Marvel: Familia System

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Walking the streets of Hell's Kitchen, Lawliet couldn't shake the strange sense of déjà vu that had settled over him. The tall buildings looming overhead cast deep shadows that clung to the alleys, creating pockets of darkness where the city's secrets thrived. It wasn't Tokyo, but it might as well have been. Crime didn't change just because the scenery did.

He moved quietly, his steps nearly silent on the cracked pavement. The city was alive with noise—honking horns, distant sirens, the murmur of conversations—but beneath it all, there was a tension he recognized well. This was a place where the night swallowed the weak, where justice had to be pulled from the clutches of those who would rather it remained hidden.

As he walked, Lawliet's sharp eyes scanned his surroundings, noting the details that most would overlook—the flicker of movement in an alleyway, the glint of metal from a fire escape, the faint trail of cigarette smoke drifting from a shadowed doorway. It was all familiar, a grim echo of the world he had left behind. The life and name he left behind… He was known as Lawliet, not "L," not the world's greatest detective anymore. Just another man in the city, blending in with the night.

His destination was a small, nondescript building, its windows darkened and its entrance unmarked. It was the kind of place that thrived in Hell's Kitchen, where people came and went without leaving a trace. Lawliet approached the door, his hand pausing just before he knocked. He wasn't sure what he expected from this new world, but he knew one thing for certain—he wasn't here by chance.

The door creaked open before his knuckles could touch the wood, revealing a dimly lit hallway that stretched back into shadows. A figure stood just inside, their features obscured by the darkness. Lawliet stepped inside without hesitation, his senses immediately adjusting to the shift in light.

"Welcome," the figure said, his voice low and smooth. It was impossible to tell whether he were friend or foe, but Lawliet didn't care. He had long since learned that in his line of work, everyone was both until proven otherwise.

He nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes already scanning the room for anything out of place. The figure gestured for him to follow, leading him down the narrow hallway to a door at the end. It opened into a small room, barely furnished with a table, a couple of chairs, and a single dim lamp that cast long shadows on the walls.

"Have a seat," the figure offered, stepping back to allow Lawliet to enter first. He did so cautiously, his mind cataloging every detail of the space—every potential escape route, every object that could be used as a weapon.

As he sat down, the figure remained standing, his face still hidden in the dim light. "You're here to investigate," he stated rather than asked.

Lawliet didn't bother to confirm. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. "I am," he replied simply.

The figure moved closer, finally stepping into the light. It was a man, tall and lean, with a face that bore the marks of someone who had seen too much. His eyes were sharp, calculating, and Lawliet could see that this man was not easily fooled. 'Law officer.' He guessed easily.

Lawliet tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, a subtle rhythm that betrayed his craving for something sweet. It was a small indulgence he missed—one of the few comforts he'd relinquished when he gave up the title of "L." Now, here in Hell's Kitchen, there was no room for such luxuries. 

The man before him watched in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Lawliet's every move. The detective's gaze was sharp, cutting through the dim light to fix on the man with an intensity that could make anyone uneasy.

"How long has it been since the last incident?" Lawliet asked, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather, though the weight of the question was anything but light. Light, he hated that word.

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking to the shadows in the room as if searching for answers. "A few weeks," he finally responded, his voice low. "Maybe a month. It's hard to keep track."

Lawliet nodded slightly, his expression giving nothing away. "And before that?"

"Longer," the man replied, his hands fidgeting slightly at his sides. "Months, maybe. But when it happens… it's like everything else fades. You only remember the fear."

The detective's fingers stilled on the armrest, his mind piecing together the fragments of information. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to signal that he was listening intently, but not enough to break the barrier of detachment he maintained.

"Did you see anything—any details that stood out?" Lawliet's voice was calm, designed to draw out information without causing the man to retreat into himself.

The man shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. "It's all a blur. Like trying to recall a nightmare after you wake up. You know it was real, but the details slip away."

Lawliet remained silent for a moment, letting the words hang in the air. It was a familiar story, one he had heard countless times in his previous cases. Victims who couldn't recall the faces of their tormentor, who were left with nothing but a vague sense of dread. But this wasn't just any criminal—it was someone who left an imprint so deep that even memories were tainted.

