The rooftop became a vacuum of sound. The only thing audible was the distant, rhythmic hum of Odaiba's evening traffic, a stark contrast to the sudden, suffocating silence among the Nijigasaki idols.
Ayumu's hand, still clutching the handle of the kitchen knife, dropped to her side. Her face, previously twisted in a mask of defensive fury, shifted into a look of genuine, rattled confusion. The weapon clattered against the rooftop tiles—a small, sharp sound that felt massive in the stillness.
Agung didn't reach for her. He didn't cower. He stood his ground, his "teddy bear" physique radiating a stubborn, messy kind of humanity that didn't fit the "villain" script they had all been acting out for years.
"You want to play judge, jury, and executioner?" Agung stepped forward, kicking a stray sneaker out of his path. "Fine. But look at them. Look at Kanata, look at Setsuna, look at Rina. If you drive me off this roof, you aren't 'protecting' anyone. You're just making sure that the man who *did* break their hearts stays exactly where he left them: broken."
He looked around the circle. Setsuna was staring at him, her eyes wide, the fire of her usual passion replaced by a stunned analytical sharpness. Shioriko, the woman who knew every cent and every injury the "Deadbeat" had inflicted, had lowered her tablet. Her gaze was no longer on his throat, but on his face, as if she were trying to reconcile the man who had just shouted them down with the man who had ghosted them for three years.
"I am not the 'Deadbeat,'" Agung said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rasp. "I am a guy who found himself in his body, and I have spent every waking second of the last few hours trying to figure out how to put things right. If you want to throw knives, do it. But don't pretend you're doing it for *them*."
He turned on his heel. He didn't look back at the door. He began to walk toward the ledge of the roof, his movements slow, deliberate, and undeniably finished.
"I'm done with the drama," he called out, his hand resting on the safety railing. "I have a lot of apologies to make, and if I'm not welcome here, I'll find the next person on the list. I have twenty others to see. I don't have time to be murdered by someone who wasn't even the target."
He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him.
"Wait."
It wasn't Ayumu. It was Shioriko.
Agung stopped, but he didn't turn around. He stood at the edge of the roof, his back to them, waiting.
"If you're really not him," Shioriko's voice was cool, precise, and dangerously steady, "then prove it. Don't tell us you're 'mending' anything. Show us the ledger. Show us why a man with 'infinite' power would choose to be this messy, bruised, and tired."
Agung finally turned. He looked at Shioriko—the strategist, the auditor, the one who held the receipts for every pain he had caused.
"The ledger?" Agung let out a short, hollow laugh. He walked back to the center of the roof, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone—the only link to the system he had dismantled. He held it out, screen dark, a piece of useless plastic. "The ledger is gone, Shioriko. I burned it. I didn't come here to debate the past. I came here to be the guy who carries the bags so Kanata can sleep. That's the only 'proof' you get."
He stood in the center of the rooftop, waiting for the next shoe—or knife—to drop.