So it was his name. And his appearance--it was far too coincidental. Bakura had said that his body reflected that of his host as much as or more than it did of his original; that was the most he'd said about his host. It was enough. This must be him.

The accent was a touch of a surprise, though; Bakura had implied his host wasn't Egyptian himself, or at least his appearance implied that, but Solomon didn't recall it arising that the youth was Japanese.

Solomon gave him a disarming smile, and wondered whether Bakura knew his host was even here. "The worlds which intersect here are many and timelines are varying," he said, truthfully but vaguely. "You looked familiar. I took a chance." He bowed shallowly, enough to be respectful but obviously still someone who was more used to receiving that respect than the opposite. "Watashi no namae wa Wreath Solomon desu; yoroshiku onegai itashimasu."

His Japanese wasn't fluent, by any means, but it was still a far cry better than the average tourist; enough to hold a conversation, at the very least.