Steam still fills the room. The air's thick, the floor wet, and the smell of cedar sharp in every breath.
The door bursts open with a crash of sound that cuts through the haze. Hiroshi stands there, frozen in the doorway.
The moment his eyes land on Ryoma slumped against the old man's shoulder, his face drains of color.
If Ryoma really passed out from dehydration here, it'd be a disaster. The fight could be canceled, months of work gone in an instant.
He rushes forward, voice cracking through the haze.
"RYOMA! Damn it…! You're not…"
But before Hiroshi can finish, Ryoma stirs. He blinks a few times, squinting through the fog.
"...Hey, what's with the yelling?"
Hiroshi freezes mid-step, half-panicked, half-furious. "The hell do you mean 'what's with the yelling'?! You were slumped over like a corpse!"
"Ah? I was just… sleepy," Ryoma mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
The old man from before stands awkwardly nearby, clutching his towel.
