She just wished to thank everyone for the reviews, she was very appreciative of them.

She wishes to apologise for taking so long to update, and wishes to inform you that, like the other three chapters, this one is also unBETAed, but hopefully that will soon change, and she will repost the edited chapters.

Thankyou all for your patience.

And onwards.

Chapter Four. Yotsuba.

"Director," Misa-Misa announced imperiously, "Misa-Misa has a boyfriend now, so can we skip the love scenes?"

Matsuda sighed above the loud protests from the man the statement was directed at.

She had been doing this all day: Light wouldn't like this, and Light would get angry about that. She had even asked Ryuuga to change his hairstyle so that was more reminiscent of her beau's.

Matsuda had at first been mortified, and then a little amused at Misa-Misa's impetuous demands. He knew that if she were any less sought after, the Director would have dropped her in a flash, but, alas, she was a famous and very talented little actress, so they inevitably bent over backwards to please her.

They all did.

The portly man standing behind the camera (Matsuda couldn't remember his name for the life of him) was alternating between looking as if he were going to cry or as if he wanted to get very drunk.

The rail thin man behind him however looked as if he wished to wrap his fingers around Misa-Misa's pretty neck.

Matsuda rather hoped that he didn't, because he didn't think she would like that.

With half an ear he heard Misa-Misa informing them that they could pretend to kiss, and the Director's moan of despair, and although he wasn't actually looking that way, he could imagine Ryuuga's now customary look of horror and shock that seemed to appear every single time that Misa-Misa insinuated that she didn't seem inclined to fall head over heels for the most attractive man on television.

He was obviously not accustomed to it.

However, as trying as the shoot had been thus far, he found himself unable focus on it.

Unable to concentrate on the comings and goings of the others had resulted in him missing the designated lunch break, and having to sneak off for a snack. Misa-Misa had told him off already for his lack of diligence - at which he had apologised profusely.

However, something had been hovering over his consciousness for the entire day, rendering him a vague, distracted mess.

Well, it wasn't so much hovering over his conscious as belting it half to death with a large bat.

The gargantuan glass and metal monstrosity that was the main office of the Yotsuba Group was standing rather smugly, pretty much a hop, a skip and a jump away from where Matsuda stood, paper cup in hand. And what it lost in subtlety, it certainly made up for in sheer opportunity.

The entire group was working towards what could be in that building.

More specifically, Ryuuzaki was working towards what could be in that building.

The risky move he had executed more than a fortnight ago had flopped, and again Matsuda was of little to no use to Ryuuzaki, and contributed nothing to the team.

It wasn't just that he was overshadowed by the two young and unbelievably ingenious men (hell, they all were), but Mogi's thoroughness and the Chief's experience was leaving him looking more than a little lacking.

He found the things that he had relied on in the NPA – his earnestness, his lightheartedness and his ability to follow orders were worth nothing in the world he had naively gotten himself in to, and it was frustrating.

That building represented Ryuuzaki's desire, and therefore his, but was just out of reach.

Its cool perfection was mocking him, showing him exactly what he could have, and what was so impossible to achieve.

And so, with the night air sweet and cool and the paper cup of grossly sweetened black coffee (they had run out of milk) warm in his hands, Matsuda made a decision.

It was a Friday night, after all. The Chief had told them that the deaths that benefit Yotsuba were carried out on this night.

He could find something, he knew he could.

This was finally his chance to prove himself – his real chance!

He turned and ran, abandoning his flowery pink paper cup unthinkingly.

Security in Yotsuba's Tokyo office was pitiful, even more in comparison to Ryuuzaki's headquarters…but then again, why would it have needed to rival it?

Until very recently, the two were in entirely different ball parks.

Matsuda had no problems sneaking past the single security officer that guarded the complex, and apparently none of the vacant-eyed and tired looking employees found a formally dressed man they did not recognize out of place.

Still, he was worried.

