When he reaches the gym, Ryoma slows his pace. A thin sheen of sweat glints on his forehead; his breathing's steady, but with just enough weight to admit he's human.
He stops in front of the door, chest rising and falling. "Four weeks without training, and my lungs think it's been a decade."
He isn't dying, just noticing the drift. Even a short run is enough to remind him how fast the body forgets its habits once the metronome stops ticking.
Straightening his back, he rolls his shoulders once and steps through the door.
Inside, every head turns. The gym, already quieter since Okabe and Ryohei's exit, drops into full silence, as if someone pulled the plug on sound.
The steady rhythm of gloves on sandbags halts mid-beat. Kenta lowers his hands. Aramaki glances at Nakahara, needing confirmation he isn't hallucinating.
Even Satoru stops unwrapping tape from his hands, the bandage dangling like a forgotten sentence.
