anwhile,Ryoma still sits on the living room sofa, unmoving since Nakahara and Hiroshi left. His eyes rest on the pills his mother left on the table, but his thoughts are sowhere else entirely.
One of his regrets, maybe the deepest, is the dream he abandoned in his past life. Boxing had been everything. He can’t lie to himself about that. The ring, the crowd, the rush, it still burns in him.
But the fear of losing his mother again burns hotter.
Can I really leave her again?
Even just for training?
For a match under the lights?
He shuts his eyes, weighing on the options. And the thought alone tightens his chest.
Then suddenly...
>
The system talks to him. And this ti, he hadn’t even activated the Speech Assistant Mode. He’s sure of it.
He sits up, his breath catching.
>
>
Ryoma stares at the pills. The words actually make sense, painfully logical. But still...
What if sothing else happens?
And she hides it from again?
What if she starts leaning on those pills until she can’t stop?
As if responding to his anxiety, the system talks to him again, gently, even when he is currently closing both eyes.
>
Ryoma opens his eyes, exhales shakily, rubbing his face.
"No," he whispers. "I can’t leave her. I can’t make the sa mistake."
***
Days drift by, and Takeda Barbershop is back to life. Yet Ryoma doesn’t let his mother handle much work.
Fumiko sits behind the counter, reading books, occasionally greeting custors. But it’s Ryoma who does the job.
It’s not just being protective. It’s a quiet gnawing fear that if he lets her out of his sight, even for a mont, sothing bad might happen again.
"Can you give a mullet?" the boy in the chair asks, grinning at his own reflection. "Not too clean, though. I want it to look, you know, kinda wild."
Ryoma combs through the boy’s hair, nodding once. "Wild. Got it."
This isn’t his first ti holding the scissors. He’s worked here for years since high school, continued it again after his regression, between training sessions, learning by watching, by feeling, by doing.
But now he moves differently; calm, precise, and professional. And he’s good at it, better than his mother, maybe.
The regulars praise his touch, his sense of symtry. Even the high school kids from the neighborhood only want him to cut their hair.
"So, what do you think?" Ryoma asks, brushing stray strands from a custor’s neck.
The boy studies himself in the mirror, grinning. "Damn, man. This is perfect. Just what I wanted."
Ryoma chuckles softly. "Glad to hear it."
But as the kid pays and leaves, he can’t help staring from behind, a ghost of youth with a ridiculous mullet.
What the hell is wrong with kids these days? he thinks, shaking his head.
And then, a voice answers him.
>
Ryoma raises an eyebrow, watching his own reflection in the mirror. Lately, he begins to feel accustod with the system’s behavior.
>
He looks around, but the shop is still. Fumiko is still occupied behind the counter, counting bills. Only the clock ticks.
Ryoma stares back at his reflection, and exhales slowly. "Yeah, maybe you’re right."
There’s no voice in his head answering him now. The man in the mirror looks calm, composed, almost at peace.
Lately, though, he’s stopped thinking of that voice as a system at all. It feels more like an old friend who never really left, one that always speaks when his mind grows too quiet.
***
Three days have passed since Ryoma’s decision, and the gym has never felt quieter. The thud of gloves against sandbags still echoes through the air, but even that sounds hollow now.
For years, they’ve lived with the struggle of being part of a no-na gym, no sponsors, no reputation strong enough to attract matches. They only fought when luck allowed it, usually as substitutes or undercards, grateful just to step into the ring.
Organizing their own event? Well, you can’t just challenge another gym without money. You can’t earn money without selling tickets. And you can’t sell tickets without any reputation.
But Ryoma brought a massive change. With him, they finally saw a glimpse of sothing beyond the small corner of their world; real crowds, attention, hope.
If Ryoma fought, others would follow. They’d at least be filling the opening fights. Even just undercards are still chances to get noticed.
But now, that light’s gone out.
"Just like that, huh?" Okabe mutters between rounds, his gloves dangling at his sides. "All that noise about us finally getting sowhere, and poof... back to zero."
Ryohei snorts, half bitter, half lost. "Tch. What did you expect? Guy wins one big money and retires. Guess so people just can’t handle the pressure."
Kenta cuts him cold. "You should know Ryoma’s situation."
Ryohei shrugs. "Alright, alright. But tell , what’s left for us now? We’re back to begging for matches no one wants to watch."
Across the room, Aramaki just stays silent, his arms resting over the ropes, watching the two argue with a weary look.
Then suddenly...
"Enough talking!" Coach Nakahara’s voice cuts through the gloom. "You want to fight? Then hit sothing. Get back to work."
The words are sharp but tired. Everyone knows he’s just as frustrated as they are, maybe more.
Okabe exhales, and turns toward the bag. Ryohei follows, throwing a lazy jab, then another, just to fill the silence.
And then, from the entrance, a bright cheerful voice breaks through the heaviness.
"Good day, everyone!"
Aki strides in, her tone all sunshine and noise, Reika following behind with her usual grin. But both won freeze after a few steps. The air feels off. The laughter they expected isn’t there.
Reika’s smile falters. "Whoa... what happened here?"
The only answer is the dull rhythmic sound of fists eting leather.
Then Okabe finally says sothing. "If you are here for Ryoma, he’s retiring?"
The two girls freeze.
Reika is worse. She doesn’t even breathe, the color drains from her face, and the keys in her hand slip free, clattering against the floor.
"Retiring?" she repeats, her voice trembling. "What do you an?"
"He’s no longer here," Okabe says flatly. "And you shouldn’t be here either."
The air turns heavy. Kenta and Aramaki glance at each other, uneasy. Ryohei lets out a low whistle, amused by the cruelty in Okabe’s tone.
"You should leave," Ryohei adds lazily. "And take your things while you’re at it."
Reika blinks, confusion twisting her face.
Aki steps forward, cautious. "Um, did we do sothing wrong?"
"Relax, Aki," Ryohei mutters, eyes still locked on Reika. "This isn’t about you. You’re fine here. But your friend... she betrayed us."
Reika flinches. "Betrayed? What are you talking about?"
"Don’t play dumb." Okabe suddenly throws a pile of resistance suits at her feet. "You fild our training. Said it was only for your father. We trusted you. But you posted it online."
Reika stares, bewildered. "You an Ryoma’s sparring video? That was just... I was trying to help him get noticed."
"Help him?" Ryohei’s voice slices in, sharp and bitter. "You gave his rivals a blueprint of his moves. You made him vulnerable."
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