Mello was aware of the serial killer, of course, but he wasn't concerned about his own safety. He had, as always, his gun at his hip, concealed under his jacket, and he thought the string of murders was someone clumsily covering their tracks, anyway.

It was a huge relief not to have to blab every damn thing that popped into his head anymore. It meant Mello wouldn't be forced to fess up that he was afraid--no, concerned that the tendency he knew he had, to retreat when things with Near got too close for comfort, would seize him again. Things had shifted, and it was closer to a fault line opening up than to a minor temblor. Mello was walking around in an attempt to work off some of the restlessness he was all too aware was likely to explode into him picking a fight just because he felt pent up.

When he spotted Bakura this time, he had the luxury of not having to say what was on his mind, but, ironically, the kid was one of the few people Mello might actually have confided in. Bakura was too good for his own good, and Mello didn't care what he thought of him.

Didn't mean it was easy to broach the topic. Mello went over and leaned against the machine Bakura was currently occupied with.

"You look like my best friend on one of his coding benders."