His wanderings were largely unhindered, but he avoided their gaze's none-the-less and eventually found an elevator, a few flights up. A large group of men were walking in his direction, and anxious not to be noticed, the young officer hid himself in the adjacent hall and pressed himself surreptitiously against the wall opposite.

His stomach was turning in knots and threatening to purge what little he had eaten today all over the cheap industrial carpet, and he wondered if perhaps he should just sneak in behind the men, mingle in with them and just turn back?

But it was never really a serious thought.

He wanted to go through with this; he needed to go through with this: he would not turn back now, that he was half way there anyway, and there would be no point, no matter the risk.

However his mind appeared to be in league with his gut, because it chose at that moment to pointedly conjure up a dozen rather awful mental images of various tortures that he would be subject to if he were caught – all of them, funnily enough, carried out by a faceless man with glowing red eyes while Ryuuzaki laughed and told him he deserved it.

Hovering in the face of his indecision, Matsuda failed to notice the two men at the elevator until a gruff, gravelly voice doused his hyperactive anxiety with cold reality.

"…Another one tonight," It said, "It sucks."

The voice in question belonged to a man as husky as his vocals. His hair was a golden mat, long and thick, and his mustache was bristly.

Matsuda flattened himself tighter against the wall, as if it could somehow melt and envelop him inside of it.

"At least it is the end of the week," The other man was saying.

He was a man as pale as his partner was ruddy, as clean cut as the other was rugged. His hair was dark, and his porcelain chin oversized.

"If these 'Secret' meetings kept us late on a Monday, I'd be too depressed to go to work."

Matsuda's heart stopped.

His entire being flooded with hope as heady as the most potent sake.

Secret meetings? Bingo!

If he was game enough, he would have done a little victory dance.

He heard more than saw the elevator shut, silencing the soft chuckles and he darted out. His heart had not only started beating again, but had come back with a vengeance, pounding in eagerness as he watched the floor numbers light up individually, going up and up and up.

Finally it rested at nineteen.

The nineteenth floor!

He turned and pelted towards the stairs.

He ran until his chest burned and his breath was coming in gasps. His legs were throbbing; the muscles shrieking on protest but he did not even think to rest.

His mind was egging him on, fuelling him with wonderful thoughts: of Ryuuzaki's smile and praise when he offered him the one piece of information that led them to Kira. Of how he would perhaps wrap his slender arms around Matsuda, or kiss him, and Matsuda was elated and he couldn't stop until he gave the black haired man what he needed, so that maybe, just maybe, he would notice Matsuda again.

Like he did when he was kneeling between his thighs, and even just before that, when Matsuda had told him he could help and it was like Ryuuzaki were seeing him for the first time.

And After a decade, a century, an aeon he was there, he was on the floor - the nineteenth floor - and he allowed his body to take in huge gulps of sweet air.

He rested his hands on his aching thighs as his wheezes eventually calmed to pants and his heart ceased its desperate attempt to escape his ribcage until and only then was he calm enough to take in his surroundings.

Floor nineteen was opulent; rich maroon carpet sprawled underfoot luxuriously, and the large double door that faced him with practiced ease was functionally carved but obviously overpriced wood.

Two corridors branched off either side, like the wings of a well groomed condor.

It was obvious that the room behind this door was the one that was holding whatever private dalliance that the two were apart of.

Excited beyond belief, he found it hard to approach the door with caution, but he took care to be as silent as possible as he pressed the delicate shell of one ear against the warm heavy surface.

At first he heard nothing but his own breathing and the murmur of indistinct voices, muttering that eventually became discernable and turned in to words like "Stock prices," and "Kill," and "Kira," and his heart was in his mouth and his breathing was hard and heavy and his blood rushed madly through him in rabid victory because he had proof – tangible proof –

And then he was falling…His hands no longer scaled grooved wood but flew gracelessly through the air and hit thick, rough carpet and it wasn't victory coursing through his veins anymore but cold, unadulterated fear that oozed like sludge.

The room that he was sitting in was done entirely in grey, as if the colour had been bled out of it.

