bridge of your nose.

You don't wear makeup. 

You don't need to.

 Your eyes are sharp, shadowed by long lashes and something older than your age. 

Twenty-six──still young, but not naïve. 

Not anymore.

.

.ᐟ At 8:06 a.m.,

 You make coffee.

You grind the beans yourself. Single origin. 

Brewed in a French press, two scoops, 92°C water, four minutes. Not because you care about luxury, but because you believe discipline should reach into every corner of your life. Your routine is sacred. 

Ritualistic. 

You were taught that the little things matter more than the big ones.

The big things are obvious. The little things? That's where the secrets live.

You sip the coffee, still standing in the kitchen, reading the case file that's been lying on your counter for the past two nights. A dismembered body in Shibuya. Third one this month. Always young men, always missing the eyes.

The media doesn't know yet. 

You made sure of that.

You work for the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, technically. But that's not who you report to. Not really.

You're what they call a "special investigator," but the truth is, there isn't a name for what you are. You're a ghost in a system that needs monsters to catch monsters. You've worked with Interpol. 

CIA. 

NPA. 

You've worked alone, mostly. And you prefer it that way.

You've seen things that don't make sense. Patterns that defy logic.

 Murders that feel... wrong. Not just gruesome—inhuman.

But you don't believe in ghosts. 

Or gods. 

Or demons. 

You believe in action. Evidence. Cold reality.

You finish your coffee.

۶ৎ

Your name is [REDACTED].

You don't use it often. Most people just call you by your codename— (your nickname)

It started as a joke, something a French agent called you after watching you interrogate a mafia head until he broke down crying. 

"She sins without sin," he said. 

"A holy executioner"

It stuck.

 And it suits you.

You don't talk unless necessary. When you do, it's short, calm, and always cuts to the bone. You don't believe in small talk. Most people bore you. They waste oxygen.

But you're not cruel. You protect people. That's what makes you different from the killers you hunt.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway.

You smoke often. 

Do you smoke to deal with the stress of being on the job, maybe? You always smoke your usual brand, Seven Stars, and always smoke one before starting your day.

Your first kill was at sixteen.

A man tried to abduct your younger cousin from school. 

You saw him. 

Followed him. Watched him circle the same block twice. You knew what was going to happen before he even stepped out of the car.

You stabbed him in the throat with a pair of scissors from your bag.
Waited until he stopped breathing.
Then called the police.

The court called it self-defense.

 Your parents called it luck. 

But you called it what it was.

Necessary.

.

Your heels echoed through the corridor, standing outside your apartment complex,

At 9:13 a.m., 

You're in a black government-issued sedan heading downtown.

The driver doesn't speak. You appreciate that. The radio plays low jazz. You're reviewing autopsy photos.

You don't flinch. You've seen worse.

You tap your finger against your lip as you study the cuts, surgical. Almost reverent. Whoever did this didn't just want to kill. They wanted to transform. To defile. To leave a message.

You love patterns. Not in a romantic way. In the way a sniper loves wind. The way a surgeon loves silence.

Patterns mean control. 

Patterns mean logic.

But this case? It's wrong.

Too clean. 

Too cruel.

You lean back, looking out the window as the city moves around you like a machine. Tokyo is always moving. Always pretending not to notice what's wrong. 

You admire that. 

You do the same.

You were recruited at twenty by a covert branch of the Japanese intelligence bureau. They saw potential. A young woman with a genius IQ, multiple black belts, and no fear in her eyes. They trained you in six languages, two dozen combat styles, and five ways to break a man with a plastic spoon.

But they didn't create you. 

They just refined the blade.

You read autopsy reports. Watched documentaries on serial killers. Practiced holding your breath until you passed out, just to see what it felt like.

Not because you're broken.

Because you wanted to understand.

10:42 a.m, on the rooftop.

"Hm, it started raining," you said under your breath, 

You're crouched beside the crime scene, gloves on, eyes scanning. The air is thick with city grime and old rain. The body's gone, but the blood is still there—dark, sticky, a dried scream.

There's a symbol drawn beside it. You kneel, squinting.

It's not paint.

It's ash.

Burned into the concrete, a perfect circle with intricate lines—geometry not used in any known religion. You've seen something like it before. 

Years ago. 

But you were told to forget it.

