The Death Note.

A supernatural object used by the Shinigami to sustain their lives and their lifespans by extension, such a notebook was classed as a material salvaged from something unknown to the human mind; unknown to the human sciences and traditional scientific understanding with a capacity to never run out of pages regardless of how many names were written inside of it. The Death Note was activated whenever a human's name was written within it.

A human's name.

A multitude of human names were written within the notebook. Salvaged or unravaged, burnt or unburnt, the book was the icon weapon of a man who treaded the hallways of an unfamiliar, quintessentially bliss place with little origin to explain surrounding or reason for being.

A flexible notebook cursed to ruin the lives of those who touched it according to anecdotal wonders of the chronological film reel that ran through the mind of a familiar man with light brown hair and light brown eyes that switched modes quite frequently, a place known as Quindecim awaited the man. His above average height painted a silhouette on the walls as lanterns which lit up the long hallway he roamed help build a noticeable impression.

Greeted first by a fountain of water producing the sweet sound of a waterfall in the lobby as water cascaded down in edges, the man's memory persuaded him to think that this was a beautiful, foreseeable sight; a venture into a land with joys and heavens to come. The man wasn't deserving of such fate. In fact, quite the opposite. Not to be deceived or stunned by his ordinary yet above-average looks by those that were to look beyond his brown eyes which could darken in an instant, he was actually there for a specific set of reasons dictated by his decisions in a past life. A past life that he, coincidentally, remained unaware and aware about partially; only able to piece together subcomponents of the whole of the conscious mind which kept the body afloat. 

The conscious mind of the man scrambled for answers to explain the fragrance of an aroma which dispersed through the lobby with a temptation that could put even the most attentive of minds to rest. Donning a formal business attire, the man puffed out the collar of his attire, shaking his head before continuing to walk forward, slightly off-put by his surroundings. 

???: "Welcome to Quindecim."

A cordial, friendly voice said, pasty haired appearance accompanied with light blue, knowing orbs appearing in the long hallway as the young male who once roamed came to a stop.

Decim: "I happen to be your host. My name is Decim."

With an extended hand set forth, the bartender trailed forward, presenting the young man to the wonders of the lobby. The wonders of the bar-like setting were certainly captivating enough to provide a pleasing argument for the young man with destabilized memories; memories that couldn't quite be pieced together to follow, taking light steps, reluctance found in the unfamiliar surroundings. The young male went along, not quite familiar nor certain of his surroundings, finding the arrival of the figure to be quaint and unsound amidst all else more than the greetings he received earlier upon his arrival to the so-called location known as Quindecim. 

Decim: "Would you like a drink?"

???: "...No thank you." 

The relatively young male said back after turning to face Decim. Noticeably taller than he was with the accompaniment of unusual misty blue eyes of light blue categorization, the identification of the individual before him bore little familiarity among the scattered memories residing in his head. Seeing as how he was in a place he knew little about, he failed to see any harm in asking about his whereabouts, vague memories of his past or present clouding his conscientious mind.

Decim: "Well, make yourself at ease. Feel free to sit down. There's no rush."

Reluctantly abiding, the young male sat down on a stool.

???: "This place... Quindecim, is it? It's a strange place. When I found myself here, it was like waking up from some fever dream."

Decim: "Yes, yes. We're still unclear on how to deal with a guest as special as yourself."

Raising a brow, the male inquired as to what he meant.

Decim: "You are a very unique guest. I've been instructed for the meantime to have you wait for a Special Arbiter."

???: "...Special Arbiter? If I understand you well, you mean one who passes judgment on another. Is that correct?"

Decim: "...Yes. And I am an Arbiter, but of different purpose and kind. It would be impossible for me to weigh a verdict on you."

???: "Weigh a verdict on me?"

The individual paused for a moment. Using one of the mirrors melded into his surroundings, he gazed at himself.

Brown hair. Brown eyes. In his past life, he remembered breezing through the police foundation academy and becoming a member of Japan's information bureau very easily, registering as a beyond licensed detective. He could remember plodding days of Japanese high school; being at the top of his class without effort, but cramming excessively whenever exams came near. What he couldn't remember was how he got here. 

