He knew this was it. He must have been wrong about how Saitou found him last time. It must not have had anything to do with the communicator he was careful not to use since. Six months, he had hid away. Six months, they had fumbled desperately to track him down and failed at every opportunity. And now, twice in a period of three days, they had found him. Part of him wished he thought ahead and rigged the whole place with explosives. That would have been nice. A spectacular, unexpected finish. Everything, consumed in fire. Gone. Dead. No one would have won.

Or lost.

He still had the automatic tuner on when they arrived (and Saitou was still at his feet, destroyed, it had felt so good), and so he carefully rested it on the chair, not bothering to turn it off. When he opened the door and stepped out of the soundproof room, the sound hummed out, filling the entire apartment. A weapon. Still.

He raised his hands.

"Good evening, gentlemen."