Ryoma sits on the bench, wrapping his fists carefully, the familiar texture biting into his skin, snug, grounding. The sound of the tape peeling, the faint slap of leather gloves nearby, the rustle of feet against canvas, all of it feels like coming home.
Once he finishes, he climbs into the ring. The mat gives under his weight. The gym falls quiet except for the rhythmic creak of the ropes.
Nakahara lifts the mitts, clapping them once. "Show me what you've got."
Ryoma exhales, lowering into his stance. His shoulders loosen. His heartbeat steadies.
Then…
Pop!
His first jab lands clean against the mitt, the sound sharp and solid.
Another follows, quicker, heavier. Jab, cross, and then left hook, each one is sharper, the rhythm building like an engine finding its voice again.
