Across the gym, Ryoma sits on a bench, peeling the gloves from his hands, but his eyes never leave the old man.
To anyone else, he's still just the new guy here, barely a few months in. But Ryoma knows more than they could guess. In another life, Nakahara had stuck by him even after his career had crumbled, even after he had become little more than a shadow of a boxer. That kind of debt doesn't fade.
And it's for that same reason he can't erase the image his sharp eyes caught, the one now burned into his mind.
The thin smear of blood at the corner of Nakahara's lips…
The tremble in his fingers…
And Shimamura's casual disrespect before that careless blow to the old man's face.
Ryoma unwinds the tape from his fists, slow and methodical, each pull scraping against his skin like it's dragging his thoughts to the surface. The strips fall away in loose curls, baring knuckles
In his chest, hatred pounds like a war drum.
"That bastard… I'll make him bleed for that."
***
As Ryoma prepares to leave, Coach Nakahara calls him.
"Kid! Come here for a sec!"
Ryoma gives back the gloves to Coach Hiroshi and follows the old man to his office. Inside, Coach Nakahara reaches into a drawer, pulls out an envelope, and drops it on his desk.
"That's yours," he says. "They gave us ¥220,000. But don't get too excited. It's not all yours. The gym keeps the lights on by taking its cut."
Ryoma pulls it closer, peeking inside. He knows how it works, but he doesn't feel like counting it here. So he simply asks:
"How much after your cut?"
"Normally, you'd keep sixty percent," Coach Nakahara says. "I actually thought about giving you seventy. Rookie debut, Ryōgoku crowd, first-round KO… But after this morning?"
He gently shakes his head, leans back in his chair, fingers interlacing.
"What you're asking me to pull off… finding you sparring partners on short notice, arranging the kind of bouts that'll push your name high enough for a title shot… that's weeks, maybe months, of favors, phone calls, and swallowing pride at other gyms. For a low-profile outfit like ours, that's extra time, extra cost."
"So?" Ryoma asks.
"All I ask is 50:50, just for this one," Nakahara replies. "I need the money for the extra work you expect me to do. That's if it's okay with you."
Ryoma pauses, the envelope suddenly heavier in his hands. For a nineteen-year-old with his background, that amount would be huge.
But he's not nineteen inside. He's a twenty-nine-year-old soul. He knows exactly how far ¥110,000 really goes.
A faint crease shows between his brows. And Coach Nakahara spots that flicker of disappointment.
"Don't look at me like that," he says, voice sharpening just slightly. "This is how the business works. At least I show you the real money before taking my cut."
"So we split it, huh?" Ryoma scoffs, his eyes still showing objection.
"You impudent brat," Coach Nakahara shoots back, though not too harsh. "Until you're selling out arenas or headlining cards, boxing doesn't pay. You want more? You bring in bigger crowds, or you bring home a belt."
Ryoma lifts his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I'm not that ignorant. Actually…" — a faint grin — "…this just gives me more reason to get that belt as soon as possible."
Ultimately, he only takes five pieces of ¥10,000 and openly shows them to Coach Nakahara. He teases him with a grin and puts the rest of the money along with the envelope on the desk.
The old man squints. "Kid…"
"Just take it as an investment," Ryoma says. "I'm still nineteen. I'm afraid having too much money at this stage will only ruin my future."
Nakahara exhales through his nose, lips curling in a half-snarl that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He picks up the envelope, muttering something under his breath about "cocky little punks" while slipping it back into the drawer.
For a second, his gaze lingers on Ryoma, sharp and measuring, before he waves him off with a flick of his fingers, as if shooing away a stray cat he secretly doesn't mind hanging around.
"Now get out of here," he dismisses. "Take a full week off, and I mean it this time. Don't come back until I call you, or I'll chain the damn doors shut myself."
Ryoma slips the remaining bills into his pocket, the grin fading into something colder. Deep down, this isn't charity to the old man or his rundown gym. It's a gamble, one more high-risk play for the sake of his legacy.
In his previous life, he'd chased the tables, the horses, the long odds. Not for the money, but for the rush that came from bending the odds to his will. Win or lose, it was always the same itch: bet big, force the game to move.
This isn't any different. Leaving most of his payday on Nakahara's desk isn't generosity. It's a bait to draw the old man in, to make him commit, fully, to shaping a one-year sprint toward the belt.
Coach Nakahara only sees a nineteen-year-old rookie. But he'll never know he's already been dealt into Ryoma's game.
High risk, high gain.
And if it failed?
Ryoma had survived far worse busts before.
***
In another corner of Tokyo, sunlight poured over the polished floors of Kirizume Boxing Gym as yesterday's loser steps inside.
The chatter dies the moment Kazuya Tōjō steps through the door. Gloves pause mid-wrap, jump ropes slow, even the heavy bags seem to swing quieter.
No one says a word. No mocking smiles, no cheap digs about his first loss. But those eyes, too many of them, watch him in a way they never dared before.
Yesterday, those same people wouldn't have met his gaze for more than two seconds. Now, they look straight at him, like the shine of his four-and-oh record was gone and they were suddenly his equals.
The knot in Tōjō's jaw tightens with every step toward the manager's office.
"...What the hell are you all staring at?" he mutters, voice low. Then, sharper, it bursts out at someone nearby. "You got a problem?!"
The kid quickly drops his gaze. Still just a high schooler, he's never seriously considered stepping into the pro ring, let alone facing Tōjō's wrath after his first loss.
Tōjō just strides past him, gazing with deadly stare, jaw locked tight.
He barely slept since last night. And he should be at home for a full rest. But the thought of a debutant kid, walking away with his win, eats at him worse than the pain.
He's here for one reason, demands a rematch. But when he steps into the manager's office, the words die in his throat.
Coach Kirizume isn't alone. Sitting beside him is Renji Kuroiwa, the Japanese Lightweight Champion. His belt isn't here, but the weight of his presence fills the room.
On the wall-mounted flat screen, a frame glows: Tōjō himself, down in the corner, with Ryoma standing over him.
Renji doesn't take his eyes off the screen as he speaks.
"He's a monster."
The words land like a punch to Tōjō's ribs.
He takes a step closer, eyes flicking to the video just as it starts to roll again. But it's only the aftermath; none of the exchange that put him down, none of the strange impossible thing that happened in those last few seconds when he thought he had the kid cornered.
It's something he called as a fluke. But now, Renji Kuroiwa, the man who's sat on the top of the mountain for years, calling Ryoma a monster?
Tōjō feels something sink in his gut.
If that man takes Ryoma seriously…
Then maybe last night wasn't a fluke after all.