Ryoma doesn't wait for confirmation. His lead foot resumes its quiet pendulum, shoulders loose, gloves swaying with the same unassuming cadence as before. The same invitation, nothing new, at least on the surface.
Ramos hesitates. Just a fraction. But that's enough.
Ryoma slides in on the Soviet beat. The first left drifts out, lazy, falling short by design, keeping his opponent guessing.
Ramos fires a hook this time, unwilling to be caught by the same trick too many times.
But Ryoma simply slips back into neutral, lets the hook carve through empty air. From there he doesn't need to step deeper. Ramos has already closed the gap for him.
The second jab snaps out, sharp and straight, immediately chased by the right.
Ramos tilts his head with the jab, but it still grazes his temple. The straight right thuds into his guard.
Dsh! Dug.
Ryoma doesn't pull away, because Ramos is fully defensive now.
