By the ti the taxi bringing Ryoma back to his neighborhood reaches the street where his mother’s barbershop stands, it is already close to ten at night.
Ryoma glances through the window as the familiar storefront cos into view. The shutters are already down, and the lights inside are completely dark.
At this hour the street itself is nearly empty. Most of the nearby businesses have already closed, and the glow from a few distant street lamps stretches long shadows across the pavent.
"Keep going," Ryoma tells the driver quietly. "Just a little further."
The taxi rolls past the darkened barbershop and continues deeper into the sa neighborhood. A minute later it stops in front of a modest apartnt building only a short walk away.
Ryoma pays the fare, steps out, and watches the taxi disappear down the street before turning toward the building.
The outside stairway creaks faintly under his weight as he climbs. The night air feels cool against his skin after the tension of the evening.
When he reaches the second floor, he walks along the narrow corridor, already pulling the apartnt key from his pocket.
The tal key slides into the lock with a soft click. Ryoma pushes the door open and steps inside.
"I’m ho."
In the living room, his mother is sitting on the sofa in front of the television. The light from the screen flickers quietly across the room.
At the sound of his voice, she quickly waves her hand to disperse the thin trail of cigarette smoke hanging in the air before pinching the burning stub into the ashtray on the coffee table.
"You should try to quit that habit, Mom," Ryoma says while closing the door behind him. "If you can’t stop completely, at least cut down."
His mother snorts lightly. "What are you talking about? That’s the first cigarette I’ve had all week."
She leans back against the sofa, folding her arms as she looks at him. "When your son disappears from a gym that’s only two blocks from my shop and doesn’t co ho for hours, I think I’ve earned one cigarette."
Ryoma exhales quietly. "Sorry I’m late," he says. "I didn’t get the chance to cook tonight."
He walks over to the refrigerator and opens the door, the cold light spilling across the kitchen. From inside he grabs a chilled bottle of Surge Blue, twisting the cap loose before taking a long drink.
"Did you eat already?" he asks.
"I did," his mother replies. "I had dinner with the Aramaki family at Shimizu’s Soba."
Ryoma pauses slightly at that, the bottle halfway to his lips as he considers her words.
"Aramaki stopped by the gym looking for you," she continues, her eyes narrowing slightly. "The coaches there said you left before dusk. He tried calling you after that, but your phone couldn’t be reached. Everyone started worrying."
Ryoma lowers the bottle slowly. "I had a sudden eting with a sponsor," he answers after a mont. "It dragged on longer than I expected."
He shrugs lightly. "I couldn’t leave my phone on. It would’ve interrupted the discussion."
The explanation cos out calmly, almost casually. After another sip from the bottle, he turns and walks toward the narrow staircase leading up to the loft where his room sits above the living area.
The wooden steps creak faintly under his weight as he begins climbing. From the sofa, his mother continues watching him with a long, searching look.
"Do you want to prepare so hot water?" she asks after a mont. "You look exhausted."
Ryoma continues climbing the stairs, his voice drifting down from the loft. "I’m really tired. I think I’ll just go straight to sleep."
***
The small room above the living area is dim. Ryoma drops his bag beside the bed and barely bothers to look around before letting his body fall backward onto the mattress.
He does not even change his clothes. The training suit clings to his skin, stiff in places where sweat from the whole day’s workout has already dried.
His muscles ache with a dull heaviness that settles deep into his bones. For a while he simply lies there, staring at the ceiling.
The events from the hotel replay again and again inside his mind. The mont the gun was raised.
The twitch of the finger on the trigger. The quiet panic spreading across the room when everything turned against them.
Even now, a faint thrill lingers in his chest. Eventually, however, the exhaustion wins.
His eyes grow heavier with every passing minute. Still wearing the sweat-soaked training suit, Ryoma finally drifts into sleep.
And hours pass. And soti deep into the night, his body begins to react to the strain he forced it through.
The dried sweat clings uncomfortably to his skin beneath the thick fabric. His muscles remain locked in a state of fatigue, unable to fully relax after the long day.
