Logan Rhodes steps into Nakahara Gym, his polished shoes clicking once against the worn wooden floor before he adjusts his stride to the uneven boards.
He finds the place looking so humble. The walls are lined with yellowing posters, old newspaper clippings, and photographs that have begun to curl at the edges.
Heavy bags hang unevenly from ceiling chains. The ring at the center shows its age, ropes frayed near the corners, the canvas discolored, the padding a little sunken in the middle.
It reminds Logan of the gym he once trained in back in Detroit, the kind of place where everything looked one day away from collapse but somehow lasted decades.
As Nakahara leads him toward the office, Logan's sharp gaze catches the few things that don't belong: a brand-new medicine ball, a few clean dumbbells, and sleek resistance boxing suits hanging on the rack.
