The car ride was less of a "luxury commute" and more of a high-tension prisoner transport. The SUV was a high-end model, likely bought with the "other" Agung's mysterious wealth, but the air conditioning was doing nothing to cool the radiating heat of the women's fury.
Agung sat in the middle of the spacious back seat, his slightly chubby frame squeezed tight. To his left was Maki, who had her arms crossed so tightly she looked like she was trying to physically compress her rage. To his right was Kotori, who maintained a sweet, hauntingly calm smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Because the seat was cramped and the women were pressing in on him, Agung found his arms pinned. In the awkward shuffle to get settled, his hands ended up tucked firmly under the armpits of both girls as they leaned in to ensure he couldn't bolt out of the door at a red light.
"Uh... girls?" Agung squeaked, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled Maki's hair. "This is... an extremely specific way to hold a prisoner. My hands are kind of... trapped. And it's very warm."
Maki didn't move an inch. She just leaned her weight further into him, pinning his left hand securely. "Shut up. If you're really a 'reincarnated' stranger, then you shouldn't mind. It's just tactical restraint."
"But Maki-chan," Agung whimpered, "your perfume is very distracting, and I can feel your heartbeat! This is supposed to be an execution, not a fanservice scene from a late-night anime!"
On his right, Kotori tilted her head, her signature hair-loop bouncing slightly. She tightened her grip on his right arm, locking his hand into place. "Agung-san, you said you were an otaku for twenty-four years, right? Then you should know that the 'damsel in distress' doesn't get to complain about how the heroines hold him."
"I'm not the damsel! I'm a 35-year-old man with a quadrillion dollars!" Agung protested, though he didn't dare pull away. "I could create a private jet right now and fly us to Hawaii!"
"We don't want Hawaii," Umi snapped from the front passenger seat, not even turning around. "We want the three years you stole from us. And if that means pinning you down until we reach the house, then so be it."
Eli, who was driving with terrifying precision, caught Agung's eye in the rearview mirror.
"You mentioned 'Creation Magic,' Agung. If you're feeling uncomfortable, why don't you 'create' some some patience? Or perhaps a way to explain to the neighbors why the 'Ghost of Kanda' has finally returned home looking ten pounds heavier?"
Agung looked down at his trapped hands. He could feel the soft fabric of their designer outfits and the firm, unyielding pressure of their hold. This was the dream of every Love Live fan from 2013—to be surrounded by the members of μ's. But as a 35-year-old man who just wanted to survive the day, it felt like being hugged by a pair of very beautiful, very expensive hydraulic presses.
"I feel like a marshmallow in a vice grip," Agung muttered under his breath.
"Less talking, more reflecting," Maki commanded, her face flushing slightly but her grip never wavering.
As the SUV turned into a private, high-walled estate in the heart of Tokyo—a place that clearly cost a fortune—Agung realized the "home" he was being taken to wasn't a house. It was a fortress. And he was the only prisoner.