You never forget.

Back at HQ, your superior is breathing down your neck.

"We're assigning it to the behavioral division."

You look up slowly from your desk.

"No."

He flinches, just slightly.

You don't raise your voice. You never need to.

"I want everything. Witness reports, drone footage, satellite imaging. And I want a private channel."

He tries to argue. 

You stare through him.

He caves.

They always do...

...

You work until dusk.

Case files, blood patterns, DNA sequences. You line them up like chess pieces, rearranging the moves of a killer trying to play god with knives instead of thunder.

The behavioral division thinks it's ritualistic. You disagree.

This isn't worship. It's performance.

There's a difference.

You slip into your coat—black, long—and leave the office with no goodbyes. You don't do goodbyes. Most people in your world vanish before they get the chance.

You stop by the river on your way home. It's a thing you do sometimes when you're thinking. The water moves like time. Fast, dark, indifferent.

You drop a cigarette into it. You don't smoke. But you always carry one.

Just in case.

11:07 p.m., 

back in your apartment. Lights off. You move through the dark like a habit. You don't turn on the television. You don't check your phone. You don't scroll, don't distract, don't chase comfort.

You undress slowly, methodically, as if peeling away the armor of the day. You lie in bed without touching the covers. One arm beneath your head. Eyes fixed on the ceiling.

You review everything in your mind—frame by frame.

The circle burned into the rooftop. The missing eyes. The blood.

And then, you blink.

Something... feels off.

It only took two weeks, just two weeks.

Bodies start dropping.

But not like before.

No eyes gouged. 

No blood. 

No symbols.

These ones die... clean.

Too clean.

Heart attacks. Simultaneous. Random. Unconnected—at least at first glance.

But that's the thing about randomness. You don't believe in it.

You pinned the map on your wall. Use red thread. Old school, but effective.

A criminal killed several women. A corrupt banker in Aomori. A war criminal in Kyoto. A serial rapist in Nagoya. 

They're all dead.

All at the same time.

The media's calling it a coincidence. The hospitals say "congenital." But you've worked too many crime scenes to mistake death for an accident.

You feel it again.

That thing in your chest.

Not dread.

Not fear.

Excitement.

You sit at your kitchen table, naked but for the towel on your shoulders, with your black coffee right on the table. The lights are off. 

The window's open.

Tokyo moves like a storm outside.

You take another sip. 

The bitterness coats your tongue,

.

Your apartment again in four days, pressing the bud of your cigarette against the ashtray,

It's 2:36 a.m. 

Something is wrong.

The phone is ringing. 

Not your personal line. 

Not even your encrypted one.

The black phone.

The one that doesn't ring unless someone is dead or about to be.

You pick it up.

"Yes."

No name. 

No greeting.

"Turn on NHN," says a voice. Male. Tired. Frantic.

Click.

You turn on the television. Channel 1. Live news.

'huh'

The new broadcasting was switched, the background was busy, people frantically moving,

"We would like to apologize for the interruption. As of now, we are bringing you a live worldwide broadcast of the ICPO." A brunette newscaster spoke, his hands filled with papers, shuffling, then the switch to a new broadcast, this time of a black-haired man in a suit. His expression was angry, or more monotone.

Lind L Tailor

'What is going on?' you mumbled,

Then he started talking, "I am Lind L. Tailor, the only person able to mobilize the entire world's police. Also known as L"

'L?'

You almost smirked, taking out a cigarette from the box, slipping it into your lips,

"There has been a string of serial killings targeting criminals. This has been a string of serial killings targeting criminals. This is the most atrocious act of murder in history, and it will not go unpunished. I will definitely catch the one behind the murders, commonly known as 'Kira'"

'Interesting,' you mumbled, flicking your lighter near the bud of the cigarette.

"Kira, I have a pretty good idea of your motive and why you're doing this. But what you're doing is evil."

"Seriously, lecturing  a murderer on live television, what shitary." You inhaled the nicotine from your cigarette, then blew it out from your lips.

Then, just in five seconds, the man held his chest, his body moving frantically, choked sounds coming from his mouth, and then fell on the table. 

Died, you watched as men took the body away, then the screen changed again, a white screen with the only letter 'L' in script.

