Ramos reacts instantly. His feet slide back in quick, controlled steps, posture never breaking as he creates space without panic.
The distance stretches by inches, just enough. His shoulders stay level, stance even, balance untouched. But the looseness is gone. His gaze tightens, focus condensing into something sharper.
Ryoma catches it; the adjustment, the spacing, the intent behind it.
<< There it is. The tighter flurry is coming. >>
He abandons the forward drive and folds smoothly back into the Philly Shell. Lead shoulder rises. Rear hand settles. His stance tightens, not retreating, but waiting and observing.
Ramos' rhythm snaps tighter, punches firing in rapid succession from mid-range, fists traveling short, efficient paths.
Then he reaches him.
Dug. Dug.
Only two shots thud into Ryoma's lead shoulder first, solid and contained.
Ryoma rolls, eyes still sharp in studying, but…
Ding!
The bell cuts through the exchange.
