His words cut deeper than any punch. Aramaki freezes, the color draining from his face, desperation seeping through his hard exterior.
He has admired Ryoma's boxing since the Interhigh days, studied it, envied it, believed it to be the ideal form. The rhythm, the grace, the perfection he could never reach.
But with arms too short, that kind of elegance was never meant for him. His path is different, brutal, stubborn, all grit and muscle and pain. It is not pretty, but it is his.
This fight has been his dream, a chance to prove himself against the man he once admired. But now, that admiration curdles, bitter on his tongue.
"Aramaki!" Masato Kanda's voice cracks like a whip. "The hell are you doing over there?"
Aramaki snaps back. Lowering his stance, he begins weaving his head again.
No more reckless lunges this time, no more blind charges, just measured steps forward, the relentless march of a man refusing to break.
