Steam still fills the room. The air’s thick, the floor wet, and the sll of cedar sharp in every breath.
The door bursts open with a crash of sound that cuts through the haze. Hiroshi stands there, frozen in the doorway.
The mont his eyes land on Ryoma slumped against the old man’s shoulder, his face drains of color.
If Ryoma really passed out from dehydration here, it’d be a disaster. The fight could be canceled, months of work gone in an instant.
He rushes forward, voice cracking through the haze.
"RYOMA! Damn it...! You’re not..."
But before Hiroshi can finish, Ryoma stirs. He blinks a few tis, squinting through the fog.
"...Hey, what’s with the yelling?"
Hiroshi freezes mid-step, half-panicked, half-furious. "The hell do you an ’what’s with the yelling’?! You were slumped over like a corpse!"
"Ah? I was just... sleepy," Ryoma mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
The old man from before stands awkwardly nearby, clutching his towel.
"Kid nearly scared to death," he mumbles. "I thought he was gonna croak right here."
Hiroshi exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. "You idiot. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened if I’d co five minutes later? The fight could’ve been canceled! You collapse now, they’ll pull your license for dical review."
Ryoma waves a hand lazily. "Relax, I’m fine. See?"
He stands up, a little unsteady but very much on his feet, swaying toward the exit.
Hiroshi catches his shoulder, torn between relief and irritation. "You’re lucky Coach isn’t here. He’d throw a towel at your face."
"Yeah, lucky you’re here instead," Ryoma says, stepping out of the sauna. "If I’d really fallen asleep, that would’ve been serious."
Outside, the cold air hits him like a slap, but Ryoma inhales deep and slow. His skin prickles, his muscles ache.
>
But Ryoma smiles anyway. "Guess that’s enough sweat for today."
***
For the next two days, it’s all discipline, strict diet and strict supervision, and sauna sessions under Hiroshi’s watch.
By the morning of the weigh-in day, Ryoma finally steps on the scale and sees the number blink back at him: 60.98 kg.
He grins. "Two hundred grams below the limit. Does that an I can finally eat sothing?"
>
Ryoma groans, throwing himself back onto the bed. "You really know how to ruin a man’s joy."
Ultimately, he spends the rest of the early morning scrolling through Ayano’s previous fights, videos Coach Nakahara has collected before.
He’s seen them all more tis than he can count. And honestly, they’re boring now.
Ayano’s style is simple, normal jabs coupled with so many heavy rights, no wasted motion, but no fancy tricks.
There’s nothing complex about it. Yet, sohow, it works. Ayano has eight wins, but zero losses. And all wins are by knock out.
There was a ti when Ryoma couldn’t figure out why. But now he knows. Watching them again only confirms it.
Still, despite the boredom, or maybe because of it, he watches every clip twice. Maybe it’s perfectionism. Maybe it’s just to kill ti.
***
By eight o’clock, his mother’s barbershop is already open. Ryoma’s dressed and ready to leave, but he’s still sitting by the window, waiting for soone.
Fumiko sweeps the floor quietly, stealing glances at him through the mirror. The worry she used to feel has softened.
Ryoma still diets and cuts weight, but there’s a calm confidence about him now. He doesn’t look nearly as miserable as he used to during past weigh-ins.
"Did you eat the breakfast I left on the table?" she asks.
Ryoma shakes his head. "No. I’m fasting until the weigh-in."
"Weigh-in? When’s that?"
"Around noon."
"That’s still a while, isn’t it..."
"You don’t need to worry, Mom. Hiroshi’s handling everything. When it cos to nutrition, he’s even noisier than any girl I’ve ever t."
Fumiko smiles faintly. "That’s... oddly reassuring."
After more than an hour of waiting, the door finally opens. Hiroshi’s there, looking sharp as always. But this ti he isn’t alone; Aramaki, Okabe, and Ryohei are tagging along too.
Fumiko blinks in surprise at the sudden crowd. "Whoa... are you all fighting tomorrow?"
"Nope, just Aramaki," Ryoma says, standing and grabbing his jacket. "Well, I’m off then."
The three of them leave, but Okabe and Ryohei stay behind.
"What about you two?" Fumiko asks.
"Ah, we... we need a cut," Okabe says with an awkward grin.
Ryohei shoots him a glare. "We? No. He does. I’m fine with my hair."
Fumiko chuckles, gesturing toward the chair. "All right then, Okabe, have a seat."
Truth is, it was Okabe’s idea yesterday, to stay behind and keep Ryoma’s mother company until Ryoma is back from the weigh-in. He called it "gym brotherhood."
But now, sitting in front of the mirror, staring at hair that’s already short enough, he starts to regret that noble impulse.
"So, how would you like it cut?" Fumiko asks. "It’s already short, you know. And it actually suits your face quite well."
"No, no... it’s not fierce enough. I wanna look more... dangerous."
"Dangerous?"
"Yeah! You know, like a serious fighter kind of look. Just... choose whatever works."
Fumiko smiles kindly as she picks up the scissors. "All right then, I’ll do my best."
***
Early afternoon.
Ryoma looks fresher now. The weigh-in went smoother than any he’d had before.
The only chaos ca from Ayano’s mouth. The guy didn’t stop talking, calling out soundbites to every cara he could find.
It wasn’t even trash talk, just noise, like he was trying to pull every journalist’s attention his way.
"Man, that guy doesn’t shut up, huh?" Aramaki says as the two of them walk side by side toward the barbershop. "If talking burned calories, he’d make weight three tis a day."
Ryoma exhales a short laugh. "Guess that’s one way to train your jaw muscles."
They both laugh, the sound light and easy, carried by the winter wind.
But the mont they step into the barbershop, they both freeze.
On the bench, Okabe sits stiffly, his expression caught sowhere between regret and despair.
His head is shaved bald on both sides, with only a narrow strip of hair left running down the middle, like a half-plucked mohawk.
Then Ryoma bursts out laughing, loud enough to make his mother jump. Aramaki covers his mouth, doing a terrible job of hiding it.
"Okabe! Wha... what the hell happened to you?!"
From the counter, Fumiko leans back on her stool, a cigarette between her fingers. With a small flick, she knocks the ash into the tray.
"He wanted to look fierce," she says with casual smile.
Aramaki finally loses it, wheezing between laughs. "Fierce? He looks like he lost a fight with the clippers!"
"Shut up!" Okabe snaps, face burning red. "It looked good in my head!"
Ryoma grins wide, leaning on the counter. "Wait, wait... maybe this’ll be your secret weapon. You won’t need to scare your opponent. Just make them laugh so hard they can’t throw a punch."
Ryohei bursts out laughing. "Yeah, psychological warfare!"
The laughter fills the small barbershop, light and easy, bouncing off the mirrors and walls.
Amid all the noise, Ryoma wipes a tear of laughter from his eye. Then he sees his mother, and her almost playful smile.
It’s small, but real, the kind of smile he hasn’t seen in a long ti. And sohow, it quiets everything else.
For the first ti in months, he feels that maybe, everything’s going to be all right this ti.
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