Kenta doesn’t respond right away. The words sit there, and for a mont, he can’t quite pin them down. It sounds like an offer, or sothing close to it, but Jackson never says it outright. It leaves just enough room for interpretation, and that’s what makes it harder to read.
Kenta’s eyes stay on Jackson, but the tension in his expression shifts slightly. There’s a flicker of uncertainty now. Because if he follows that line of thought, there’s only one direction it leads.
He glances briefly toward Reika, and sothing clicks into place, pulling up a mory he didn’t expect to revisit.
There was a ti when Ryoma stood in a situation like this, facing their father, Logan Rhodes, with the sa kind of weight behind the conversation, the sa sense that sothing was being offered without being said directly.
Back then, it made sense. Ryoma had always been the one people looked at that way, a rare kind of prodigy you might see once in a decade, if not once in a generation.
But for Kenta, he feels this doesn’t fit him. Whatever Jackson is implying, it doesn’t sit right with how he sees himself.
Before Kenta can respond, Jackson lifts a hand to his collar and loosens his tie slightly, as if settling into the conversation rather than backing away from it.
"I know the ring doctor was bought," he says, his tone calm, almost casual. "That’s what everyone is thinking right now."
Kenta’s expression tightens imdiately, the shift subtle but unmistakable as his eyes narrow and his jaw sets, tension gathering beneath the surface.
"But I want you to understand sothing," Jackson continues, his gaze steady. "I had nothing to do with what happened in your fight against Della Cruz."
"Bullshit..." Kenta cuts in, the word slipping out without restraint.
"But I do know who did it," Jackson continues simply. "And why."
Before he can continue, a waitress approaches, her steps asured, her voice soft but clear as she stops beside Reika.
"Good evening. May I take your order?"
The interruption cuts cleanly through the tension. Reika startles slightly, the reaction betraying a flicker of anxiety that Kenta might resent her for this.
She recovers almost at once, straightening up and smoothing it over with a polite smile as she reaches for the nu, her eyes dropping to it a beat too quickly.
"Ah... yes," she says, scanning the page without really reading it. "I’ll have..."
She picks sothing at random, more to fill the silence than out of preference, then looks up toward Kenta, trying to keep her tone light.
"What about you, Kenta?"
Kenta doesn’t answer. His gaze stays distant, unfocused on the nu, his body still carrying that sa resistance as before. If anything, the interruption only seems to make it clearer that he doesn’t want to be here at all.
Reika feels the distance. And it presses in on her, sharper than before. She’s seen this once before with Ryoma, sothing she doesn’t want to happen again.
Jackson notices the tension. Before the mont can stretch any further, he shifts slightly and catches the waitress’s attention.
"May I see the nu?" he asks, his tone calm and composed.
The waitress nods and hands it over. Jackson takes it without looking up, already flipping it open, his focus settling on the pages as if the tension at the table isn’t worth acknowledging.
That small shift creates just enough space. Reika exhales quietly, then leans slightly toward Kenta, her voice lower now.
"Kenta, please understand," she says. "I’m just trying to help you. That’s all."
Kenta still doesn’t answer her. His gaze shifts past Reika and settles on Jackson, as if she’s no longer there.
Jackson turns a page, still scanning the nu, and begins speaking without looking up. "There’s no real gain for in this situation. Just saying, I don’t actually operate in your division."
Another page turns before he continues. "I have a champion at light heavyweight right now, Adrian Voss. And one in the UFC, Mateo Silva. That’s where my focus is."
He pauses briefly, eyes still on the nu. "Welterweight hasn’t interested for the past five years." He closes the nu and finally lifts his gaze to Kenta. "Until I saw your fight."
He holds that look for a second, expression steady, serious, letting the weight of it settle. Then, just as smoothly, he turns back toward the waitress, the shift almost casual.
"I’ll have the wagyu course. And a bottle of red. Sothing balanced."
Then he slides the nu across the table toward Kenta. "Don’t take this too far," he adds, tone easing just enough. "We invited you here. The least we can do is make sure you eat. Nothing more."
