For a long moment Hiroshi doesn’t move. He simply waits, watching, waiting for the fog in his eyes to clear. Then he reaches down and lift him carefully, one arm bracing his back.

But Aramaki’s legs buckle, his balance still falters. Hiroshi has to take his weight, guiding him down from the ring ropes. Kenta and Ryohei slip in quickly, one on each side, steadying him as though he might collapse again at any step.

And the door opens. Nakahara steps back into the gym, and his face tightens the instant he sees Aramaki, pale and unsteady, being helped down from the apron. He strides forward at once, worry shadowing his eyes.

"What happened?" His voice cuts sharp across the silence. "Don’t tell me he sparred with Ryoma?"

No one answers. Hiroshi is too focused on guiding Aramaki to the bench, laying him flat with deliberate care.

"Stay still," Hiroshi murmurs. "Don’t force anything. Breathe. I’ll get you some water."

Hiroshi leaves briefly, the gym falling into a hush around the sound of his footsteps.

Near the ring, Kenta speaks in low tones to Nakahara, filling in the details. And Nakahara’s eyes drift toward Ryoma, who’s now peeling the tape from his hands as though each strip weighs a stone.

The mood in the gym is strange now. Aki feels it pressing down on her chest, until she can no longer stand it.

Then she steps toward Nakahara, voice soft but clear. "Nakahara-san... I came to talk about Ryoma’s next fight. But... maybe another time."

Nakahara gives her a polite nod. "Anytime. You’re welcome here whenever you like."

Aki exhales, and then walks toward the door. "Reika. Let’s go. It’s getting late."

Reika doesn’t follow right away. Her eyes are still fixed on Ryoma. Her heart is still racing from the sparring she witnessed, half fear, half an excitement she would never admit aloud.

She lingers for a while until Aki calls again, firmer this time.

"Coming."

Only then does Reika bows to Nakahara, to the others, then slips out with Aki.

"See you soon, guys!"

***

When Hiroshi returns, he kneels beside Aramaki with a bottle of water, lifting it carefully to his lips. He steadies him through the first few sips, guiding his breaths, waiting until the trembling quiets in his shoulders.

"You need to see a doctor," Hiroshi says finally. "Better safe than sorry."

Aramaki shakes his head. "No. I’ll be fine."

"You’re not fine."

But Aramaki only averts his eyes. The truth presses heavy in his chest. He doesn’t have the money for a doctor, not for something like this.

And he can’t possibly ask Coach Nakahara to cover him, not when he doesn’t even have a contract with the gym.

He’s still just a guest here, still proving he belongs. To admit weakness now would only make him look smaller.

At last he exhales, shoulders sinking. "...Really. I’m fine. But I’ll go later. On my own."

Hiroshi studies him, then lets out a long breath through his nose. "Then listen carefully. No training. Not until you know for certain you’re clear. Understood?"

Aramaki nods, weary but compliant. Hiroshi presses a hand to his shoulder, softer this time.

"Rest here. I’ll take you home after."

***

By late afternoon the gym has almost emptied. The air has cooled, shadows lengthening across the mats.

Hiroshi has gone with Aramaki. In the locker room, Okabe and Ryohei change quietly, voices low. Meanwhile, Kenta lies sprawled on a bench, one arm over his eyes.

Ryoma alone remains in the open floor, standing before the mirror. His own reflection stares back at him, as though it belonged to someone else.

And yes, ever since regressing into this younger body, he has often felt like a guest inside himself, as though living through a borrowed vessel.

But lately that sense has begun to fade. In fact, he can hardly remember anymore what it felt like to inhabit his old body, the man he was in 2025, before the regression.

He lifts his hands, and begins to shadowbox. At first, the motions are soft, exploratory, simple jabs, a shift of weight, a roll of the shoulders.

Then it becomes sharper, faster, each punch cuts the air with more weight, more intent, but never loses its smoothness.

Swsh, swsh, swhss!

Swsh, swsh, swhss... swshs, swsh, swsh, swhss!!!

From the doorway of his office, Nakahara watches silently. What he sees now unsettles him: Ryoma’s rhythm, his speed, the almost trance-like focus that consumes him.

Nakahara’s awe hardens into unease, and then into decision. Finally he steps out, crossing the floor, and watches him up close. And Ryoma doesn’t notice him at first. He is inside something, somewhere else entirely.

Only when Ryoma whips a straight punch toward the mirror does he stop, catching the reflection of Nakahara standing behind him.

His eyes flicker, startled. Nakahara notices it, and that flicker confirms what he already suspected.

"Where were you just now?" Nakahara asks.

Ryoma blinks, turns around, confused. "What? I’ve been here the whole time."

A faint smile pulls at Nakahara’s lips. "Not from where I was standing. It looked like you were locked in another world. Don’t tell me... you slipped into that zone again?"

Ryoma hesitates, searching for words. "It did feel similar as when I fought Tōjō. It’s just that..."

"You weren’t fighting anyone," Nakahara cuts in. "Just shadows. Of course it won’t feel the same."

Ryoma exhales, muttering, "Maybe."

Then he turns back to the mirror and begins again, fists rising, rhythm building. But soon he falters, slows, and then shakes his head.

"No..."

He tries once more, and then stops again, frustration lining his face, as though reaching for something just out of reach.

"Nope!"

And he tries again, but...

"Enough," Nakahara says. "Don’t chase it. The harder you push, the further it slips away."

Ryoma exhales sharply, frustration written across his face. His shoulders slump as if the air has drained out of him.

At last he lets his hands fall, gloves brushing his thighs, before dropping heavily onto the bench, the motion carrying a quiet defeat.

"Kid," Nakahara calls softly. "Do you know why I always cut off your sparring with Aramaki halfway through the second round?"

Ryoma looks back at him, puzzled.

"For two weeks," Nakahara adds, "I’ve stopped you, warned you not to spar without supervision."

"I thought you were just protecting me before the Rookie King final," Ryoma says.

"But now you understand why?" Nakahara raises an eyebrow.

Ryoma doesn’t answer. But his silence is enough.

"Listen," Nakahara goes on. "Your frame is not for Super Featherweight. Two months before the final, so I eased your diet for the time being. And now look at you. You are... two divisions above Aramaki."

Ryoma clenches his fists. "But Aramaki’s the only one who can push me in sparring."

"That’s why I won’t let you spar him unsupervised," Nakahara says firmly. "You felt it yourself, didn’t you? Every one of his punches carries danger. For most, that danger freezes them. But for you? Danger only excites you. It drives you closer to the edge. And I don’t want you to break him, especially now, when you’re not even on a cutting program."