The shattered glass left jagged, uneven gaps, and with the train speeding along, a fierce rush of wind howled into the carriage.
Having subdued the dangerous individual and hurled the hazardous object out the window, Minamoto Senya finally let out a faint sigh of relief.
Kasuga, who had been frozen in shock this whole time, finally snapped back to her senses.
She hadn't listened to his instruction to stay put and wait—her worry had driven her to rush straight over to his side.
"Senya!"
Reaching him, she anxiously looked him up and down, then carefully held the hand he had used to smash the window with the hammer. Only when she saw that he was unscathed did she finally breathe a little easier.
Her gaze then darted to the man collapsed on the floor. The frog-headed hood he'd been wearing had slipped, revealing a gas mask underneath.
"This is…"
"Don't worry. It's over now."
Senya gave Kasuga a brief reassurance, then, under her watchful eyes, pulled out his phone and dialed the police.
"I'd like to report an incident. On the Hakata line train headed toward Hakata Port, there's a suspicious individual, possibly attempting a poison attack. He's already been restrained…"
The wind roared through the broken window. Kasuga's sharp ears twitched, catching the distinct clicking of multiple phone cameras.
She turned, only to see that many of the passengers who had bolted earlier hadn't actually left. Instead, they were huddled a distance away, raising their phones to snap photos of them.
Kasuga hated this sort of thing. She glared at them furiously, eyes sharp as knives, but her silent rebuke had no effect.
Thinking quickly, she turned back and took the mask Senya had given her earlier. With only a puzzled look, he allowed her to slip it back over his face.
The train soon pulled into the next station.
Uniformed railway staff hurried over to Senya.
He explained the situation simply and directly.
Realizing that Senya had already contacted the police, they didn't give him any trouble. Out of humanitarian concern, they called an ambulance for the unconscious suspect.
Since Senya had been the first to notice the threat and the one who knocked the suspect out, he naturally couldn't just leave until things were clarified.
Kasuga, however, was different. She hadn't directly been involved.
Amid the noisy confusion, Senya leaned closer and said softly into her ear,
"I'll call Miyoko-nee to take you back to the hotel first."
"!"
"…Why are you glaring at me like that?"
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here!"
"…."
Not just glaring this time—her tone carried anger, almost defiant. She was truly upset.
Fine. If she wanted to stay, she'd stay.
Still, Senya couldn't help but think—Japanese police really were slow.
He had already called them back on the train. Now, even after disembarking and waiting on the platform for more than ten minutes, there was still no sign of them.
It reminded him of a news story he'd read not long ago.
A man, newly released from prison, had stabbed a high school girl to death in broad daylight. Instead of fleeing, he had walked over a kilometer, still covered in blood, to surrender at a local police station.
And the kicker? There hadn't even been any officers on duty there. The man had to ask passersby to call the police for him, and then patiently waited until they arrived.
When Senya had first read the article, his reaction had been pure disbelief. If an author had written such a thing in a novel, readers would have roasted him alive for using such ridiculous, contrived nonsense.
But now that he himself was experiencing the aftermath of a real incident, dealing directly with the Japanese police, he realized—reality could be even more absurd than fiction.
At long last, only after the ambulance had already arrived did the police finally show up—dragging their feet, as if reluctant.
If not for the crowd of gawkers still livestreaming on their phones, the witnesses might have all left by then.
Senya carefully repeated the sequence of events to the officers.
The Fukuoka police's response was chaotic, with no clear division of responsibility.
He ended up explaining everything again to yet another officer who showed up later.
And still, it wasn't enough.
After their initial questioning, even though Senya's account matched perfectly with witness testimony, they insisted he accompany them to the station.
A potential poisoning attempt on a public train was serious business—far too serious to handle lightly.
Expected as it was, Senya agreed. Cooperation with the police was a citizen's duty, after all.
"Are you really not going back to the hotel first? This might take all night," Senya asked Kasuga again as they walked toward the patrol car.
Kasuga didn't say a word, but the way she stepped closer to him gave her answer.
She would stay. With him.
"Name?"
"Minamoto Senya."
"Huh? That name sounds familiar. Wait, you're not the author who just won that new award, are you?"
"Uh…"
"Eguchi! This isn't the time! Do your job properly!"
"Ah—sorry, sir!"
"Keep recording!"
"Yes, sir!"
Inside the police station, Senya sat across from two officers—one older, one younger.
They asked questions while recording everything in detail, both in writing and on audio.
"Minamoto-kun, you're not from Fukuoka. What brings you here?"
"I came with my school's kendo club. We're competing in the Gyokuryūki tournament."
The younger officer's eyes widened slightly, clearly recognizing him, but after the scolding earlier, he forced himself to remain professional.
"What time did you board the train?"
"Around 7:30 p.m."
"And your destination?"
"…"
"Minamoto-kun, we trust you completely. But we still have to ask about every detail. It's procedure. I hope you understand."
The older officer spoke gently, softening what sounded almost like an interrogation.
Senya sighed but continued.
"…My friend and I hadn't had dinner yet. We were planning to find a well-reviewed restaurant nearby."
He even showed them his phone's search history as proof.
The officer skimmed it, nodded, and returned it.
"How did you first notice the suspect's suspicious behavior?" the younger one asked.
"The frog hood. It was too conspicuous. I glanced at him more than once, and that's when I noticed part of a gas mask showing at his neck. At first, I wasn't sure. So I walked closer. Then I saw him about to stab something inside his bag with a knife.
"It was urgent. He was too suspicious. Wearing a hood to cover a gas mask? That's no ordinary commuter—that's a terrorist. With so many passengers at risk, I didn't have the luxury of confirming. My only option was to act immediately."
His explanation was calm, logical, and reasonable. The younger officer nodded repeatedly as he scribbled notes.
The older one looked approving, but pressed on.
"Why smash the window afterward?"
They consistently referred to the man as "the suspect," out of professional caution.
"The situation reminded me of the old sarin gas attacks. I broke the window to throw the bag out and ventilate the train—to minimize risk as much as possible."
The questioning continued, every detail clear and consistent.
According to the witness testimonies, Senya's account matched perfectly.
And then, a report came in from the officers who had retrieved the discarded bag.
Inside, wrapped in newspaper, were containers of a highly volatile nerve agent—instantly lethal.