Kenta’s expression shifts slightly, the tension in his face easing just enough as his attention drops to the nu now in front of him.
For a mont, he just looks at it. The silence stretches, but not in the sa way as before. The edge of his hostility doesn’t disappear, but it loosens.
The thing is, it’s never sat naturally with him to hold onto that kind of tension for too long. It doesn’t fit who he is. It’s not just who Kenta is.
And maybe, sowhere in the back of his mind, Jackson’s words have settled more than he wants to admit.
Kenta exhales quietly, then pulls the nu a little closer, not out of interest, but simply basic courtesy. He scans the page briefly, not taking much ti to consider, his finger stopping on one of the set nus.
"I’ll just have the grilled sea bass course," he says, indicating the item before handing the nu back.
Reika lets out a small breath she didn’t realize she was holding, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly, while Jackson’s smile sharpens just a fraction as he glances at Kenta.
After that, the mood shifts. The edge softens, and the table settles into sothing that could pass as a normal dinner. The courses arrive one by one, and for a while, the three of them focus on the food, the conversation falling into a quiet pause that feels almost natural.
Jackson is the first to break it again, speaking casually without lifting his attention from his al.
"What you showed in those last two rounds was sothing else," Jackson says, his tone casual, almost conversational. "At that mont, I wasn’t just thinking about a regional champion. I was seeing soone who could beco the face of boxing that rules the welterweight division."
He pauses, then lifts his knife slightly, the gesture subtle but deliberate as he angles it toward Kenta. "Soone who draws attention naturally for the next five years," he continues, "maybe even ten, if you’re disciplined enough to maintain that level."
Kenta’s brows lift slightly, the reaction slow and unguarded, caught off guard in a way he doesn’t hide. There’s a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, sothing that doesn’t quite align with how he’s been seeing himself.
Just yesterday, he had already made up his mind. Sitting alone in his room, he had been ready to hang up his gloves, to walk away from boxing entirely. The loss had settled in that deeply.
And now, in the span of a few words, that certainty slips. The weight of it fades just enough for sothing else to take its place. Sothing he hasn’t allowed himself to feel since the fight. The thought of going further. The thought of becoming more.
Jackson, on the other hand, doesn’t linger on it. He simply lowers his knife, cutting into the wagyu again as if he hadn’t just said anything significant.
"But I’ll be frank," he continues, his tone even, almost indifferent. "As long as you stay in that small gym... and forgive for being blunt, but that’s just the reality... you’re not going anywhere."
Kenta’s attention drops back to his plate, but he doesn’t move to eat. His hand rests still, the fork untouched as his thoughts turn inward.
"And as long as you’re with Ryoma Takeda," Jackson adds, "you won’t reach anything."
There’s no hesitation in the way he says it. And Kenta doesn’t argue, because sowhere underneath it, he knows there’s truth in what’s being said.
Jackson continues eating, unbothered. "I’m not questioning the kid’s potential. It’s because he’s that dangerous. He draws attention. He makes enemies. Not just to himself, but to everyone around him."
He finishes the cut, taking his ti, letting the silence sit before setting the knife and fork down neatly on the plate. He reaches for his napkin, wiping his mouth with a calm, practiced motion before turning his full attention back to Kenta.
"We’re about the sa age, Kenta. " he says, his tone shifting slightly, more personal now. "But I’ve been in that kid’s position before. When I was his age, stepping into this business, I went through the sa thing he’s going through right now."
He leans back slightly, his gaze steady. "That’s just how it works. The mont you start taking too much, the people around you don’t sit quietly and let it happen."
Jackson takes a slow sip from his glass, then exhales quietly, his gaze drifting toward the glass wall and the city lights beyond.
"Maybe one day he’ll reach where I am. But that takes ti. Three years at the very least. Maybe five."
There’s another brief pause, just enough to let the thought settle before he turns back to Kenta.
"Now think about yourself. With where you are right now... with your age... can you afford to wait that long?"
User Comments
0 comments from readers