Outwardly, he looks stubborn, maybe even reckless, the sa Ryoma everyone knows. But inside, it’s different.
He once told himself this tournant was only for small fry. That it wasn’t worth his ti. But then Aramaki bled for every second of their fight and made a liar out of him.
Walking away now would feel like spitting on that effort, on the fire Aramaki carried into the ring.
His right knuckle’s still throbbing, each pulse like a drumbeat, daring him to admit he’s finished. But...
"Sorry, Coach," Ryoma says at last, dragging Nakahara’s attention back to him. His voice is hoarse but steady. "I can’t stop here."
Hiroshi lets out a short, dry laugh. "Didn’t you say that what you’re after is way down the road, not here?"
"I did." Ryoma nods once. "But if I throw the next fight... then tonight was just a wasted pain."
He glances at Hiroshi, and then turns to Nakahara, lifting his chin. His face is bruised, but his eyes hard, a stubborn fire burning in them.
"I took Aramaki’s dream from him. Now I have to carry it. I won’t drop it halfway."
Nakahara doesn’t answer, his silence hangs heavy in the room. The question isn’t whether Ryoma wants to keep going. It’s whether he can carry it on, with a right hand that might already be broken.
After a mont in deep thought, Nakahara crouches in front of Ryoma again, trying to gather the right words, sothing that might cut through his boxer’s stubbornness.
His mouth opens, but suddenly, a knock cos at the door. The sound is soft, almost polite, but it lands like an intrusion.
Nakahara’s brow twitches, irritation sparking hot in his eyes as he snaps his head toward the noise.
"I said fuck off!" he shouts, voice ragged with exhaustion and anger. "Didn’t I tell you to leave us alone?"
It’s the kind of irritation you get from journalists who won’t quit, especially ridiculous when you’re not even that popular yet.
For a beat there’s silence, and then a hesitant voice replies.
"Um... Coach! It’s us!"
The heat drains from Nakahara’s face. That’s clearly Kenta’s voice.
In that instant, the words Nakahara ant for Ryoma vanish unspoken. With a weary sigh he straightens, and trudges to the door.
When he opens it, Kenta stands there with his phone raised proudly like a trophy. Okabe and Ryohei flank him, while further back Aki and Reika linger in the corridor, uncertain whether they belong here.
"As ordered, I recorded Kanzaki’s fight against Kurobane," Kenta says brightly, waving his phone with a grin
But soon, the grin in his face falters. His eyes drift past Nakahara toward the dim room behind him.
"So... how’s Ryoma? Is he okay?"
Nakahara doesn’t answer. But his expression tells everything, grim and unrest. He steps aside to let his boxers in, but his arm blocks the doorway when Aki and Reika attempt to follow.
"Not today," he says, his tone even but unyielding. "We’re not ready for interviews. Our gym is always open for you, but not this door. Not right now."
Aki hesitates. Her eyes flicker past him, just for a mont, catching the shape of Ryoma hunched on the bench, and Hiroshi bent over him, the steady drip of lting ice onto the floor.
That glimpse tells her everything, and she understands well enough. Hence, she bows deeply, murmurs her understanding, and stays bowed until Nakahara closes the door in silence.
For a mont she remains still, staring at the fra. Even that sliver of a scene inside confirms it.
"Can’t help it," she says, turning to Reika with a shrug. "He must’ve really hurt his fist back there, and it’s reasonable they want to hide it for now."
Reika lingers beside her, gaze locked on the sa door, eyes narrowing. She saw enough too, Ryoma’s grimace in the ring, his faltering strikes, and now this protective silence from the gym.
The picture is clear. And slowly, a smile curves her lips, as if a suspicion has just been confird: Ryoma wasn’t running away like a coward. He was just badly injured, yet kept fighting to the end.
***
Before they finally leave, movent down the corridor catches Reika’s eyes. It’s Kaede, approaching with Aemi at her side, while two other coworkers wait at the end of the corridor.
At once Reika straightens, her posture deliberate, one hand on her hip, chin lifted in the faintest tilt of challenge. She waits, poised, as the two draw near.
"You’re here to see Ryoma too?" she asks, her voice smooth but sharpened underneath.
Kaede halts, caught off guard by the bluntness. "Y-yes," she replies, dipping her head slightly, her tone cautious.
Reika studies her own polished nails with careful indifference, filing an invisible edge, her gaze never once lifting toward Kaede.
"Sorry," she says. "Coach Nakahara left this to us. No one gets through."
Aki frowns, puzzled. Nakahara hadn’t said exactly that, though his tone earlier did carry the sa weight. She can’t call it a lie, but she knows Reika is twisting the truth to her own ends.
"You watched the fight, didn’t you?" Reika presses forward. "You must have seen how badly he struggled. Right now he needs quiet, not visitors. Surely you understand."
Kaede’s mouth tightens. She doesn’t like the implication, that she, of all people, needs to be reminded of Ryoma’s needs. Still, she controls her expression, bowing stiffly.
"I understand," she says. "Please tell him Kaede Hayama was here."
When she straightens, she doesn’t move away at once. Her eyes hold Reika’s, steady and unblinking, a silent clash of wills. Neither girl looks away, the air between them strung taut like a wire.
"Co, Aemi. We’re leaving."
She says that, but still not turning away, as if there’s still an unspoken ssage yet to be delivered.
Aemi pouts openly. "That’s so unfair. I wanted a picture with your boyfriend. I just know he’s going to be popular soon, and then we’ll never get another chance."
Kaede’s answer cos quick, sharper than she intends. "Don’t worry. My bond with him is stronger than you think."
The words are aid at Aemi, but they hit Reika squarely, like a blade laid across the air between them.
Only after that declaration does Kaede turn and stride away, her heels clicking. Aemi follows reluctantly behind, gaze shifting back and forth between Reika and Kaede.
Then she leans close, whispering as they go. "Hey, Kaede... who was that girl?"
Kaede doesn’t look back. Only her shoulders lift faintly in a shrug, her gaze locked forward, her face arranged in calm detachnt.
"Just... no one," she says.
But the lie is thin. Inside, unease coils tight in her chest, the kind of unease you feel when you leave sothing precious unguarded, knowing soone else has already set their eyes on it.
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