A heavily altered voice came out, "This is unbelievable. I had to check to be sure. Who would've thought it could be true?  Kira, it seems you can kill people without direct contact. I couldn't believe it until I witnessed it with my own eyes. Listen to me, Kira.."

"If you just killed the man on-screen, Lind L. Tailor,  you just killed a man who was due to be executed today. That wasn't me...the man was secretly captured by the police. It wasn't broadcast on television or the Internet. It seems that even you couldn't get information on him."

"But I, L, do exist!"

"So come on. Try and kill me..What's wrong? Go on!"

the fuck.

"KIRA"

It's what they're calling him now. 

The public. 

The press. 

The scared little online theorists and conspiracy junkies who've never seen real death, but love to talk about it.

Kira. 

From the Japanese pronunciation of "killer."

You find it childish. But you understand.

People name the things they fear.

You've seen the online forums. Watched the birth of a cult in real time.

A god of justice. 

A divine punisher.

The people are eating it up. Worshipping the deaths.

Worshipping him.

You finish the whiskey in your glass. You don't usually drink. But tonight feels different.

The music in your apartment is low. Classical. Something obscure and slow. You sit in your reading chair, strip down to your underwear, legs crossed, arms folded, jaw tilted.

Thinking.

Planning.

You've tracked cartel bosses across continents. Brought down sleeper agents in Moscow. But this?

This is new.

A ghost that kills without touching. Without even knowing the faces.

Just names.

Just faces.

Just intent.

You reach for your files and flip through the paperwork again. All the deaths. All the confirmed cases. All the maybe-kiras, the probably-nots, the victims, and the sinners.

You realize something.

There are no innocents.

None of the dead were clean.

That's the part that chills you.

This isn't revenge.

It's judgment.

You whisper to the empty room

"And what gives you the right?"

The air doesn't answer.

But something in your blood does.

    " 罪 "

Chapter Text

SERIAL MURDER  ── SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS HQ

''

The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, flickering once before settling into their usual pale glow. 

The room is cold—colder than it should be, the kind of cold that seeps through skin and into bone. It smells like printer toner, old coffee, and the slow burn of exhaustion.

Dozens of agents sit at folding chairs and metal desks, bathed in the sterile glow of CRT monitors. The clack of keys is constant. So is the rustle of paper, the dry turning of pages thick with data no one knows how to process yet. They aren't speaking, not really. Just murmurs. Low. Uneasy. The kind of silence that pretends it isn't afraid.

You're standing in the far corner.

Not sitting.

Not reading.

Watching.

The only woman in the room. The only one in black.
Turtleneck, jeans, glasses reflecting the overhead lights. Still as a photograph.

The air around you doesn't move. It doesn't dare.

They know who you are.

They know what you've done.

And lately, they don't know where your loyalties fall.

You glance at the whiteboard. Someone scrawled the word KIRA across the center in thick red marker. Below it: the known death patterns. Threads that don't connect. Murders that shouldn't make sense—but do.

A digital clock on the wall reads

  2:46 a.m.

And no one's gone home.

Not tonight.

"Alright, let's start with the tipline reports."

"Yes, sir- Up to this point, we have received 3,029 responses about the murders via telephones and emails. Most of these are from curious citizens or prank calls, but there are 14 people who claim to either know Kira or have seen him."

All bullshit, you crossed your arms as you watched as he read off his report, 

"All 14 accounts were followed up and carefully documented, however, nobody could provide any information that wasn't already publicly available, and lastly, this week, there were an additional 21 people who called in claiming  to be Kira...we didn't want to rule anything out so we follow standard procedure and create files for all 21 of them"

The lead investigator hums. "Uh-huh. Alright, onto the victim reports."

"Upon further investigation, we have confirmed the confirmation of the heart attack victims was in fact publicly available in Japan immediately prior to their deaths─"

You check your watch.

2:59 a.m.

You've seen this before. The early phase. When fear is still academic. When everyone talks like this is just another case—like this Kira person is flesh and blood and breakable.

But you can feel it.

Something in your gut.

This isn't a person.

This is a force.

You unfold your arms, looking at the computer, with the cursive 'L' in the middle of the white screen,

And then the voice.

Mechanical.

Layered in distortion.

Low, slow, and utterly devoid of warmth.

"─That information is extremely relevant; it suggests that, given the time of death, our suspect could very well be a student."