"You mentioned fear," Lawliet continued. "Was it fear of the person… or something else?"

The man's eyes darkened, his breath hitching slightly. "It was… overwhelming. Not just fear—helplessness. Like I had no control over myself, no matter how much I tried to fight it."

Lawliet's gaze sharpened, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he processed this new piece of the puzzle. "You felt like you were being controlled?" His question was pointed, the tone deliberate.

The man's reaction was immediate—his hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening as he nodded. "Yeah… no, not exactly like that. I couldn't stop myself from doing what… what he wanted but ideas became mine?"

Lawliet's eyes narrowed slightly. He had suspected something along these lines, but the confirmation solidified his theory. This wasn't just a man terrorizing Hell's Kitchen—this was something much more insidious.

"You never saw his face?" Lawliet asked, his tone neutral, masking the intensity of his interest.

"No," the man whispered, the word almost a confession. "It's like… it's like my mind won't let me remember. But I know he was there. I felt him."

Lawliet leaned back, processing the information carefully. This wasn't a typical case—this was a predator who knew how to manipulate not just actions, but thoughts and memories. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but there was still so much he didn't know.

The man fidgeted again, the silence growing heavy between them. Lawliet could sense the man's growing anxiety, the way his eyes darted to the door as if considering escape. But there was nowhere to run—not from this.

"Who else knows?" Lawliet asked, his voice softer now, less an interrogation and more a gentle nudge.

The man swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Not many. People don't talk about it. They're too scared. The few that do… they're not around for long."

That last sentence hung in the air like a death sentence. Lawliet didn't need to ask what the man meant—he knew. Those who spoke out were silenced, one way or another.

"You came to me," Lawliet said, his tone even. "Why?"

The man looked up, his eyes filled with fear and desperation. "Because you're not like the others. You… you might be able to do something. To stop him."

Lawliet's eyes narrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "Why you? The previous victims never had repeated encounters. He either wouldn't release you, or he wouldn't come back. This doesn't fit his pattern." He already guessed why, but wanted to confirm his theory.

The man clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as he bit back the frustration and fear that had clearly been festering inside him for far too long. His gaze dropped to the floor, and when he finally spoke, his voice was laced with bitterness. "It's because of my job."

Lawliet remained silent, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before he responded. "Your job?"

The man looked up, meeting Lawliet's gaze with a hardened expression. "I'm a detective. I've been working in Hell's Kitchen for years, and I've seen a lot of things that most people wouldn't believe. But this… this is different."

Lawliet's mind began to work quickly, piecing together the information. A detective. As he guessed. It wasn't just about fear or helplessness—this was about control, about power. The man before him wasn't just another victim; he was someone who had likely been getting too close to something—or someone—who didn't want to be found.

"And you think that's why he keeps coming after you?" Lawliet asked, his tone probing.

The man nodded, a slight tremor in his hands betraying the calm he was trying to project. "I've been investigating this for months, trying to find a pattern, a connection between the victims. Every time I get close, something happens. Files go missing, witnesses disappear… and then he shows up. It's like he knows every move I make."

Lawliet tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, his mind working through the possibilities. "He's keeping tabs on you," he said, more to himself than to the man. "He's not just targeting random people—he's targeting you because you're a threat to him."

The man's jaw tightened, and he let out a bitter laugh. "A threat? I don't feel like much of a threat when he's inside my head, making me do things I don't want to do. No, making me want things I wouldn't want to do."

Lawliet's gaze sharpened. "But you're still here. He hasn't broken you, not completely. That means he's either toying with you, or there's something else he wants."

The man slapped the table with a sudden burst of frustration. "He's not toying with me!" He took a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself. "He knows I need to show up regularly, or people will start asking questions. When he's in our heads, we're not ourselves. We move differently, speak differently—it's like we're puppets. And a detective acting like that in the station? It would raise alarms. He knows that."

Lawliet's gaze remained steady, unflinching as he absorbed the man's outburst. The man's description of the unnatural behavior—the glazed eyes, the strange movements—aligned too perfectly with the idea of mind control. Whoever this was, they weren't just instilling fear; they were manipulating their victims down to the last detail, ensuring they didn't draw too much attention. This wasn't just about power; it was about precision.

