It was practically a grim guarantee that L's feelings were very different from Light's, on any matter or dilemma that presented itself. Being committed had started out that way; Light had been largely responsible for what appeared to be the correct decision, the compassionate and safe choice given the circumstances. It didn't matter that others had protected and helped him for as long as they could, and would have continued to even as it became more frustrating and difficult to deal with someone who was detaching rapidly from what everyone else called reality. It had been a beautifully subtle manipulation on Light's part; by that point, L largely considered Light an extension of himself. Part of it was the fact that their resonance was lethally good, sharp and brilliant and so complete that it took away a part of the Weapon every time they resonated. And time had ground on; L had long ago forgotten how to even turn into his Weapon form, sometimes forgetting that he was a Weapon entirely and being confused when he couldn't wield others. It had led to some close shaves on missions, but breaks from missions hadn't helped, because then broken mathematics presented as solutions had jeopardized vital matters on the home front. L had subsequently resigned from his job at the Watch, and from there, without purpose or focus, it was nothing but a discouraging downward slide. The detective who never forgot a face was suddenly forgetting many, slipping into dissociative fugues and responding fearfully or violently towards people who had his very best interests at heart.

Light had confirmed the believers' assertion that L was insane, he had swayed the soft-hearted doubters, and he had even convinced L himself to sign many of the required papers. It was no easy task, but even at the end of his life outside of the infuriatingly-named Sunny Graves, L had reluctantly agreed that, based on the evidence, it was the only logical course of action.

It had been easier to think that, then. Now, after six months in the center, L knew that the food was terrible and rarely ate it. He knew that things never changed in his wing, because those patients were fragile and couldn't cope with it. He knew that stability largely meant boredom, and that even when he got visitors, he couldn't help but be disappointed when they entered and were not Light.

Not that he had any real reason to expect Light. In over six months, he hadn't been to visit L once. Maybe he had never existed, L thought bitterly. Maybe that was the real reason he was here, because he kept talking about someone who wasn't real, and endangering himself based on his fictional account.

So, when the door opened, L did what he always did when people came to see him in one of his darker moods. He fixed his gaze straight ahead, unblinking and empty. The staff were used to it and had learned to consider it normal... maybe his "visitor" would learn quickly enough to intuit the most time-efficient method. The sooner he gave up, the sooner he would leave.