How he got to Quindecim. His last few memories; or the most recent memories he could remember before ending up in Quindecim was that he was running hard. Running like his life depended on it. Running to the point where he could feel his arms fundamentally malfunction; body floundering into a puddle of what felt like blood, metallic smell trailing as he seemed to watch the sunset during an attempted flee. Multiple calls for him to stop were sounded as it seemed he was being pursued. Passing stimuli of hallucinogens appeared, calling out to him, but he was unsure what they meant.

He couldn't even remember who he was. Who was he?

In a moment of realization, memories flooded back.

Memories such as the moment he graduated, making steps into college. But a strange, peculiar man; a slim, above-average height individual in particular, had been following him up the stage in the chronological film reel that played out in his mind. The peculiar man had bags around his eyes, implying a lack of sleep, and eerie, never-closing eyelids that appeared to never accumulate any sort of rust or harm to urge him to close them. Finding it unnerving, the young male tried to suppress the wave of memories which washed over him. 

As if guided by some psychosomatic impulse, the left arm of the young male began to pulse with pain, leaving an imprint of a dull ache which affected his upper arm. Initially trying to resist, he kept silent, not wanting to upset the delicate balance and peaceful quiet in the bar. He could hear vivid gunshots and yelling. A few memorable names started to breach the insides of his head, materializing whatever internalized stresses to external stress as the male was swept straight out from his position on the chair he resided on, gripping his arm. 

He could not resist the pain.

It felt like a stray bullet had hit him. The blue, cold and misty eyes of Decim found the male trying to suppress the pain in his arm by applying pressure from the hand, on the floor with his knees pressed against the ground as if he'd been shot. Decim didn't comment. Nonchalant, quiet, and uncommenting, the tall, slim and slender bartender with an opaque exterior started washing crystallized glassware in the sink of the bar while the young, unknown gentleman tended to the surface of his arm.

The memories were recent. Recent, cold, and brutal. Cold and brutal just like the afterthought and aftermath of death sweeping over him.

For an unspecified period of time, the male only remembered darkness obscuring his eyelids, entrapping him in a void of loneliness. A void of pain, eternal suffering, and external and internal pains ― or at least pains that felt real. However, he was being dishonest if he thought to himself it wasn't real ― or never happened at all at the very least. Self-contained dreams occurred; situations where he could see himself transpired. 

See himself.

In the mirror.

Cracked.

Not sure who he was, the male took another moment to take concern away from his arm, staring at the mirror blindly to recognize himself if not for a moment. Brown eyes, brown hair, and skin with chiseled, defined yet ordinary features, and the presence of pains which ran along the body gradually; psychosomatically wired to trauma of the past if he was sure upon further inspection in the mirror. He recognized this face before. The face which was an object of praise by many girls in his class as a high school and college student ― the face associated with a one-of-a-kind generational cram student who was at the virtual top of everything academically, constantly receiving exceptional exam scores. More than that ― someone who endured suffering, pain, and insomnia in the past from uncomfortable thoughts concerning a notebook.

A notebook.

The notebook.

That was it.

All he was missing.

The final piece amongst the cracked image of himself; the final shard to input into one of the numerous cracked frames to grant the magnum opus of understanding of self. Lost, doubtful, and confounded, the young male continued to intensely stare at his own reflection in the mirror, contemplating how what he could remember of his previous breathing moments running away from nothingness on a rooftop could correlate to any of what he suspected to be going on. 

And it came.

Sights, smell, touch, and sounds generated in a world he familiarized himself with yet had little emotional stake in resuscitated his self-awareness. Nerves fired and a message of self-identification; confirmation to take control was sent to the brain as his conscious mind was restored in its latest, renewed and purified form.

He was Light Yagami.

Son of Chief Director Soichiro Yagami.

Gifted student.

Prodigy.

A unit of an information bureau and well-respected figure; that was usually the norm wherever he went. A gifted, self-made and bright student who embodied the epitome of peak performance academically. More than that, he was stern on principles of justice and moral equity as well as balance.

Most importantly...

He was Kira.

God of the New World.