Time froze. The hum of the fluorescent lights above seemed to amplify, filling the silent classroom. My heart wasn't just pounding; it was a frantic drum solo against my ribs. I watched Honoka-sensei's face, every micro-expression a potential verdict on my secret life.
Her polite, curious smile vanished. Her eyebrows shot up in pure, unadulterated shock. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the form once, then again, more slowly. I saw her lips move slightly, silently forming the words "Mixed Martial Arts" and "East Japan MMA rookie tournament." The paper looked absurdly out of place in her well-manicured hands.
She finally looked up from the page, her gaze locking onto mine. The friendly teacher was gone, replaced by a formidable intellect assessing a completely unexpected variable. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"Nakamura-kun," she said, her tone lower, devoid of its usual easygoing tone. "What is this?"
This was it. The moment the wall came down. I took a deep breath, channeling the calm I used between rounds. "It's exactly what it looks like, Sensei. I train. I have for almost a year."
"Oh really? And where did you train?," she repeated, as if testing the sound of it. "Lion's Den" I answered honestly. Her eyes flickered over me—my shoulders, my posture—seeing me not as a student, but as a physical specimen. The pieces were clicking into place with terrifying speed. "Your improved grades. Your… presence in class this year. It's all connected to this."
It wasn't a question. It was a conclusion. I simply nodded.
"Why the secrecy?" she asked, her head tilting. "And why come to me?"
"The secrecy is because of… what I used to be," I said, choosing my words with care. " A ghost. This," I gestured to the form, "is the opposite of that. It's discipline. I didn't want that old life touching this one." I met her gaze. "And I came to you because you're the only teacher who treats me like I have a brain. You don't see an introvert. You see a student. I thought maybe… you'd understand."
She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. She was quiet for a long moment, just looking at me. The appraisal was intense, almost physical. I felt like a complex proof she was working out on the board.
"The East Japan MMA rookie tournament," she said, a strange new note in her voice. It wasn't disapproval. It was… recognition. "That's a serious tournament. They stream those fights online. The competition is no joke."
My breath caught. That wasn't the reaction I'd prepared for. "You… you know it?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "My younger brother," she said, "spent two years thinking he was going to be the next B.J Penn. I spent every weekend in gyms that smelled exactly like you do right now. I've seen more tape than a video store clerk."
The world spinned like a beyblade. Out of every possible outcome, this was the one I never could have predicted. My electrodynamics teacher was a closet MMA fan.
The tension in my shoulders didn't vanish, but it transformed. This was no longer a plea for mercy; it was a business negotiation with a party who had already heard the same deal .
"I need that signature, Sensei," I said, the urgency returning. "My coach… he believes in me. This is a real chance."
She picked up a pen, tapping it thoughtfully on the desk. "I can see that," she said softly. "The control you have. It's not just physical, is it? It's mental. It's why you're acing my class." She looked at me, her eyes sharp. "Your grades, Nakamura. They're stellar. A 98% average across all core subjects. That's your true power. That's your future."
She leaned forward, her demeanor shifting into that of a strategist. "I will sign this form. But." The word hung in the air, a condition I was ready to accept anything for. "You will maintain this academic average. Not anything less. If your grades slip because of this," she tapped the form, "I pull you from the tournament. Understood? This," she gestured around the classroom, "this is non-negotiable. This is your life. That," she pointed at the form, "is a part of it."
A wave of sheer, unadulterated relief washed over me so powerfully I felt lightheaded. "Understood. Thank you, Sensei."
She nodded, a quick, decisive motion. Then she picked up the pen, and with a swift, sure hand, she signed her name on the medical clearance line. It was done.
The formalities gone, her expression shifted again to one of keen interest. "Welterweight? What walk-around weight? How are you managing the cut? You're using electrolyte supplementation, I hope? The sodium-potassium pump is crucial, not just bro-science."
I blinked, stunned. "I… yeah. I am. I'm walking around at about 80 kilos. I need to be at 77.1 for the weigh-in."
"A three-kilo cut. Manageable if you do it slowly. Water load, then cut the last half kilo in the sauna. Don't do anything stupid." She said it with the casual authority of a seasoned cornerman. "And your opponent? Do you have tape?"
"Not yet. Coach Sendo is getting it."