The air in the room feels strangely heavy, pressing against his chest as if the weight of sleep itself is holding him down.
Ryoma tries to move. But his body refuses to respond.
His breathing grows shallow. Each breath feels thinner than the last, as if the air around him has suddenly beco too dense to pull into his lungs.
A pressure settles across his chest, squeezing slowly tighter. His eyelids remain closed, yet his mind begins drifting into a half-conscious state where dream and mory blend together.
And suddenly he is sowhere else. The noise of a crowded bar fills the air.
Laughter rises from every table as glasses clink together in celebration. Ryoma stands near the counter, clutching a small betting ticket in his hand.
"Drinks on !" he shouts, holding the winning ticket high. "Drink like it’s the end of the world! I may not have the money, but look at this ticket."
The mory feels painfully clear. The excitent, the pride, the rush of adrenaline after a perfect night of betting.
In his good mood he had decided to treat everyone around him to drinks, ordering round after round while strangers congratulated him.
Soone raises a glass toward him with a wide grin. "That’s a hell of a win, man!"
Another stranger laughs and slaps Ryoma on the shoulder. "You’ve got a magic touch tonight. Don’t stop betting now."
A third voice joins in from sowhere near the counter. "Hey! Another round for this table! The champ’s paying!"
Glasses clink loudly as people lean closer, drawn by the easy excitent of a lucky winner sharing the mont.
The room is warm, loud, and overflowing with celebration.
Then the door opens.
Ryoma turns toward the entrance. His eyes blink once as he looks at the newcors.
"You wanna have a drink too?" he says casually.
Bang!
The first shot slams into his chest.
Bang!
The second follows instantly.
This nightmare has co to him countless tis before. Usually the mont the bullets hit, he wakes up instantly. But this ti is different. He does not wake.
Instead he lies on the floor, unable to move, his cheek pressed against the wood while warm blood slowly spreads beneath his body.
Breathing becos a desperate struggle. Each inhale feels thin and incomplete, as if his lungs have forgotten how to work.
The noise of the bar begins collapsing into chaos. People scream, chairs scrape violently as custors scramble away from the gunfire.
Through the haze of fading consciousness, Ryoma’s vision drifts toward the entrance.
The shooters are already turning away. And for the first ti, he manages to catch a glimpse of them.
Not clearly, only fragnts as they move toward the door. Tall figures in dark clothing. Pale faces that stand out sharply among the crowd.
One of them turns slightly as he walks, and Ryoma catches a brief glimpse of a burnt scar running along the sideburn near his ear.
Foreign features that feel strangely out of place in a bar so close to Kōrakuen Hall. The thought surfaces weakly in his mind as his vision begins to blur.
"Who...?"
"Why...?"
They leave without looking back. anwhile Ryoma remains on the floor, drowning slowly in the sound of his own failing breaths.
His chest refuses to rise properly. His lungs burn with every shallow gasp. Blood keeps spreading beneath him, warm and thick, soaking the side of his face.
Ti stretches endlessly.
Then suddenly...
Arrrghh!!!
Ryoma’s eyes snap open. A violent gasp tears from his throat as air rushes back into his lungs. His body jerks against the mattress as if he has just surfaced from deep water.
For a mont he cannot understand where he is. His cheek is pressed deep into the blanket, almost the sa position he had lain in inside the dream. The fabric had pressed against his mouth, making every breath thin and suffocating.
He rolls onto his back with another rough inhale. And the room spins faintly above him.
His chest rises and falls rapidly while he struggles to steady his breathing. Sweat clings to his skin, soaking the already filthy training suit that still covers his body.
Ryoma slowly pushes himself upright and sits on the edge of the bed.
His lungs still burn from the panic of the nightmare. Even after waking, the mory of those shallow, dying breaths refuses to fade.
For several seconds Ryoma remains hunched forward, breathing hard in the silent apartnt. The detail nags at him, stirring the uneasy feeling it might connect to the n from the hotel earlier.
The n with the burnt scar sohow looked like Iuliano, except that Iuliano back in the hotel didn’t have the burnt scar.
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