The small sofa that he was perched on like an antsy bird was rough beneath his sweaty palms, and before him, the granite table held all of the effects that had been on his person – numerous business cards, a notepad and pen, his wallet and his mobile phone.

These had all been retrieved during a very embarrassing and very personal search of his body and his clothing.

Of the two men instructed to keep a watch on him, he thought he recognised the dark haired man as the man from the elevator, but the other, the one with white blonde hair and frown lines, was unfamiliar.

He had determined from the almost inaudible conversation between then earlier that the general consensus was that he was not a spy, but the sick feeling in his stomach reassured him that the other men were discussing his surely horrible fate anyway.

"I hope you consider Misa-Misa," He told them, mostly to break the thick, terrifying silence, with only a passing thought to the need to keep up the act.

He found himself running his hand through the hair at the base of his skull – his mother had done it as a child to soothe him, and he found that it had become pretty much standard behaviour when he was nervous or scared.

Old habits die hard.

He found himself frantically worrying if the emergency button was working, and even if it was would Ryuuzaki even bother to save him? It wasn't as if he was contributing to the group, or as if he were useful in any way and slowly despair as much as fear seeped through him, but even more his sense of determination – he would try to get out of this one alone, if Ryuuzaki wasn't going to assist and –

His thought was cut short as a rather ghastly tune broke the silence, and he realised belatedly that it as his phone, and Misa-Misa had changed his ring tone so that they could have matching songs.

He was told to answer it, so he did, and the voice, although speaking in an odd undulating manner, was Ryuuzaki's and it was achingly familiar, and hope melted his fear away like butter, leaving only his relief and his determination behind.

He held the phone out so that his captor's could hear, as instructed.

"It's me, Asahi," Ryuuzaki informed him, and asked him questions as to whether he was home, and whether he was alone, and Matsuda answered in the affirmative to both, because 'alone' must refer to Misa-Misa, and then Ryuuzaki invited him out for a drink, which Matsuda declined, and Ryuuzaki asked if his wallet were in a pinch, to which Matsuda stopped.

A pinch?

And then he laughed, a nervous laugh, and answered that yes, his wallet was in a big pinch, and then he said "You know me," and it was an apology and an explanation at the same time, but Ryuuzaki dismissed it and hung up.

It was with new resolve that he met the gazes of the men before him.

"So, about Misa-Misa?"

And so their verbal sparring match began, and eventually the blonde man relented, and Matsuda was able to call Misa-Misa to arrange a meeting.

She was dressed to wow, and wow she did.

Her adorable – and very revealing – outfit was pink and white, and she chattered at the eight men charmingly, but he doubted that any of them actually heard a word she said.

He could hear murmured approval between them, and he smiled at them all winsomely, but they paid him less heed than a sack of rice, until she turned to him and said;

"The people at the office approved putting on the special business welcome for Yotsuba."

And of course he had no idea what she was on about, but he played along.

In the end, they were all carted to an expensive room in a nearby hotel where numerous women as beautiful as Misa-Misa greeted them.

"This evening, all of the girl's from the Production Company are here!" She informed them, and urged them in to comfortable slippers and just as comfortable cream seats that faced tables laden with food while the horde of beauties poured them sake and flirted prettily.

He wished that it was under a different circumstance that he was there, because he wanted to enjoy himself, and to flirt a little even though the women were out of his league.

But he couldn't, not with his impending death surrounding him like a black fog, so the sake he drank was to supply him with bravado and not to savour, and the women that giggled and chirped were not approached.

While the men from Yotsuba were occupied with cleavage and sushi, he slipped Misa-Misa's pretty pink phone into his pant pocket (They had not returned his) while its many charms clacked and said to nobody in particular, "I'm going to the bathroom."

He kept up the façade of calm collectiveness up until he shut the door, and then he ran down the hall as if the hounds of hell were at his heels and locked himself in the toilet, pulling out Misa's little pink flip top and dialing as he went.

