The door swung open, and for a heartbeat, time suspended in a surreal, lethal display of suburban projectile weaponry. It wasn't just a warning; it was a localized meteor shower. A pair of worn-in sneakers clocked him in the shoulder, a heavy-duty marketing textbook grazed his ear, and a designer handbag—likely carrying a heavy laptop—clipped his ribs with the force of a wrecking ball.
Agung scrambled, his "teddy bear" frame surprisingly agile as he dived to the left, his hand grasping for a balance he didn't quite have. He saw the blur of a knife—a common, stainless steel kitchen blade—spinning through the air, glinting in the dying sunlight. He ducked, the steel whistling past his ear, the tip carving a thin line into the doorframe behind him.
That was the breaking point. The "Deadbeat" could have taken this, could have played the victim, or could have wiped them all out with a snap of his fingers. But the man who had worked the streets of Pekalongan, the man who had just saved a boy from a live wire with his bare hands, felt a different kind of fire ignite.
He straightened up, his chest heaving, his face flushed not with shame, but with the raw, unfiltered frustration of a man who was tired of being a target for crimes he only *technically* committed.
"AYUMU!" Agung roared, his voice cutting through the chaotic rooftop like a thunderclap.
The movement stopped. The girls, clustered on the other side of the roof—Setsuna, Shioriko, Rina, and the rest—froze, their arms mid-throw. Ayumu, who was standing at the front with her hand still extended, went deathly pale, the kitchen knife she'd been wielding forgotten in her hand.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Agung stepped forward, ignoring the debris scattered at his feet. "Throwing a kitchen knife? Seriously? You aren't even the one I hurt! You're the one who was supposed to be the sensible one, and you're out here trying to commit homicide over a grudge you don't even fully understand!"
He stood there, panting, his singed jacket hanging off one shoulder, his face a mask of weary, desperate indignation. He wasn't cowering. He wasn't apologizing. He was *furious*.
"I came here to apologize to the people whose lives I actually ruined," he gestured wildly at the group, his eyes landing on Setsuna, then Shioriko. "I came here to take the hits from the people who have a right to be angry. But you, Ayumu? You're acting out a script that the 'Deadbeat' wrote for you, and I'm done playing along with his nonsense!"
The rooftop went silent. The sheer audacity of the "teddy bear" shouting down one of the most prominent members of the club—and specifically calling out the absurdity of her weapon choice—seemed to snap the spell of their rage.
Setsuna lowered her arm, her eyes wide. Shioriko, who had been poised to throw a tablet full of audit data, slowly tucked it under her arm.
Agung stood in the center of the mess, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs, waiting to see if he had just committed social suicide—or if he had finally forced them to look at him as a person.