The streetlights of Tokyo begin to glow one by one as Ryoma and Aramaki walk side by side, leaving the gym behind after an afternoon spent coaching the youngsters.
The cold dusk air seeps through Ryoma's jacket, and every so often he lifts his wrapped hands and breathes into them, as if warming something more fragile than skin.
"Do you remember our fight at the rookie tournament?" Aramaki asks, eyes fixed forward. "You won, but your right hand was wrecked. You had to fight Kanzaki using only your left."
Ryoma lets out a dry chuckle. "Yeah. A memory I'd rather forget. It felt like smashing a hammer into a concrete wall… except the hammer cracked instead."
"And now it's happening again," Aramaki mutters. His gaze flicks to Ryoma's gym bag. "Those gloves you use in the gym… aren't they the same ones from back then? Maybe it's time you change your weapon."
Ryoma slows slightly, then looks down at the bag slung over his shoulder. The thought settles uncomfortably.