"Ryuuzaki, are you watching?" He demanded in to the phone, and his voice sounded a little high in his own ears.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry…" He tried to say, "…I"

"That doesn't matter now," Ryuuzaki told him, and Matsuda didn't know whether he was trying to be reassuring, but it deepened rather than assuaged his sense of guilt.

"These eight people were having a meeting to decide whom Kira will kill," He said instead, "I heard them!"

And he held his breath and waited for the words that he needed.

"…Is that so?" Ryuuzaki asked thoughtfully, and Matsuda faltered a little.

"But if you heard them," he continued, oblivious, "They're going to want to kill you."

And his heart fell two floors.

Those words were going to remain unsaid, and he knew it for certain, and somehow that hurt more than the idea that he may die very soon could.

"I thought so," He was unable to keep his voice neutral - he just hoped that it was assumed that it was for a different reason.

"Is there no way to save me?"

There was. But as Ryuuzaki told him exactly how he had to survive that night, he felt as if perhaps it would be easier to just face the music.

It was crazy, and risky. In the time he had been in the Police force he had never attempted a stunt such as this.

Funnily enough, he never questioned Ryuuzaki's words: if the detective said it would work, it would, and so he went, blind in his own trust.

The rest of the night passed in a vague haze for Matsuda, flashing by him in a whirl of colour and voices and cold, cold air. He remembered it, but it was as if it were a dream, a terrifying dream that he did not wish to be a part of, but was.

He remembered Misa-Misa shouting words of encouragement, but he didn't know for sure whether she actually knew what was going on, or whether she was just haphazarding a guess, and his cheerful, slurred chatter while the others cried out in dismay.

Showtime indeed.

And then he allowed himself to slip, and he could feel the icy wind cutting past him like a blade and then it was gone, the mattress lumpy and hard beneath him, and as he recovered from the shock of it all and sat up, he buried his face in his hands.

He was out of danger, he was safe. Ryuuzaki had saved him, but still he felt no relief. Ryuuzaki had not approved of what he had done. He had done it for Ryuuzaki, and the detective had not even said thankyou.

A warm hand covered his right shoulder and he turned; his heart disbelieving and yet hopeful, but his eyes met with the calm, steady gaze of the Chief.

And The Chief nodded, once, and it wasn't Ryuuzaki, but it made him feel better anyway.

A black car, not cheap but not expensive, perfectly non descript purred softly along equally black tarmac. It was the kind of car nobody would really look twice at, because almost half of the cars in Tokyo were that precise make and colour.

"So why am I staying there?"

He had to lean forward to speak to the Chief, because he was in the back seat. He was a little miffed that he couldn't ride shotgun, but had not complained too much. However, being in the back seat meant he had to stick his head right forward in the gap of the front seats to talk to the Chief, and then he could only see him on profile anyway.

"Because you are supposed to be dead," Matsuda noticed that the older ex policeman's mustache ruffled when he spoke. "You can't be seen in your apartment, or anywhere else for that matter, otherwise people would get suspicious."

He hadn't thought of that.

He sighed. "Oh, but this is annoying," He whined, "What about all my things?"

The Chief's eyebrow twitched a little, and Matsuda wondered whether he should point it out and suggest that perhaps his Chief go see a doctor, because it seemed to do it a lot, but then realised that he might be sensitive about it. So instead, Matsuda flopped back in the seat and looked out the window.

Not that he could see anything.

The window tint was so dark that he was certain that it was illegal - and being an ex police officer, he would know.

"Watari will have them retrieved," He said finally.

Despairingly, Matsuda wondered whether or not he could find the old man to tell him about his niece's artwork on the fridge - he was very fond of them, and didn't want the dozens of pictures of oddly coloured cats and her "Uncle Matsi" lost or heaven forbid accidentally destroyed.

He bit his lip in worry, and the Chief seemed to take a little pity on him, because he said, "They won't leave anything behind. And I imagine that Watari, having been Ryuuzaki's ward for so many years, understands very well the meaning of privacy."

That was true; Matsuda felt better.