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Is she gone? A question Suguru Kamoshida asks himself several times a day. Every single day. He'd heard through the grapevine that she is, that she'd packed up, left Tokyo, and gone back to whatever the hell godforsaken place had spawned her. He ought to look up the name of the town, just to make sure he never accidentally ends up there. It's somewhere in Iwate Prefecture, is all he knows. Maybe he'll avoid the whole damn region. Maybe he'll move to a different island entirely. Hokkaido is nice. The man, once so esteemed by the public and his peers, skulks around Shibuya, doing his shopping. Prison didn't stick, it rarely does for the worst offenders, and he was quietly let out a couple weeks after he turned himself in. Society has forgotten about him in the wake of everything else she got up to in her brief stint in the capital, and he can go around as a nobody, just like the average person. He's never been average before, so this is almost a worse punishment than being a prisoner was. Even his gargantuan height merely causes people to cross the street, instead of asking for a selfie, like they used to. Somehow Rin Amamiya has wiped his original identity from the Public's mind, he's sure of it. As to what she might do next, he doesn't want to think about it.
On the way home he's distracted from his perpetual fear a bit by traffic, and mashed up against the pavement, where pedestrians walk. So close…glancing at it reminds him of the time he grabbed the girl off the street. There's nothing but guilt left when he thinks about his actions now. Guilt, and anxiety, both never ending. Maybe no one pays attention to him now because these emotions have absolutely wrecked his physical appearance, a grotesquery his wing mirror is more than happy to shove in his prematurely aged face. He pushes it away with a growl of frustration.
Is she gone? Kamoshida’s question acts like a wish, a wish for knowledge, which is granted. And as everyone knows, one ought to be careful what one wishes for. He's sitting in Shibuya traffic, cursing his fate, when a tell-tale hyena cackle sets every one of his nerves on fire. After the first couple flinches are past, he enters a frozen state, where all he can do is slowly look towards the source of the predatory sound, his hands and the rest of him having said au revoir! to his brain.
There, on the pavement, stands his mortal enemy, looking more mature than the year before, but otherwise exactly the same. She's not alone, a slightly younger girl with dyed orange hair laughing with her while the blasted cat she carried around school peers out of a nearby baby stroller. Even worse, she's cackling because she's holding a baby under the arms, and it's cooing and babbling at her.
Baby. Baby. The last thing you should do is get anywhere near a mother and her baby. Kamoshida knows this, but he literally can't move, not even to sink down in his seat or swing his gaze away from the girls. The vehicles behind him begin to hoot, attracting Rin's attention. Her eyes sweep over to him, awful as the blade of a guillotine, and when they strike, it physically hurts the former volleyball coach. He supposes he's going to die under her fiery gaze, here in a freaking traffic jam, when another man inadvertently moves aside the drill bit tearing him apart.
“Hey, what's so funny?” An extremely well dressed man calls to the Phantom, his arrival alongside a younger man with very similar facial hair diverting Rin's laser stare away from her old teacher, allowing his body to defrost enough for him to drive off.
She's not gone, therefore Kamoshida has to be. He races home and immediately begins researching a new start in Hokkaido. He doesn't know if she's forgiven him, because he never asked for forgiveness, but he does understand that she hasn't forgotten, when he opens his front door the next morning to find three men in black standing there. Government men, Prime Minister Shido's men, they come with an order for reparations, reparations the old government never bothered to demand from him. His move to Hokkaido will have to be on a much smaller scale.