Sunday, March 8th, 2015. Afternoon.
Ryoma glares at his cupboard like it has personally betrayed him. Hoodies, jeans, T-shirts so faded they looks allergic to color.
At twenty-nine, he knew how to dress for the room. At nineteen, everything he owns scream arcade run or cheap ran date. None of it whispers exclusive dinner at Quintessence.
Still, he tries. Out cos the graduation suit, pants clinging short at his ankles, jacket choking his chest. The seams groan whenever he moves.
And then his Vision Grid flickers its verdict:
***
[Outfit Analysis]
Jacket Fit: 18% ("Imminent rupture detected.")
Style Relevance: –42% ("You look like a child forced into Sunday church clothes.")
Cumulative Assessnt: Catastrophic. Do Not Leave House.
***
"Yeah, yeah, screw you too," Ryoma mutters, yanking it off.
The hoodie and jeans go on instead.
***
[Outfit Analysis]
Hoodie Fit: 76% ("Comfortable, conceals poor posture.")
Style Relevance: 34% ("You could pass as a first-year university student, maybe.")
Social Projection: 22% ("Likelihood of being mistaken for soone important: near zero.")
Cumulative Assessnt: Casual. Juvenile. But survivable.
***
He exhales. "Guess we’re going with this."
It’s not how you’re supposed to walk into Quintessence. But tonight, at seven, he’ll have to, because it’s the only version of himself his closet can give him.
***
By evening, Shirokanedai’s streets gleam beneath lamplight, Quintessence looming like a temple of glass and silver. Ryoma braces himself, knowing exactly how a nineteen-year-old in a hoodie would look at its door.
And precisely...
"Excuse , young man," the staff says politely, yet with an edge. "Are you lost? Did your mother drop you nearby?"
"I’m here for a eting," Ryoma says, voice flat.
"And who might that be with?"
"...Kirizu. Daigo Kirizu."
Recognition cracks the host’s mask. "My apologies, sir. Please, co inside."
One he steps inside, the hush swallows him whole, heads turn, forks freeze. Crystal glasses glitter like eyes tracking his hoodie across velvet carpet.
At the far end sits Daigo Kirizu. The older man’s hand lifts halfway in greeting, hesitates, then settles into a polished smile a second too late.
"Takeda-kun! Over here."
And there, Ryoma’s Vision Grid confirms sothing to him:
***
[Target Scan: Kirizu Daigo]
Initial Expression: eyebrow tension increases, micro-hesitation in gesture (1.7 sec).
Social Read: reluctance to signal recognition in public setting.
Correction Behavior: forced smile, incongruent with ocular micro-muscles (71% probability of dishonesty).
Motive Projection: active concealnt → intent to maintain affinity despite discomfort.
Conclusion: Target’s reception categorized as "surface-level welco."
Recomndation: anticipate dirty tricks and fraudulence.
***
Ryoma pulls out the chair without asking. "So tell , Kirizu-san," his voice cut low, "ashad to be seen with ? Is it the hoodie? Or just that I don’t fit your polished little world?"
Kirizu’s smile twitches. Then he chuckles smoothly, voice rich with practiced warmth. "Sharp instincts. I like that. Maybe you look out of place now, but a rough stone doesn’t stay rough forever. And you know what? I’ve grown skilled at polishing stones."
The waiter drifts near. "Sothing to eat, perhaps?"
Kirizu gestures. "Order whatever you like. Quintessence creates experiences, not just als."
Ryoma’s Vision Grid lights up again:
***
[Behavioral Correlation: 81% match → tactic: favor trap.]
***
Ryoma leans back. "So that’s the trick. Treat to dinner, make feel I owe you." He chuckles slightly and then shakes his head. "Just water. I’m on a strict diet."
For a split second, Kirizu’s smile falters. Then he snaps his fingers. "Sparkling water for him. Chef’s course for ."
The waiter bows, taking the order, and drifts away. And the air grows quieter, heavier, as though stripped of distractions.
Ryoma leans back, crossing his arms across his chest. "I already know you want sothing from . So instead of treating like so clueless teenager, why don’t we just get straight to business?"
Kirizu studies him in silence for a beat. He had expected an easy mark, a hot-blooded kid who could be dazzled with fine dining and sweet talk. But the boy sitting across from him wasn’t that. Ryoma Takeda wasn’t biting at the bait.
And so, his charm sharpens into authority, showing his hand, the weight of a man who commands respect in Japan’s boxing world.
"The commission listed you Class-C, didn’t they? Strange. A two-ti Interhigh gold dalist. With that record, most boys would’ve been Class-B. Perhaps the problem isn’t you... but where you chose to stand."
The words cut. Ryoma’s jaw tenses, but he says nothing.
"And Nakahara," Kirizu presses, eyes gleaming, "ten, fifteen years in the profession? Can you na even one ranked fighter under him?"
The words lands like a hamr. For a mont Ryoma’s silence looks like doubt. But the fire rising behind it isn’t confusion. He feels offended.
"Coach Nakahara’s not a failure," Ryoma says at last, voice steady but edged. "He’s just had bad luck... fighters with no discipline, no drive. But I’ll change that."
Kirizu leans back, smile pitying. "You really think you can do that?"
Ryoma slightly raises an eyebrow.
"Don’t mistake ," Kirizu says. "I know your worth. The fact that I’ve set my eyes on you, that alone is recognition of your talent. But..."
His voice dips lower, like a whisper ant to press directly into Ryoma’s ears.
"Talent alone is never enough. You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? Young n, brilliant, fast, shining too bright too soon... and then broken, forgotten, before they even got their first true chance."
Ryoma tilts his head. "So you’re promising I’ll make it?"
"Nothing’s certain," Kirizu says smoothly. "But with , the odds tilt in your favor."
Ryoma leans back, his stare sharpening. Then he drops the real weight of his thought.
"...And if I disappoint you? You’ll toss aside for the next stone worth polishing, won’t you?"
Kirizu’s lips part, but no answer cos. For once, the smooth words don’t line up. His fist tightens beneath the table, trembling faintly against his knee, hidden but real.
Ryoma doesn’t let the silence breathe. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping low and steady, the kind of voice that cuts because it carries no anger, only certainty.
"I already know how this business works. Like I said, you better stop treating like a naïve kid."
Kirizu shoots back with calm steel. "With Nakahara, it’s the sa story. If you fail, he’ll abandon you too. That’s just how this world works. Nobody bets on a broken horse."
Ryoma chuckles, shaking his head. "You really don’t get it."
The thing is, in his previous life, Ryoma was that broken horse. But Coach Nakahara never abandoned him. That loyalty is worth more than any polished smile.
And so, without giving it any second thought, Ryoma pushes back his chair.
"This talk ends here. Enjoy your al."
Without even the faint courtesy expected in a place like Quintessence, Ryoma leaves without a bow.
To him, their business is over. But to Daigo Kirizu, it isn’t.
Kirizu’s fingers tighten against the polished table, the smile still fixed to his face like a mask. But beneath that calm exterior, anger coils like a snake, patient but venomous, waiting for the right mont to strike.
He has dined with champions, whispered deals into the ears of promoters, and raised n from obscurity into stardom. To be dismissed by a nineteen-year-old boy in a hoodie, without reverence or fear, lands not as a rejection, but as an insult.
"Ryoma Takeda..." he grumbles coldly. "If I cannot have you, then I’ll make certain to crush you."
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