Agung's eyes snapped open as the rhythmic, metallic *clack-clack* of the Shinkansen tracks filled his ears. The dreamless sleep had broken, leaving behind a dry, bitter taste in his mouth.
*Coffee,* he thought, his mind drifting lazily to the sharp, grounding kick of caffeine. *I need coffee.*
A soft, metallic *thud* sounded right beside his thigh.
He didn't blink. He slowly looked down at the velvet fabric of the train seat. Sitting perfectly upright next to him was a chilled, sweat-beaded can of Nescafé Black.
Agung reached down, his fingers wrapping around the aluminum. It was freezing cold, exactly the way he liked it. He didn't look around the train car to see if anyone was watching. He didn't scan the ceiling for hidden cameras. He simply popped the tab with a sharp *hiss*, took a long, slow swallow, and let the bitter liquid coat his throat.
"Creation magic..." he murmured into the empty space of the window glass, his voice a low, tired rasp beneath the hum of the bullet train. "An infinite loop of a non-lessening quadrillion USD... and infinite stamina. Huh."
He stared at his reflection in the dark glass, the Tokyo skyline blurring into a smudge of distant lights as the train hurtled deeper into the countryside toward Shizuoka.
The universe had handed him the cheat codes to reality. Absolute wealth that defied the global economy, the literal power to manifest whatever he desired out of thin air, and a body that refused to ever tire out again. He was, by all definition, a god walking among mortals.
But as he took another sip of the black coffee, the crushing irony of it sat heavy in his chest.
All the creation magic in the world couldn't manifest a clean conscience. A quadrillion dollars couldn't buy back the three years of agonizing silence he had inflicted on the people who used to look at him with love. And infinite stamina just meant he had an eternity to run away from the ghosts he had created.
He thought back to the rooftop—to Ayumu's raw, broken screams, Kanata's trembling hand on his sleeve, and Umi's furious, maternal glare. He had tried to play the cold, pragmatic logic card, setting his itinerary to Numazu and Hong Kong like a businessman resolving a debt.
He swirled the black coffee in the can, a grim, weary smile touching his lips. He was the all-powerful "Deadbeat," moving across Japan with the speed of a bullet train. He truly believed he was in total control of this grand apology tour.
He had absolutely no clue that a fleet of furious mothers, five toddlers, and a desperate queen booking a flight from Hong Kong were about to descend upon Numazu, completely rewriting the rules of his little game.