Kazuya Tōjō lingers in the office a mont longer. Then, without a word, he finally steps out of the office.
Soon, Renji turns to the coach. "You think he’s moving up a class anyti soon?"
Kirizu narrows his eyes. "Tōjō?"
"No, that rookie... Ryoma Takeda. He’s fighting in Super Featherweight now, but with that fra? I can see him in Lightweight."
Kirizu’s brow lifts. "What? Don’t tell you’re eyeing that kid."
"Why not? Once he’s free from that strict weight cut, he’ll fight looser, stronger. I could use soone like him to gauge my level before I go after a world title."
Outside, just beyond the door, Tōjō stops mid-step. Renji and Coach Kirizu can’t see him, but his expression hardens, shocked that Renji would even consider Ryoma worthy of a title-level test.
Inside the office, Coach Kirizu circles behind his desk and drops into his chair. He leans back and propping both feet up on the table, fingers interlaced over his stomach.
"Super Featherweight or Lightweight, it doesn’t matter," he says. "It’ll take him at least a year or two just to break into the rankings."
"Then why not send a challenge to his gym for non-title match," Renji suggests.
Kirizu shakes his head, eyes closing briefly.
"Or," Renji presses, "we bring him in as a sparring partner for my next title fight. A small gym like his would be honored to get that kind of call from ."
"Your next title fight?" Kirizu scoffs. "You just defended your belt yesterday, that’s seven tis now. We’re already running out of opponents for you in this country."
"Just a regular spar then," Renji says with a shrug. "If luck’s on our side, the kid might take an interest in joining us afterward."
Kirizu doesn’t answer right away. He leans back deeper, mulling it over. Finally, still looking unsure, he reaches for the phone.
"That’s it..." Renji smirks, rubbing his palms together. "What are you waiting for? I know you want him too. Just make the call."
"I’m not calling his gym," Kirizu snaps. "I’ve got plenty to fix here already. Now shut up and leave alone."
Renji raises his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I’m leaving now."
He walks out of the office, only to find Tōjō standing in the hallway.
"Hey... you’re still here?"
Tōjō startles, quickly turns and bows. "I’m sorry! I... I’ll be going now."
He turns on his heel and hurries toward the exit, moving fast and keeping his head down. Not because he’s in a rush, but because he doesn’t have the nerve to show his face.
The mory stick of his previous match against Ryoma is still clutched in his hand. But now, even before watching that reply, he’s already questioning his sanity to ask for a rematch.
"What’s going here...?"
"He is just a rookie... a debutant..."
"What’s with the hype...?"
"No, this was my mistake..."
"I was the one who made it easy for him..."
"If only I took the match seriously..."
His thoughts are a ss, still tangled in what he overheard. Even after boarding the commuter train, the hum of the engine and the sway of the carriage can’t shake it from his head.
***
Later, under the warm glare of the mid-afternoon sun, Tōjō walks the sidewalk until he reaches a crosswalk and slows to a stop. On the opposite curb, packed in with a dense crowd of pedestrians waiting for the light to change, a familiar figure catches his eye.
It’s Ryoma, standing a few steps apart from the rest, near the roadside, his gaze tilted upward toward the sky, completely unaware of being watched.
Curious and confused, Tōjō tilts his head upward as well, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. His gaze drops back to Ryoma, a faint scowl tightening his features.
"What is he doing over there standing like a moron..."
The light turns, and dozens of people begin pouring into the crosswalk, their footsteps drumming against the asphalt. But Tōjō stays where he is.
And so does Ryoma. His focus is elsewhere, sowhere distance in the future, or to be exact, sowhere in his previous life.
This stretch of road... it’s the very place that shattered his old life. In another tiline, years from now, he would have been crossing here when a sudden impact crushed his left leg and ended his boxing career.
The accident didn’t happen on this date. That was long after his third loss, but the mory burns all the sa. Now, nineteen years old again, he’s here by choice. Not to tempt fate, but to confront it, to stand where it all went wrong and rember the man he used to be.
Right now, he feels utterly alone in the world, wrapped in a silence no one else seems to notice. With this life handed back to him, he can’t help but question. Who, or what, decided he deserved it? And why?
The crowd shuffles and sways at the periphery, but he’s sowhere else entirely, lost in that strange space where a man starts asking life itself for answers it may never give.
Until suddenly...
"Aw..."
A small cry slips from a young woman, as she stumbles from a shoulder bump and hits Ryoma from behind.
She regains her balance quickly. But instead of offering an apology to Ryoma, she whirls toward the man who knocked into her first.
She snaps, her English carrying a casual sharpness not often heard in Tokyo crowds.
"Hey! Watch where you’re going, buddy!"
The man dips his head in a quick bow and mumbles an apology without breaking his stride. The girl exhales sharply through her nose, muttering sothing under her breath, too low for anyone to catch, but the heat in her expression says enough.
Ryoma looks annoyed. He expects an apology, but after examining the girl for just a mont, he restrains himself.
And due to his habit, and those sharp eyes of his, a familiar grid flashes faintly across his vision.
***
[SCAN: SUBJECT – UNKNOWN]
Hair: Dark brown, light sun-bleached streaks – probable natural blend.
Eye Shape/Color: Almond, hazel-green hue – mixed iris pignt common in half-Caucasian profiles.
Lip Structure: Slightly full lower lip; natural curve pronounced when speaking.
Skin Tone: Warm beige with faint pink undertones – lanin distribution consistent with mixed heritage.
Summary: 50–60% probability of Japanese-Caucasian ancestry.
***
And she must felt his gaze, because seconds later, her head snaps back at him.
"What the hell are you looking at?"
Ryoma’s brows draw together. "You hit just now. An apology would be fine."
Her chin tips upward in defiance. "It wasn’t my fault."
Before Ryoma can press the point, a voice rises above the crowd behind her.
"Reika! Over here!"
The girl’s expression flips instantly, lighting up as she spins toward the sound.
"Oh my god!" she squeals, hopping on her toes before rushing to join a small group of friends weaving through the crowd.
They chatter in a lively blur; teasing, giggling, exchanging quick bursts of jokes. Then one of them leans in, pats Reika’s shoulder, and whispers sothing while keeping a wary eye on Ryoma.
Reika’s smile fades. She turns her head toward him, a sharp scowl forming. Then, like a cop closing in on a suspect, she steps back toward Ryoma, stiff and chanical.
And without a word, she draws her arm back and swings a wide slap.
"What the..."
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