"You're saying he's careful," Lawliet said, his tone flat, as if he were merely stating a fact. "He doesn't want you to be noticed. He's using you, but he's also protecting his anonymity."

The man nodded, the tension in his posture still evident. "Exactly. If I start acting too strange, people will talk. They'll investigate, and that's the last thing he wants. But he's also making sure I can't do my job properly. It's like he's walking a tightrope, keeping me just functional enough to avoid suspicion."

Lawliet tapped his fingers against the table, his mind racing through the implications. This was a methodical approach, one that required an intimate understanding of how people worked—how far they could be pushed before they broke, how to maintain control without slipping up. It was the work of someone who was not just powerful but calculating, someone who knew the stakes and played the game with an unnerving level of skill.

"He's keeping you on a leash," Lawliet observed, his voice low but firm. "You're not just a target—you're an asset. But one he's careful not to lose."

The man's eyes darkened, and he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I've tried everything to get him out of my head. But it's like fighting against a tide—you know you're going to lose, but you have to keep trying. Because if you don't, you're not just dead—you're gone. Like you never existed. I will do anything to keep him out of my mind!"

Lawliet's gaze sharpened, his mind zeroing in on the man's words. The desperation, the fear—these were not just the reactions of someone being hunted. They were the reactions of someone who had already lost so much and was clinging to what little control he had left. But there was something else there too, something Lawliet had seen before in victims who had been pushed to the brink: a flicker of resistance, a will to fight even in the face of overwhelming odds or giving up on morals, betraying even self. Which one was it?

Lawliet's gaze shifted to the man's sleeves, noting the subtle tears in the fabric and the faint scars that peeked out from beneath. The cuts were deliberate, methodical—a pattern that suggested a form of self-inflicted control. The detective didn't need to ask; he knew. The man was trying to reclaim something of his own, a desperate attempt to prove to himself that his actions were still his own. It was a stark reminder that even the strongest wills could be broken, twisted until they no longer recognized themselves.

'Self-inflicted,' Lawliet concluded silently. 'He's trying to convince himself he's still in control, still the master of his own body. But the truth is, he's just as trapped as the others—maybe more so.'

The man noticed Lawliet's eyes on his sleeves and instinctively tugged at them, pulling the fabric down to cover the scars. There was a flicker of shame in his eyes, quickly masked by a hardened expression, but Lawliet caught it. The man's need for control had driven him to the point where harming himself was the only way he could assert his will against the invisible force that had taken hold of his mind.

Lawliet didn't mention the cuts, didn't even acknowledge them beyond that brief glance. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his voice steady, calm. "You're still fighting. That's more than most would do." He propped, leaning on the second option. 

The man's eyes met Lawliet's, and for a moment, the hardness in them changed to something else, guilt? It was only for a second then replaced by a flicker of gratitude. "What choice do I have?" he replied, his voice tinged with a bitterness that spoke of too many sleepless nights and too many battles lost within his own mind. "If I-if I don't, I'll lose myself completely. And I can't let that happen. I have to… I have to do it."

Lawliet nodded slightly, his mind already working through the implications. This wasn't just a case of someone exerting power over others—this was something far more dangerous. Whoever was behind this was playing a psychological game, one that left its victims questioning their own sanity. But Lawliet knew how to navigate such a battlefield. He had spent years unraveling the minds of criminals, and this would be no different.

"What do you remember about the last time?" Lawliet asked, his tone even as he returned to the matter at hand.

The man swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the memories themselves were too painful to face. "I remember... not wanting to go, but I went anyway. Like I was being pulled. And then... I was just there, standing in that place, doing things I didn't want to do. But it didn't feel wrong. It felt... inevitable."

The detective remained silent, processing the man's words. 'Compulsion,' he thought. 'A deep-rooted compulsion that overrides rational thought and will. This is more than just fear—it's a complete subjugation of the mind.'

