By late afternoon, the gym doors creak open, and Kenta strides in first, sweat darkening his shirt, breath heavy but under control. He doesn't stumble, doesn't gasp. His pace is steady even after kilometers on the road.
Behind him, Okabe and Ryohei push through, their chests heaving but their voices still sharp enough to bicker.
"You're losing your edge," Okabe pants.
"Edge? You were staring at my back the whole run," Ryohei shoots back, grinning through the exhaustion.
Their banter bounces off the gym walls, boyish, alive. Nakahara's eyes narrow as if to scold, but the lines on his face soften almost instantly.
For the first time in years, the gym hums with the rhythm of youth again, because soon, Kobo and Tsutomu push through the doors. They are later than the pros but far fresher than they should be.
Kobo's shirt is damp, but his expression calm. Tsutomu rolls his shoulders loosely, as if cooling down rather than finishing a hard run.
