Agung walked toward the vending machine, his movements heavy. As he fumbled with the coins, he felt the familiar, dangerous itch in his fingers—the urge to simply *manifest* the perfect drink. He caught himself, taking a ragged breath. Instead, he bought two plain, store-bought canned coffees.
He held them in his hands, focusing. He didn't create anything new; he simply pushed a fraction of his own **Infinite Stamina**—not as a "God's gift," but as a transfer of raw, biological vitality—into the aluminum can destined for Kanata. It wasn't a "potion" that would make her a superhero; it was simply enough to lift the crushing weight of her fatigue, just for an hour or two.
He turned back toward the pillar.
Kanata shifted. The rhythmic noise of the terminal seemed to fade as her heavy, half-lidded eyes drifted across the commuters. She looked bored, resigned, her entire posture a testament to a life spent prioritizing everyone else's energy over her own.
Then, her gaze locked onto him.
She didn't recognize him—not immediately. To her, he was just a plump, disheveled man in a singed, dusty jacket, limping slightly with a bandage visible under his collar. She looked at him with the blank, hollow indifference of someone who had seen thousands of faces today and cared about none of them.
Agung's heart hammered against his ribs. He didn't stop. He walked until he was standing just a few feet away. The girl handing out flyers looked at him suspiciously, but Kanata just blinked, her eyes unfocused.
Agung held out the warm can.
"Good work out there, Kanata-chan," he said, his voice quiet, lacking the commanding boom of the "Deadbeat" mogul. It was just a man's voice—tired, slightly hoarse, and undeniably sincere.
Kanata stared at the can, then up at his face. Her eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter. It wasn't the look of a wife seeing her husband return home; it was the look of a woman trying to place a ghost. She leaned forward, sniffing the air—she could smell the ozone, the soot, the faint, lingering scent of a man who had actually been *outside* in the real world.
She took the can, her fingers brushing his. The moment the metal touched her palm, the slight, lingering warmth of the vitality-infused coffee seemed to hum. She blinked again, and the fog in her eyes cleared just enough to show a flash of sharp, intuitive intelligence.
"Do I... know you?" she asked, her voice like sandpaper.
She didn't sound angry. She sounded genuinely confused, as if his presence was an anomaly in a day that had been perfectly, painfully predictable. She looked at the singed patch on his shoulder, then back at his face, her head tilting to the side.
"You look like you've been through a war," she noted, her gaze drifting back to the can. "And you smell like a burnt-out utility pole. Why are you giving this to me?"
She hadn't rejected him. She hadn't thrown it back. But the way she held the can—cautiously, defensively—told him everything he needed to know. The "Deadbeat" had burned his bridges, but this girl was still standing in the ruins, waiting to see if he was here to finish the job or start the cleanup.