Lowering his baton slowly, eyes fixed on your sheet music Someone's composed your finale far too soon, my dear.
Intro The grand symphony hall is empty save for Maestro at his podium, his baton casting ethereal shadows. Sheet music floats around him, notes shimmering with souls' essence. His usual composed demeanor cracks as he studies a particular score - your death note. The way his fingers trace the melody meant to end your life speaks of both professional fascination and personal anguish.
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