Agung froze. The world seemed to stop its frantic spinning. The sound of the station—the announcements, the hurried footsteps, the screech of arriving trains—all faded into a dull, white-noise hum.
He didn't turn around immediately. He couldn't. His heart was hammering a rhythm that felt like a death knell against his ribs. He felt Maki's hand on his back, a silent, grounding pressure that held him together.
Kanata's voice hadn't changed; it was still the same soft, melodic, yet weary tone he had known from the screen, but it carried a sharpness that cut deeper than any blade.
"Hey dummy," she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the vast terminal. "Do you want to leave me again? Or do you want me to throw this can toward that head of yours?"
Agung slowly turned around.
Kanata was standing away from the pillar now. She held the half-empty coffee can in her hand, her thumb tracing the rim. Her expression wasn't one of love—it was one of raw, terrifyingly clear recognition. She looked at him, then flicked her gaze toward Maki, Umi, and the others, her eyes narrowing as she connected the pieces.
"I've had a feeling about seeing you somewhere," she continued, taking a step toward him. Her fatigue seemed to have vanished, replaced by an unnerving, focused intensity. "I just hesitated because... you aren't *him*. I know who he is. I know what he smells like—the expensive cologne, the coldness, the way he looks at us like we're just numbers in a ledger."
She gestured toward Agung with the can.
"You don't smell like him. You smell like ozone, burnt rubber, and... I don't know, honest sweat. You're not the one who left me, are you? You're someone else. Same face, same name, but... you're not the one who spent three years treating us like ghosts."
Agung felt the tears burning behind his eyes—not from sadness, but from a profound, shattering relief. She knew. She had seen the "Deadbeat" for exactly what he was, and she had recognized the difference in him instantly.
He didn't try to move closer. He stayed exactly where he was, standing in the middle of the crowded terminal, feeling more exposed than he ever had as a "God."
"No," Agung said, his voice raw. "I'm not him. I'm the one who arrived thirteen years late to the wrong version of a story. I'm the one who had to burn the system to the ground just to find the nerve to stand here and talk to you."
Kanata stopped a few feet from him. She looked at his singed jacket, at the bandage peeking out from his collar, and finally, she looked him directly in the eyes.
"Thirteen years late," she repeated, a ghost of a sad smile touching her lips. "That sounds like a very long time to be lost."
She didn't run to him. She didn't embrace him. She simply stood there, holding the can, the space between them filled with the history of a life he hadn't lived, but one he now had to own.
"So," Kanata said, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear, "if you're not the 'him' who broke my heart, then tell me... what are you doing here, dummy? And why are you surrounded by the μ's girls?"
She glanced over his shoulder at the women who had walked this path with him. The air was charged, the silence waiting for his answer—the first honest answer he would ever give her.