In another world, Lawliet might have been baffled by the idea of a person being controlled so thoroughly—especially a detective who should be trained to resist manipulation. But in this world, such abilities were not just possible; they were becoming increasingly common. The more he learned about this place, the more he realized that nothing could be dismissed as mere fantasy. Mutants—or Neogenes, as they were now known—were capable of almost anything.

Lawliet leaned forward slightly, his posture still relaxed, but his gaze sharp. "Do you remember anything specific about the place where you were taken? Anything unusual about the surroundings?"

The man shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. "It's all a blur. It's like I'm there, but I'm not really seeing anything. Everything feels... distant."

Lawliet nodded slightly, absorbing the information. It was what he expected—whoever was controlling this man was not just manipulating his actions but also clouding his perception, ensuring that even if he remembered, the details would be too vague to be useful. It was a sophisticated method, one that spoke of a mind well-versed in the subtleties of psychological manipulation.

He asked a few more questions, probing for any fragment of information that might have slipped through the mental fog, but the man's answers remained the same—frustratingly vague and filled with half-formed memories that refused to solidify. Lawliet knew he wouldn't get much more out of him tonight.

Rising from his chair, Lawliet moved toward the door, his mind already shifting to the next steps. There was little more he could do here. He needed to gather more data, perhaps speak to others who had been affected, and start piecing together a profile of this unseen manipulator.

He paused at the door, turning back to the man. "Would you be willing to wear a device? Something that could alert me if you're controlled again?"

The man stiffened, a flicker of fear and shame crossing his face. "No," he said quickly, almost too quickly. "I can't... I don't want anyone knowing. I can't risk it."

Lawliet studied him for a moment, then nodded. He understood the man's reluctance. In his position, it would be a constant reminder of his vulnerability, a symbol of his loss of control. But it also meant Lawliet would have to find another way to track this.

"I understand," Lawliet said quietly, his voice devoid of judgment. "If you change your mind, you know how to reach me."

The man didn't respond, just nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor. The shame was palpable, and Lawliet didn't press further. He opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing softly in the quiet.

As Lawliet stepped into the dark alley, a sudden, unsettling presence washed over him—a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced. It wasn't just the usual feeling of being watched; it was something far more invasive, like tendrils of intent reaching into his mind, trying to grasp at the edges of his consciousness. It reminded him too much of that fateful encounter with the Shinigami, the unseen force that had led to his death in his previous life. But this was different—this wasn't death seeking him out. It was control.

For a split second, he felt the force pressing down, attempting to bend his will, to command his actions. But before it could take hold, a barrier—one he hadn't been aware of until this moment—flared up inside his mind, repelling the intrusion with a force that surprised even him. The presence recoiled, and the pressure eased, but the sense of danger lingered.

"Come with me." The voice was calm, almost soothing, yet beneath its smooth tone was an undeniable command.

Lawliet's mind raced, connecting the dots with the precision that had made him the world's greatest detective. The man inside the building—really betrayed his morals? Sold him out? The detective hadn't been under direct control, that much was clear from their conversation, but his vague responses, the shame in his eyes—had he made a deal with whoever or whatever was behind this? He already guessed it, but perhaps a little hope still burning inside of him wanted it to be false.

Lawliet didn't let his surprise show, his expression remaining as neutral as ever. He made no sudden moves, no signs of resistance. Instead, he allowed himself to slip into a blank, passive state, mimicking the behavior of those who had been truly controlled. He followed the command as if his will had been overpowered, his feet moving automatically as he walked deeper into the shadows.

The presence around him lingered, testing the boundaries of his mind. It was an odd sensation, like being under a warm, sticky blanket—comforting in a suffocating way, pressing in on him from all sides. But Lawliet's mind was a fortress, built from years of intense mental conditioning and honed by his experiences in another life. And the new mysterious barrier within him held firm, repelling the invasive influence even as he pretended to succumb.

He continued to move forward, his eyes dull, his body language that of a puppet on strings. Whoever was controlling him—or trying to—was skilled, but they had underestimated him. Lawliet knew how to play the long game, and right now, his best strategy was to let the enemy believe they had won.

