Back in the Korakuen Arena, the locker room is too quiet for a victory. Ryoma sits on the bench, torso bare, hands still wrapped, gloves resting on the floor like empty shells. His breathing is steady now, slower than it should be after four brutal rounds.

Nakahara leans against a locker, towel over his shoulders, his jaw set tight. Hiroshi is crouched by the gear bag, rolling the wraps with mechanical precision. Kenta stands near the door, hands buried in his jacket pockets, eyes fixed on the floor.

Finally, Nakahara exhales. "You didn’t have to hit him that hard."

Ryoma looks up. His expression doesn’t change. "I didn’t."

The coach blinks. "Then what the hell do you call that?"

"Just finishing what he started," he says.

The answer lands heavy in the room. Nakahara wants to argue, but something in the boy’s tone stops him. He looks nineteen, but the weight in his voice feels older than any of them.

No one knows what to say next. The silence stretches again, the kind that doesn’t demand to be filled.

Then, a sharp knock breaks the silence. The door swings open before anyone answers. Aki steps in first, cheerful as always, notebook already in hand.

"Hi, everyone!"

Behind her trails Reika, her camera slung around her neck. And there are also Tanaka and Sato, whose eyes still carry the thrill of getting access this close.

Aki steps forward. "Ryoma-kun. Sorry to intrude, but could we have a few minutes for comment? Considering how you ended the fight, I bet every reporter in the building will be trying to get to you first. We probably won’t get another chance."

Her tone is respectful, almost careful. But her words land differently around the room. The other rookies glance over from their benches. One of them lets out a low whistle; another pretends not to listen but keeps his eyes fixed on Ryoma.

And near the mirror, Kobayashi Ayano, the lightweight headliner whose match hasn’t even started yet, pauses mid-shadowbox. His jaw tightens.

For weeks, the posters and promos had been about him; his name at the top, his face under the lights. But now another rookie who fought earlier has stolen the spotlight.

Nakahara straightens, instinctively moving between Aki and Ryoma. "Give him a moment, will you? He just got out of the ring."

But Ryoma cuts in quietly, "It’s fine."

He doesn’t rise, doesn’t fix his posture for the camera. Just stays seated, elbows on knees, gaze level. His calm is so unhurried that the newcomers slow down without realizing it.

Reika lifts her camera halfway, then hesitates. Her hands are steady, but her breathing isn’t. The lens feels too loud for this kind of silence, like pointing a spotlight at someone who doesn’t need it.

Tanaka breaks the quiet first. "Takeda-kun, the finish tonight... it stirred quite a reaction. Some are calling it excessive. Care to comment?"

Ryoma keeps unwrapping the tape from his wrist, his movements deliberate, eyes fixed on his hands.

"He swung his fist at my mom once," he says.

The words fall flatly, no anger, no hesitation. And yet the air seems to contract around them.

Tanaka blinks. "What was that?"

Ryoma’s tone doesn’t shift. "Three days before the weigh-in, while I was cutting my weight. He came to me."

The room goes still. From the benches along the wall, a few rookies exchange uneasy glances. The tension spreads between them like static.

Sato clears his throat. "Still... some thought you kept hitting after the first knockdown of the round four. That it looked... personal."

Ryoma finally looks up, his expression calm, almost detached.

"It was personal."

There’s no pride in the way he says it, no defensiveness either, only truth, plain and unembellished.

Sato, who’s been silent until now, steps in softly, his tone lighter but uncertain, as though trying to rescue the room from the weight of Ryoma’s words.

"It’s just... you didn’t celebrate. Most fighters would’ve screamed, or raised their arms. But you..."

"I did what I came to do," Ryoma finishes for him, voice calm and even. "Winning doesn’t need noise. And I taught what Kirizume Boxing Gym should have taught him."

He pauses long enough for the air to shift again, then adds, "As a professional fighter, you don’t use your fists outside the ring."

The words aren’t delivered like an accusation, more like a rule he’s repeating to himself. But everyone hears the weight in it.

Tanaka leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose. It isn’t the answer he expected, but he gets something better.

Sato lowers his pen. "That’s... a strong statement, Takeda-kun."

Ryoma shrugs lightly. "It’s supposed to be normal. If you says it’s strong, there must something wrong with this sport."

Even Ayano, sitting across the room, can’t quite hide the flicker of irritation that crosses his face. The calm in Ryoma’s tone makes it worse somehow, as if his victory isn’t just over Serrano, but over everyone who still fights for noise and attention.

***

Aftr the few exchanges, now Reika lowers her eyes, fingers tightening around her camera strap. There’s admiration there, and something deeper, pride mixed with the quiet ache of realizing how far apart between her and Ryoma.

She no longer sees him as a boy her age. The calm in his eyes, the gravity in his posture, it all feels older, lived-in. It makes her chest tighten with a quiet pressure, a mix of admiration and embarrassment that she still likes him the way she used to.

Then she steps forward, her voice gentle, almost teasing. "So, how much does this win mean to you? Tokyo block champion, that’s a big deal, even for someone who never loses."

Before he can answer, Hiroshi cuts in from the corner, half-laughing as he pulls a towel over his shoulder.

"Careful, Reika. This guy once said he didn’t even wanna join this tournament. Said he was only filling the bracket."

That gets a few laughs, even Reika cracks a grin, Tanaka and Sato shakes their heads, amused.

Ryoma just smiles, a quiet restrained one. The laughter fades around him, but he stays still for a beat too long.

Something shifts behind his eyes. The noise of the room grows distant. In his other life, by this same stage, he wasn’t a rookie anymore. He was already retired, finished.

He remembers sitting in the crowd that night, watching someone else fight, the same date, the same event, just a different world. He remembers how bitter it felt, wishing for a second chance.

And now, being here in this locker room, sweat still drying on his skin, he realizes, he actually got one, a second chance.

The thought hits him so strangely that a small involuntary chuckle slips out.

Everyone turns toward him.

Nakahara frowns. "What’s so funny, kid?"

Ryoma shakes his head, still smiling faintly. "Nothing."

But then something changes in his face. The smile slowly dies, replaced by sudden seriousness. His eyes go distant again, but this time with panic creeping in at the edges.

Because he remembers now, too clearly, what came next in that other life. After watching that very fight, he went home, and found his mother dead from an overdose.

"No... No, no, no!"

He’s been feeling an unknown anxiety lately. Only now does he understand why. The realization hits him like a blow.

He reaches for his bag, fumbling for his phone. The others fall silent, watching him.

Ryoma turns on the screen, intending to make a call. But now he sees a line of missed calls, from his mom.

His heartbeat spikes. He tries calling back, once, twice. But there’s no answer.

Nakahara steps closer. "Kid... what’s wrong?"

Ryoma’s lips move, but the words come out low, almost lost.

"My mom..."

He’s up before thought catches him, barefoot, half-dressed, tape unraveling as he moves. The locker door bangs open as he stumbles past it, the air snapping against his skin.

His steps echo down the hall, frantic, uneven. The crowd’s noise seeps faintly from the arena, but he doesn’t hear any of it.

His expression is torn open, eyes wet, chest heaving. The fighter who stood calm minutes ago is gone; what’s left is a boy running toward something he’s terrified to find.