"When he does, I want to see it," she said, her eyes gleaming. "A fresh set of eyes can't hurt. Patterns emerge in data, Nakamura. Fighting is just violent data."
I was left speechless. I had not just gotten my signature. I had acquired an ally.
The next day at school, everything felt different. The air was still charged, but the current running through it had changed. I walked the halls with the signed form sealed in an envelope in my bag, a talisman of my new reality.
A simple smile and nod from Honoka-sensei in the hallway as she passed on her way to the faculty room wasn't just a greeting. It was a secret handshake. A flicker of knowing eye contact in electrodynamics class felt like a coded message. I was well aware of her presence, a constant assurance that I wasn't alone in this.
The next committee meeting was a special kind of torture. We were finalizing the floorplan for our two-part attraction. Hikari was buzzing about sourcing fairy lights and cotton candy machines, while Kurayami meticulously sketched sightlines for jump scares in the haunted house section.
"We need to ensure the transition is abrupt," Kurayami stated, not looking up from her sketchbook. "The cognitive dissonance will heighten the affective response."
"Yeah, yeah, total mood whiplash!" Hikari agreed, though she probably used different words in her head. She turned to me, her head tilted. "Satoshi-kun, you're being extra quiet today. You've got that super-focused look again. Everything okay?"
My head snapped up. Did she know? Could she see the secret written on my face? "Huh? Yeah. Fine. Just… calculating crowd density per square meter." It was a pathetic cover, but it was all I had.
Kurayami's amethyst eyes flicked up from her sketchbook, sweeping over me. I felt scanned, analyzed. "Your respiration is elevated," she noted flatly. "And you've checked the time on your phone four times in eleven minutes. You are preoccupied with a variable outside this project."
I stared at her, a chill going down my spine. She was terrifyingly observant. "Just… eager to finish up," I mumbled, looking back at my blueprint.
The meeting couldn't end fast enough. I was a live wire, convinced I was about to short-circuit and give everything away.
Later, as I was stuffing my books into my locker, a familiar, smug voice slithered into my ear.
"Hey, Nakamura."
I turned. Tanahashi was leaning against the lockers next to mine, his arms crossed. Kenji and another lackey flanked him like ugly bookends.
"Saw you getting real cozy with Honoka-sensei again," he said, his voice dripping with fake concern. "What's the deal? Getting some private tutoring? Trying to suck up to the pretty new teacher because you're not smart enough on your own? Still looking for shortcuts, huh? Some things never change."
The old, familiar heat of humiliation tried to flare in my chest. The old me would have shrunk, would have looked at the floor.
The new me fuck no, i felt a cold, clean fury wash through him. This idiot thought he was so clever. He had no idea how far off the mark he was. He was buzzing around the edges of a truth he couldn't even comprehend.
I turned fully to face him, my expression the same flat mask I used when guys tried to trash-talk before a spar. I looked him dead in the eye, and I didn't say a word. I just let the silence hang, let his weak accusation wither in the air between us.
His smirk faltered. My lack of reaction was throwing him off his game.
"Is that really the best you've got?" I asked, my voice low and so calm it surprised even me. It was the voice I used in the gym. The voice of control.
I didn't wait for an answer. I turned, slammed my locker shut with a definitive clang, and walked away. I could feel his furious, confused stare burning into my back, but he said nothing. The sound of my own footsteps was the only victory I needed.
That afternoon, I handed the signed form to Coach. He took it, his eyes scanning Honoka's signature with a grunt of approval. "Good. Knew you'd figure it out." He looked up at me. "You ready to get to work? No more hiding. It's fight camp now."
"Yes, Coach," I said, the words feeling more true than ever before.
As I wrapped my hands, the familiar ritual felt different. The fabric winding around my knuckles wasn't just preparing me for a training session; it was armor for a war on two fronts. The secret was out, but to the one person who could actually help. I had a physicist in my corner and a coach who believed in me.
But later, as I drilled takedowns until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned, I saw Tanahashi's smug, confused face in my mind. He was sniffing around, trying to find a weak point, completely unaware of the world I was truly living in.
He thought he was still poking the same easy target.
He had no idea that every taunt, every jealous barb, wasn't provoking a victim.
It was sharpening a weapon. And in three weeks, at the East Japan Rookie Tournament, I was gonna show how sharp this weapon could sting.