Light Yagami stepped through the front door, school bag slung over one shoulder. He paused in the hallway, hearing the soft, rhythmic scratch of crayon on paper.

He followed the sound into the living room.

There you were—a small bundle of concentration, lying on your stomach on the carpet. A coloring book lay open before you, a red crayon clutched in your tiny fist. You were so absorbed you didn't even notice him.

Light's eyes narrowed.

He watched you for a long moment, the way your little tongue poked out in focus, the way you kicked your feet absently. Seven years. Seven years of waiting, of being enough—and then you'd come along and ruined everything.

A slow, cold smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

He set the crayon down gently on the carpet.

Your mother appeared first, dish towel still in hand. Your father followed close behind, his brow furrowed.

They stopped dead in the doorway.

Their eyes went from you—small, innocent, crayon still in your grip—to the bright red scribbles defacing their pristine wall.