The effect is immediate.

A shift. A weight is dropping across the room.

You can feel it—the change in air pressure, the instinctive silence that falls when people realize they're no longer dealing with the expected. They lean forward. As if proximity will clarify what their brains refuse to fully grasp.

A student.

That lands heavier than expected.

You look across the room. Most of the agents glance at one another. Furtive. Unsure. Searching for someone else to tell them what this means.

But not him.

Mr. Soichiro Yagami, the head of this task force, is glued to the screen. His posture rigid, spine straight despite the weight of hours without rest. 

You track the microexpressions in his jaw, the slight flinch in his brow.

His focus sharpens.

Too sharply.

Your eyes narrow just a little.

"Hm."

You let the sound slip out like breath, like steam curling off a boiling point.

Mr. Yagami doesn't look at you, but he knows. He must know. The moment you made that sound, his knuckles whitened on the table's edge.

Still, he says nothing.

Just watches.

Listens.

As if trying to memorize L's voice.

Or compare it to one he's heard before.

You take a step forward.

Silent.

Measured.

Your boots echo faintly on the tiled floor, crisp in the quiet, sharp enough to turn a few heads.

"Based on the fact that Kira is only killing criminals, I think it's safe to assume that he is driven by a very ideological notion of justice, it's highly possible he may even aspire to be some kind of godlike figure, we're dealing with a individual with a very childish concept of right and wrong"

Your eyes flickered back at the computer screen, 

'student, hm.."

The syllable flicks off your tongue like a knife unsheathing.

Of course. The kind of conviction Kira operates with—it's too naive to belong to someone seasoned by consequence. It smells of youth, arrogance, and delusion.

A boy with a god complex.

That narrows it down more than L will admit.

"Of course, this is mere speculation at this point, but still, I recommend you reexamine any assumptions you made, whether or not our suspect could be a student──you must consider every possibility, I believe that is the shorter route in finding and arresting Kira..."

Your gaze shifts again, this time scanning the rest of the task force. Most have fallen into a kind of reverent silence. 

─ "Please continue with your report."

Mr. Yagami cleared his throat, "Alright. Does anyone else have something they want to add?"

"Yes, sir" 

Your head turns slightly at the sound. The voice is unmistakable.

Matsuda.

He stands a little too quickly. The chair behind him screeches faintly, earning a few looks. You arch a brow, intrigued.

A little awkward man.

Hmm. You enjoy those types, don't you?

"What is it, Matsuda?"

"Um, well, I'm not saying this to support Kira or to condone murders, but in the last few days and around the world, especially in Japan, we have observed a dramatic decrease in the amount of violent crimes committed."

That earned a sharp exhale from one of the older detectives. Another groan follows.

You're already grinning.

Not the playful kind.

The interested kind.

The kind you wear when something sharp and stupid catches your attention in just the right way.

"Well, I suppose it makes sense, we suspected something like that would happen- anything else?" Mr Yagami said, 

"No," Matsuda says, sitting back down.

Then you turn your body, languid, deliberate, toward him. One hand slips into your pocket, the other lifts to push your glasses further up your nose. Your voice cuts across the silence like silk-wrapped steel.

"Matsuda."

He looks up too quickly.

"Yes?"

"Don't ever apologize for paying attention to results," you murmur, voice low, voice like midnight poured into a glass. "When the number of dead criminals starts to shrink, it means more than someone playing god. It means someone listened. Even if for the wrong reasons."

He blinks.

You step closer.

"I find it important."

Another blink. His cheeks color faintly. You almost laugh.

"I mean, yeah... I just didn't want to seem like I was agreeing with what Kira's doing—"

"Mmm. But you are." You tilt your head, the barest smirk on your lips. "At least a little."

He opens his mouth to object, but you wave a dismissive finger in the air like you're painting over the moment.

"Relax," you purr. "You're not the only one. Fear works. Especially when no one else does."

Matsuda shifts awkwardly in his seat, coughing once, eyes darting away like a schoolboy who's been caught thinking too loudly.

You turn back toward the screen, boots clicking again as you pace into the center of the room's glow.

The smirk fades from your lips, slowly, replaced by something more clinical.

"Well, that about sums up our report for today, L?" Mr Yagami spoke up, 

"Thank you, everyone, we are one step closer to finding Kira"

You don't believe that. Not yet.

