The sound of a beer can being slammed down echoed through the small apartment.
Grabbing another can, Wakamatsu Toshihide tilted his head back and chugged half of it in one go.
He let out a loud burp, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.
Beer still hits the spot.
He hadn't had nearly enough to drink at the party earlier. First, he'd tried to stay sober to make a good impression on Ran, and second, he simply never got the chance to indulge later.
"That bastard... What's so great about him, anyway?!"
He downed the rest of the can in one gulp, crushed it, and hurled it into the corner. It clanged off a pile of other empties with a sharp clatter.
Still fuming, Wakamatsu popped open another.
He had been so sure he'd win Ran over this time.
Even though she had shown no interest in him, Wakamatsu Toshihide had convinced himself she just didn't know him well enough yet. In his mind, he was the ideal man—tall, muscular, confident. The kind of guy women were supposed to like.
Those pretty-boy types? Just weak decorations.
He had always believed that persistence could break down any woman's resistance. Just keep pushing, keep insisting. He'd done it before.
But then that smug, condescending bastard Hayashi Yoshiki showed up.
The thought alone made his blood boil.
As he grabbed the remote to distract himself with the TV, a faint clicking sound made him freeze.
Wakamatsu paused, straining his ears.
The sound was coming from the front door—the keyhole, specifically.
Someone's picking the lock?
That sobered him up fast.
He remained still for a moment, then the lock suddenly rattled louder, as if the person outside was losing patience.
He jumped up and shouted toward the door.
But instead of leaving, the lockpicker's efforts only intensified.
Wakamatsu's skin prickled with tension.
Scanning the room, he spotted one of his heavier dumbbells lying amid the mess. He grabbed it.
And then the door creaked open.
Standing there was a man dressed entirely in black—shabby, forgettable. In his hand gleamed a silver knife.
Without a word, the man stepped inside.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?!"
Wakamatsu's voice cracked slightly. His eyes darted to the knife.
"Shut up and hand over all your money! Now!"
The man didn't hesitate. He charged forward with the knife.
Startled and furious, Wakamatsu hurled the 20-pound dumbbell. The man dodged—but now he was enraged. He lunged.
The blade flashed toward him.
Wakamatsu staggered backward, grabbed the nearest object and flung it. As the man deflected it, Wakamatsu seized the moment, throwing his massive frame forward to grapple the knife away.
The man slashed at him, grazing his arm. Blood beaded up.
But Wakamatsu, powered by adrenaline, ignored it. He locked both hands around the attacker's wrist and slammed his weight against him like a bear toppling prey.
"YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!"
The attacker roared, squirming and swinging wildly. He tried punching Wakamatsu's head, but the man barely flinched. Dazed, perhaps—but unrelenting.
With one mighty wrench, Wakamatsu pulled the knife from his opponent's hand.
Just as the attacker lunged again—
The blade drove into the man's abdomen.
Sticky warmth spread over Wakamatsu's hands.
He instinctively let go, backing up in alarm.
The man stumbled back, clutching his stomach.
"Hey… are you… are you okay?" Wakamatsu stammered, his voice trembling.
Under Wakamatsu's horrified stare, the man let out blood-curdling screams:
"SOMEBODY, PLEASE HELP ME—!!"
"I'M GOING TO BE KILLED!!"
Wakamatsu's heart stopped. The door was wide open. This was a first-floor unit. Thin walls. Neighbors are still awake.
Just as he rushed forward to shut the door—
The man yanked the knife from his own abdomen—
And plunged it into his throat.
A wet, gurgling noise escaped him.
He staggered, then collapsed on the floor.
But sometimes, living is worse. Time becomes torture. Moments stretch like years.
The Death Note is a tool to manipulate death.
But after extensive testing, Hayashi Yoshiki had discovered a more nuanced usage—one not directly involving killing.
Most people in modern society can't get away with murder. But if the Death Note could force a target to die at the hands of another, intentionally or through manipulation, the rest could be left to the police and justice system.
A chillingly effective trick.
At the corner of Beika-cho 6-chrome, under the faint glow of a vending machine, Hayashi Yoshiki stood with a soda in hand, watching flashing red-and-blue lights in the distance.
A crowd had gathered in front of the Nishizaki Apartments.
Room 203, he thought to himself with a subtle smile.
Another voice called out behind him:
"Hey, cutie. Alone tonight?"
A well-dressed office lady with styled hair sidled up to him with a smile.
"No, I came out with my girlfriend," he answered casually.
"Aww, she's not around, is she? Why don't we swap numbers—?"
"Sorry. Not interested."
He turned smoothly and walked away.
The crowd remained clustered near the building. Some peered through the security gate. Others murmured gossip or speculation.
Hayashi Yoshiki walked alone, flipping open his notebook as he stepped away.
He pulled out a small slip of paper.
> At 20:34 on the evening of February 14, he arrived at Nishizaki Apartment, 6-72, Beika-cho. After surveying the area, he selected Room 203 on the seventh floor as his target.
>Upon breaking in to rob it, he was confronted by the resident. During a struggle, he was stabbed in the abdomen with his own knife.
>He then screamed for help: "Help me!" "Wait! Spare me!" "Someone save me!" — finally, he committed suicide by stabbing himself in the throat with the same knife.
A soft flick of his lighter.
The paper caught flame.
Ash drifted into the wind.
Yokogawa Naoya had been one of the two targets Gin had assigned.
A known gang member. A proficient lockpicker. A disposable pawn.
All according to plan.