Two days had passed since the humiliating takedown on the tatami, but the memory refused to fade. It lingered like a stubborn bruise, throbbing at the most inconvenient moments.
Lena lounged on the worn leather couch in the modest Airbnb living room, legs stretched out across the coffee table.
The afternoon sun filtered through sheer white curtains, casting a warm, golden haze over the Japanese-style apartment.
Outside, the distant clatter of Tokyo's endless traffic blended with the chirp of birds in a nearby park.
The air conditioning hummed softly, fighting against the moist summer humidity that seeped through every nook and cranny.
She wore a simple black tank top that clung to her toned shoulders and powerful arms, paired with loose gray athletic shorts that revealed the muscle of her thighs from years of relentless judo training.
Her dark brown hair was pulled into a messy bun, a few rebellious strands framing her sharp face.
A faint bruise still lingered on her knuckles from where she'd punched Kaito's smug cheek.
Her thumb scrolled endlessly through her phone, the blue light reflecting in her cool blue eyes.
Social media feeds blurred past—training montages, competitor highlights, motivational quotes about discipline and victory.
Then, without warning, the scene replayed in her mind: the fluid way he'd dropped levels, the explosive double-leg takedown that had caught her completely off guard. The protective hand holding the back of her head as they fell. The warmth of his body hovering inches above hers. That infuriating smirk and the low murmur of his voice.
"You're too tense… always calculating… like a robot."
Lena's lips curled into a smirk of her own, sharp and dangerous.
"Cocky bastard," she muttered under her breath.
The words should have fueled pure anger, yet a strange feeling churned in her stomach at the memory of his closeness.
She shook her head, annoyed at herself.
Fine. If he thought he was so fluid and superior, she'd study him like any other opponent. Research. Analyze. Exploit weaknesses.
She tapped open the browser and began typing.
"Kaito boxer wrestler Tokyo gym" — too vague. She added more: "Kaito young boxer wrestler Suzuki gym Japan" and "Kaito fighter judo spar Tokyo."
After several frustrating attempts and scrolling through irrelevant results, one name finally stood out.
Kaito Suzuki, 21.
There he was. Multiple articles and video links from local tournaments and amateur circuits.
Lena's eyebrows rose slightly. Two years older than her. She clicked the first video.
The footage showed him dominating a wrestling match—smooth chain wrestling, effortless transitions from a single-leg to a gut wrench, pinning his opponent with calm precision.
Another clip: boxing, where his shoulders rolled fluidly, head movement slick, slipping punches before countering with sharp hooks.
He moved like water given human form, never rigid, always adapting in the moment.
Calm. Almost relaxed, even under pressure.
Lena snorted, leaning back against the couch cushions. "He's not even that good," she said aloud to the empty room, voice dripping with forced dismissal. "Predictable entries. Overrelies on athleticism instead of proper technique."
Yet even as the words left her mouth, her eyes stayed glued to the screen. Secretly, an unwanted admiration twisted inside her.
His flow was—effortless, instinctive, created from years training in the mats rather than forced through dumb drills.
No tension. No overthinking. Just pure, living movement.
It irritated her how graceful he looked, how in control.
Her finger hovered over the pause button more than once, replaying certain moments where his body twisted with feline agility.
She was so absorbed that she didn't hear the soft footsteps approaching.
"Lena?"
Her mother's voice cut through the silence like a knife.
Startled, Lena fumbled and tossed the phone onto the cushion beside her, screen down. It bounced once before settling.
"Yeah? What is it?" she asked, far too quickly, her tone sharp and defensive.
Her mother stood in the doorway wearing a light cream-colored blouse and comfortable beige linen pants—practical tourist attire for the humid weather.
She was in her mid-forties, with the same brown hair as her daughter, though streaked with subtle silver and usually worn in a neat bob.
Worry lines etched faintly around her eyes, a permanent reminder of the divorce that had fractured their family years ago.
Her mom tilted her head, studying Lena with that familiar mix of concern.
"What were you doing just now? You jumped like I caught you watching porn or something?"
"Nothing," Lena grunted, crossing her arms over her chest. "Just… training videos. Opponent research. Why are you being nosy?"
Her mother raised an eyebrow but chose not to push.
"Okay, okay. Chill, sweetheart. I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me to the convenience store. We need milk, some snacks, and I thought we could pick up those onigiri you liked yesterday. Stretch our legs a bit?"
Lena hesitated only a second. Anything to escape the hellish apartment and the digital ghost of Kaito Suzuki still glowing on her phone.
"Yeah, sure," she said, standing abruptly. "Let's go."
She didn't wait for a full response. Grabbing a loose white hoodie from the back of a chair and slipping on her sneakers, she practically dragged her mother toward the door.
They stepped out into the bright Tokyo afternoon, the summer sun beating down mercilessly on the narrow street lined with potted plants and vending machines humming under their colorful lights.
As they walked side by side toward the nearest konbini—about ten minutes away—Lena's mother launched into her usual rambling monologue.
"The Worlds are next month already, can you believe it? We need to tighten up your schedule. More morning sessions focusing on ne-waza, maybe find a specialist for grip strength. Your osoto gari looked a little slow in that last training video you sent me from Germany. And don't forget hydration— this humidity is no joke…"
Lena nodded vaguely, offering the occasional "mhmm" or "yeah," but her mind drifted far away.
In her imagination, she was back on the mat with Kaito. This time she was the one catching him off guard. She pictured driving a powerful throw—maybe a clean harai goshi or a devastating uchi mata—slamming him down hard.
No protective hand under his head. Just pure dominance.
She'd stand over him, smirking as he clutched whatever she'd targeted, and say something cutting about robots and flow. The vivid revenge fantasy brought a dark, satisfied smirk to her lips.
Her blue eyes gleamed with imagined victory.
Too tense? I'll show you tense when I make you tap.
The convenience store came into view, its bright signage glowing even in daylight—red and white, with rows of perfectly arranged bento boxes and colorful drinks visible through the glass doors.
The automatic doors slid open with a light chime, releasing a blast of crisp, air-conditioned air scented with instant ramen, fresh pastries, and the sweet artificial scent of soft drinks.
Lena's mother continued talking as they entered the chilled aisle for drinks. "—and your father mentioned he might arrive early. He wants to watch some of your training sessions. I told him we'd discuss it, but you know how he is…"
Lena barely registered the words about her father. Her revenge daydream still played behind her eyes, fueling that sharp little smirk as she reached for a bottle of cold green tea.
Then her gaze shifted casually down the aisle.
Her eyes widened.
There, at the far end near the refrigerated meal section, stood Kaito.
He was casually dressed in a simple dark gray t-shirt that hugged his athletic frame and black athletic shorts, a small shopping basket looped over one arm.
His short dark hair was slightly tousled, and a faint yellowish bruise still marked his cheek where her fist had landed.
He was examining two different varieties of pre-packaged curry rice, completely unaware of her presence.
Lena froze mid-reach, the green tea bottle hovering in her hand.
Her heart gave an annoying, traitorous beat as she stared at him from afar.