But the voice continues, unwavering

"Before I go, I'm afraid I have one additional request to make, 

—This is directed towards the teams investigating the victims, TV, news, and the internet. I would like you to go back and take a closer look at the exact way the victims' identities were made public"

A few agents shuffle papers.

"I would like you to go back and take a closer look at the exact way the victims' identities were made public. Be as thorough as possible. In particular, I want to know if photographs of the victims were made available to the public in Japan."

The final line sits heavy in the air.

A slow dawning realization creeps into the room like smoke.

If Kira needs faces...

If he needs names...

Then someone is feeding him both.

A leak? Or something deeper?

You glance at the board. The victim list stretches across it in messy red ink and thumbtacked profiles. You trace them mentally—news clippings, mugshots, press releases.

If he's watching everything...

Then the question isn't how he chooses.

It's who taught him how.

"I leave it to you," L finishes. 

Static crackles.

Then silence.

The screen dims slightly. The letter remains.

No one moves.

You take a breath—quiet, shallow.

Then speak.

"Assume the victims weren't chosen randomly. Assume he saw them before they died."

Yagami frowns. "You're saying Kira's not just reacting—he's planning."

You glance at him sideways.

"I'm saying Kira studied this system before he killed his first man."

You pause.

"And I don't think he stopped."

Mr. Yagami rubs his temple, clearly exhausted.

"Alright. Let's reconvene tomorrow afternoon. L—thank you for your time."

"Of course. I will contact you again when I have additional data."

The call ends.

The white screen fades to black.

A low exhale passes through the room like a prayer no one dares to say aloud.

One by one, agents begin gathering their things.

You remain where you are.

Staring at the dead screen.

Thinking.

Matsuda lingers a moment behind his chair, looking like he wants to say something. You catch him in your peripheral.

"Don't stay up too late," you say softly, without turning. "Would be a shame if you went missing next, hm?"

His laugh is nervous. "W-Why would I go missing?"

You finally turn your head, look him dead in the eye.

Smile faintly.

"Because...there a killer on the loose, and you might just be next..matsuda"

He blinks.

You walk past him toward the exit, brushing his shoulder as you go.

Your hand grazes lightly down his arm, casual, fleeting.

Sinful.

"I like men who take risks," you murmur, lips nearly touching his ear. "But I prefer men who survive them."

And just like that, you're gone.

Into the corridor.

Into the dark.

Boots echoing.

Heart steady.

Mind already racing.

 " 罪 "

You weren't the one to banter, or to whine, or to argue

but you sure didn't like working late in this office, the talk of death making everything grim, most of the agents and men were scared, deservible so...who wouldn't be shitting your place with a unknown killer on the loose murdering globally, and without a trace but heartattacks and bodies as a trail.

You were just walking down the pavement, the cool air of Tokyo tickling your face as your boot echoed throughout the parking garage. You were fishing out your keys, and maybe a cigarette, you really need one, in less than 24 hours, at least 4 guys on the special police force quit from fear alone.

You tucked your hair to the side, as you leaned against your car and lit up a cigarette between your lips, sighing after inhaling the nicotine.

The glow of the cigarette burned faintly in the dim lighting of the parking structure, casting a dull orange reflection in your tired eyes. 

The exhale came slowly. 

Another body would be found by morning. That was inevitable.

Kira, they called him. Or her. Or it, depending on which spooked intern was whispering around the breakroom coffee pot.

You pulled the collar of your coat up tighter, cigarette dangling from your lips, and closed your eyes for just a second, letting the nicotine cut through the haze. You weren't one for dramatics, but the last meeting sat heavy in your chest.

"The deaths are clean," Matsuda had said, voice unusually quiet. "No signs of force. Just... blank faces. And terror. Like they saw something before the end."

The murders were 

 Cool. Detached. Cynical, 

heart attacks without spilling blood.

 You never lost sleep over a body, never, because why would you? 

This killer wasn’t following patterns. This killer was the pattern. And even though you never said it out loud, the thought kept curling around your throat like smoke:

Maybe this killer wasn’t human; that was a thought.

You threw the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with the heel of your boot.  Unlocking your car door, 

"Hell, what do I know?" 

    " 罪 "