Outwardly, he looks stubborn, maybe even reckless, the same Ryoma everyone knows. But inside, it's different.
He once told himself this tournament was only for small fry. That it wasn't worth his time. But then Aramaki bled for every second of their fight and made a liar out of him.
Walking away now would feel like spitting on that effort, on the fire Aramaki carried into the ring.
His right knuckle's still throbbing, each pulse like a drumbeat, daring him to admit he's finished. But…
"Sorry, Coach," Ryoma says at last, dragging Nakahara's attention back to him. His voice is hoarse but steady. "I can't stop here."
Hiroshi lets out a short, dry laugh. "Didn't you say that what you're after is way down the road, not here?"
"I did." Ryoma nods once. "But if I throw the next fight… then tonight was just a wasted pain."
He glances at Hiroshi, and then turns to Nakahara, lifting his chin. His face is bruised, but his eyes hard, a stubborn fire burning in them.
