Nakahara's hand trembles as he holds out the gumshield, the small piece of rubber suddenly heavy. The deep lines on his face seem carved deeper by shame. His posture sags, like a man already bracing for the anger he knows he deserves.
"Sorry, kid." His voice cracks, low and uneven. "My hand… just moved on its own."
Ryoma stares at the gumshield. His jaw tightens, annoyance flickering.
But still…
"…I get it." He exhales. "You did what a Second's supposed to do. This is just a spar. No reason to gamble my whole career here."
Something shifts in Nakahara's face, not just relief at being forgiven, but surprise at Ryoma's words.
Most young fighters would rage at having a fight taken from them. But this boy, in pain and pride, still speaks with clarity, wisdom at such a young age.
Ryoma pushes up to walk, but his legs betray him. His first step stumbles, and Nakahara lunges forward to catch, slips under his arm.
"So I failed," Ryoma mutters.