The alley twisted and turned, the darkness deepening with each step. The faint glow of streetlights barely reached the edges of this place, leaving Lawliet in near-complete darkness. It was the kind of setting where most people would feel vulnerable, their senses straining to pick up any sign of danger.

He could feel the presence guiding him, like a leash tugging at his mind. It was subtle, almost gentle, but there was a sharpness beneath the surface, a razor-edged control that left no room for disobedience. Lawliet's mind cataloged every detail, every nuance of the sensation, as he pieced together what he could about his unseen adversary.

The path ahead narrowed into a tight corridor between two crumbling buildings. Lawliet's steps slowed as he approached a rusted metal door at the end of the alley. It was almost invisible in the darkness, blending into the decrepit brickwork around it. Without hesitation, he reached out and pushed it open, the door creaking loudly on its hinges.

The room beyond was small and dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of damp and decay. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow light that barely reached the corners of the space. The walls were lined with old, battered furniture, and a small, grimy window provided the only connection to the outside world.

Standing in the center of the room was a man—tall and lean, exuding an air of confidence that suggested he was used to being in control. He wore a lilac suit, impeccably tailored, the color striking against the dim, grimy surroundings. His face was obscured by a full mask, its smooth surface giving nothing away.

Lawliet remained still, his posture relaxed as he studied the man. The aura of control radiating from him was palpable, almost suffocating. Lawliet's mind worked quickly, gathering every detail. This wasn't just someone who was confident in their power—this was someone who knew they were untouchable.

The man's voice broke the silence, low and smooth, carrying an edge of curiosity. "How did you learn about me?" he asked, tilting his head slightly as he scrutinized Lawliet.

Lawliet's expression remained neutral, his tone calm and detached as he replied. "Three people were killed in their homes, under unusual circumstances. Their behavior prior to their deaths was inconsistent with their usual patterns. I connected the dots." He spoke as if recounting a simple fact, his voice devoid of any emotion or emphasis.

The man's posture shifted slightly, a hint of surprise evident in his stance. "From just that?" There was a note of admiration in his voice, as if he hadn't expected anyone to come so close to uncovering his existence with such little information.

Lawliet offered no response, his expression remaining blank. Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts, as the man continued to assess him.

After a moment, the man took a step closer, his tone inquisitive yet measured. "And who do you work for? SHIELD? The police?"

Lawliet hesitated just enough to appear as though he was under the man's influence, then responded, "I work alone. I'm not affiliated with any organization."

The man's eyes narrowed slightly behind his mask, as if weighing the truth of Lawliet's words. He didn't push further, instead shifting to a different line of inquiry. "Do you have a special power, then? Something that lets you track people like me?"

Lawliet hesitated again, this time allowing a flicker of uncertainty to pass across his features. He knew this question was a test—a way for the man to gauge his abilities, to see if he posed any real threat. Lawliet decided to play along, knowing he needed to give just enough to keep the man interested, without revealing too much.

"Yes," Lawliet finally said, his voice soft, almost reluctant. He let the silence hang for a moment, then, in a subtle demonstration, he turned invisible for a brief second before reappearing. The movement was quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to show that he wasn't bluffing.

The man's interest sharpened immediately, his posture straightening as he absorbed the demonstration. Lawliet noted the subtle shiver of excitement that ran through him. "Another one," the man murmured, almost to himself. His tone carried an eerie mix of delight and anticipation. The words were laced with something darker, something possessive.

He took a step closer, his gaze fixed on Lawliet with a predatory intensity. "You're coming with me," he commanded, his voice smooth and authoritative. There was no question, no room for refusal—it was an order wrapped in velvet.

Lawliet gave a small nod, feigning compliance. His expression remained blank, his eyes distant as if the man's will had fully overtaken his own. In reality, his mind was working at a breakneck pace, analyzing every detail, every word the man uttered. He had to be cautious—one wrong move could reveal that he wasn't truly under the man's control.

The man's lips curled into a satisfied smile, as if he'd already won. "Good," he said, a note of approval in his voice. He turned on his heel and began walking toward the far side of the room. "We're going to a special place," he continued, his tone almost conversational. "I want to introduce you to my wife. She'll be very interested in meeting you."

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