You are absolutely right. A fresh look is needed. The previous ending broke the established rules of this new timeline and undermined the story's internal logic.
A funeral shroud of silence had fallen over the hotel suite, a silence far heavier and more profound than any that had come before. It was the silence of a dream that has ended, leaving the dreamer awake in a cold, unfamiliar room. The death of Connor, the betrayal of L, the grotesque, artistic horror of the hair-rope murder… these events had not just derailed the investigation; they had shattered the very reality upon which it was built.
Hercule Poirot, a man who had spent a lifetime imposing a meticulous, logical order upon the chaos of human evil, sat slumped in his armchair. His usual immaculate posture was gone, his shoulders bowed as if under an immense physical weight. He stared at his own reflection in the dark glass of a nearby screen, but the face that looked back was that of a stranger, a relic from a bygone era whose methods were as obsolete as a steam engine in an age of lightning.
Across the room, Sherlock Holmes stood by the window, his back to the others. He was not pacing. He was unnaturally still, a statue of pure, frustrated intellect. His mind, an engine designed to run on the fuel of logic and deduction, had been fed a diet of impossible paradoxes, and it had finally, irrevocably stalled. The chessboard was no longer just complex; it was unreadable, the pieces moving according to rules written in a language of madness that he could not comprehend.
Dr. Watson and Captain Hastings sat together on the sofa, a pair of old soldiers left behind on a battlefield where the very nature of warfare had changed. The shock had given way to a deep, weary ache in their souls. They had followed their respective geniuses into the heart of the 20th century's darkest puzzles, but this new century, this new kind of evil, was a labyrinth with no exit.
"I want to go home, Arthur," Watson murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost in the oppressive stillness. It was not a statement of cowardice or surrender. It was the simple, profound admission of a man who has found himself in a place so alien, so fundamentally wrong, that his very spirit yearned for the familiar comfort of his own world. Hastings could only nod in agreement, for he felt the very same sentiment echoed in his own heart.
It was Miss Marple, her knitting lying still and forgotten in her lap, who seemed the most lost of all. Her great strength had always been her understanding of human nature, but the nature of the men they were hunting now seemed to stretch beyond that definition. Her expression was one of deep, sorrowful confusion.
It was into this tableau of devastation that a new figure entered, unannounced. The door to the suite opened silently, and the white-haired boy known as Near stepped inside, flanked by two imposing, heavily armed FBI agents. His presence was so quiet, so devoid of ceremony, that for a moment, no one even registered his arrival.
He surveyed the room with his calm, unnervingly intelligent grey eyes, his gaze passing over the defeated detectives as a scientist might observe a failed experiment.
"I see you have been made aware of recent events," he said, his high, clear voice cutting through the gloom. The others looked up, their expressions a mixture of surprise and weariness. "The situation has, as you can see, become untenable under its previous command structure."
He took a step forward, a child commanding a room of legends. "My organization has been granted full jurisdictional authority over this case by the Japanese government and our own. The rogue agent known as L is now considered an international fugitive and the primary suspect in the murder of your colleague. I am here to inform you that the American task force will be taking the lead in apprehending him. We will, of course, require your full cooperation."
He was not offering to help them. He was informing them of their new reality. Amidst the shock of this quiet coup, Miss Marple's mind, ever the observer of small, missing things, drifted. Isabelle, she thought, a faint flicker of concern piercing through her fog of despair. Where has that dear girl gone?
Miles away, in the gleaming, anonymous restroom of a high-tech corporate building, Isabelle Dubois pressed a secure satellite phone to her ear, her other hand braced against the cold marble of the sink.
"Yes…" she whispered, her voice tight with a tension that bordered on reverence. "Ye-yes, sir… I'll get it done." She listened intently, her eyes wide. "Okay, sir… Apex Tokyo Industries… yes, it was secured. We have the backup." She took a shaky breath, her knuckles white where she gripped the phone. "Yes, I'll get the parts. Okay, sir." She ended the call, her body trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming gravity of her mission.
Light Yagami was in the living room, patiently explaining a particularly tricky algebra problem to his younger sister, Sayu. He was the perfect older brother, his voice calm, his explanations clear. It was in these moments of mundane domesticity that he felt most like a god, his serene, ordered intelligence a calming balm on the chaos of a lesser mind.
His phone buzzed. It was his father.
"Light," Soichiro's voice said, sounding even more tired than usual. "I need you to come down to headquarters. It's… the Americans. One of their agents has requested a meeting with you. They want to ask you some questions about L."
Light felt a familiar, cold thrill, a mixture of wariness and opportunity. "The Americans? Why would they want to talk to me?" he asked, his tone a perfect blend of surprise and dutiful concern.
"I don't know. They're not sharing much. Just get here as soon as you can."
Soichiro Yagami stood outside the small, sterile interview room, a deep frown etched on his face. This entire case was taking a terrible toll on him. L's betrayal, the horrifying murder of the heiress in Kyoto, the constant, grinding pressure… it was a weight that was threatening to crush him. And now this. The Americans, with their arrogant, commanding presence, were playing some sort of game with his son. He did not like it. He did not like it at all. As a matter of professional courtesy—and personal caution—he had spent the morning reviewing the personnel files of the key American agents who had arrived with Near. A good police chief always knows who he is dealing with.
Light arrived, his expression calm and composed as always. "Dad, what's this about?"
"Just answer their questions honestly, son," Soichiro said, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "This will all be over soon." He guided Light to the door and nodded to the man standing inside.
The man was tall and lean, with sharp features and sandy blond hair. He wore an expensive-looking suit and an FBI badge that identified him as 'Chris Walker.' He waved Light in with a practiced, easy-going smile.
Soichiro closed the door, leaving them to it. He stood in the corridor for a moment, a deep, troubled look on his face as he stared at the impassive door. He was a professional, trained to remember details, to see the things that do not fit. And something did not fit.
He replayed the image of the agent in his mind, and then compared it to the file he had memorized that very morning. The details of the official dossier scrolled through his memory with perfect, photographic clarity.
Agent Chris Walker. Height: 5'10". Build: Stocky. Hair: Dark Brown. Distinguishing marks: Faint scar on his left cheek.
The man in the room with his son was over six feet tall. He was slim. His hair was blond. And his face was completely unscarred.
Soichiro Yagami stood frozen in the quiet hallway, the blood slowly turning to ice in his veins. A cold, dreadful certainty settled upon him.
That man was not Agent Chris Walker.
What the he'll was Raye Penber doing here?