The ring announcer steps toward the center ring, microphone raised. His voice booms with ceremonial weight.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, voice rising to fill the arena, "this is your main event of the evening! A ten-round bout sanctioned by the OPBF in the lightweight division."
Then he turns to the blue corner. "Introducing first…"
But Ryoma barely reacts.
He just remembers about something, and turns toward his corner, eyes drifting past the ropes where his team waits outside the ring.
"Hiroshi," he calls, flat, almost bored. "You haven't put Vaseline on my face yet."
Hiroshi blinks once. "…Ah!"
He scrambles to the kit, fumbling the lid off the jar, and then rushes to the apron.
Ryoma leans forward, resting his forearms on the top rope, head tilted out of the ring while Hiroshi quickly applies Vaseline across his browbones and cheeks.
The announcer keeps talking, unacknowledged, voice rolling on like background noise.
