When he reaches the gym, Ryoma slows his pace. A thin sheen of sweat glints on his forehead; his breathing’s steady, but with just enough weight to admit he’s human.

He stops in front of the door, chest rising and falling. "Four weeks without training, and my lungs think it’s been a decade."

He isn’t dying, just noticing the drift. Even a short run is enough to remind him how fast the body forgets its habits once the metronome stops ticking.

Straightening his back, he rolls his shoulders once and steps through the door.

Inside, every head turns. The gym, already quieter since Okabe and Ryohei’s exit, drops into full silence, as if someone pulled the plug on sound.

The steady rhythm of gloves on sandbags halts mid-beat. Kenta lowers his hands. Aramaki glances at Nakahara, needing confirmation he isn’t hallucinating.

Even Satoru stops unwrapping tape from his hands, the bandage dangling like a forgotten sentence.

Ryoma stands by the entrance, his shoes powdered with street dust. His expression is calm, almost serene, like he’s been walking for days toward this exact moment.

Nakahara steps away from the ring, towel slung across his neck, Hiroshi trailing behind him. The air between them hangs thick with disbelief and something heavier, relief that no one wants to admit.

"Ryoma," Nakahara says quietly.

"Coach," Ryoma greets. "I’m not fighting in the All Japan Rookie Final."

His voice is steady, calm in a way that only makes the words land heavier. For a split second, the air in the gym holds its breath.

When Ryoma first stepped through the door, something like hope had flickered in everyone’s faces. Now that light dies again, all at once. The silence stretches long enough that the ticking wall clock becomes the loudest sound in the room.

Nakahara is the first to break it. "So... you’re really retiring?"

Ryoma looks up at him, smiling, shaking his head.

"No. Not retiring." He exhales once, slow and deliberate. "I’m moving up to Lightweight."

The reaction isn’t relief. It’s confusion, a few glances trade across the gym. Aramaki frowns, and Kenta wipes his hands with his towel, unsure whether to feel glad or disappointed.

Nakahara’s eyes narrow slightly. "You’re sure about that?"

Ryoma nods once. "I’m done cutting weight. If I stay at Super Feather, I’ll keep breaking down. And my mom..." he trails off for half a breath before steadying his voice again. "She panics every time I come home from a weigh-in. I can’t keep doing that to her."

The words hang there, quiet but heavy. It’s not an excuse, but a truth too simple to argue with.

Nakahara doesn’t answer right away. He studies Ryoma for a long moment, eyes hard but not angry, then finally lets out a sigh that sounds more like surrender than frustration.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitches upward. "So, Moving to Lightweight, huh? You do realize that doesn’t mean you’re completely free from the cutting-weight program."

Ryoma exhales through a faint laugh, shoulders easing just a little. "At least it won’t be as fierce as before, I hope."

Nakahara chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. "You always find a way to make trouble sound reasonable."

For the first time in weeks, the atmosphere softens, not quite cheerful, but alive again.

Then the door opens behind them. Okabe stands there, frozen in the doorway, a gym bag hanging from his shoulder.

His expression flickers between surprise and disbelief, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. His eyes find Ryoma immediately, standing in front of Nakahara, looking almost the same as before, only calmer, quieter.

Okabe’s throat tightens. He blinks a few times, and when he finally exhales, with a faint laugh that tries too hard to sound casual.

"So you’re finally back," Okabe says, voice rougher than usual. "How’s your mom?"

Ryoma smiles faintly. "She’s better. Thanks to you guys checking in."

Okabe nods once, the motion stiff. He looks away for a second, blinking again before anyone notices. When he faces them again, his tone has already shifted, dry, teasing, like nothing emotional ever happened.

"Good. Now maybe I can stop pretending to be the serious one around here."

Before Ryoma can respond, another voice comes from behind Okabe.

"Tch. What’s all this talk about retiring I’ve been hearing?"

Ryohei steps through the doorway, wiping his hands on his hoodie, eyes narrowing like he’s hunting for trouble.

"Did you come all the way back here just to say you’re quitting?"

Ryoma opens his mouth to correct him, but Ryohei is already moving, crossing the floor in three quick steps, grabbing Ryoma by the neck, and locking him in a half–headlock before anyone can react.

"Not on my watch, you idiot," Ryohei laughs, tightening his hold. "You think you can retire before me? You’re still a rookie compared to this fine piece of perfection!"

Okabe snorts, walking over and smacking the back of Ryoma’s head, once, twice, light but loud enough to sting.

"Too early to retire, huh? What happened to all that big talk? You planning to grow old as a barber before you even hit twenty-five?"

"Hey, cut it out!" Ryoma protests, half-laughing, half-choking as he struggles to pull free. "I said I’m not retiring!"

"Sure you’re not!" Ryohei grins, grinding his knuckles against Ryoma’s scalp. "That’s what all the quitters say before they go soft."

Okabe joins in, voice full of mock outrage. "And after we wasted all that good sweat training you! The disrespect!"

"Okay, okay!" Ryoma laughs breathlessly, finally slipping out of Ryohei’s grip and stepping back, hair a mess, face flushed. "I said I’m moving up, not quitting."

The two men exchange a quick look, their teasing vanishing into something quieter, the kind of relief that doesn’t need words.

Ryohei crosses his arms, still grinning. "Moving up, huh? Guess you really can’t sit still, can you?"

Okabe smirks. "Lightweight, then? Damn, kid. Always making things harder for yourself."

Ryoma shrugs, still smiling. "Wouldn’t be me otherwise."

For the first time in weeks, the gym echoes with laughter again, rough, genuine, and loud enough to make Nakahara mutter under his breath that he’ll never get a quiet day in this place again.

Then Nakahara’s voice cuts through the laughter. "All right, that’s enough hugging and crying. Back to work, all of you."

He steps into the ring, already wearing both mitt pads, the leather creaking softly as he claps them together. His tone is sharp, but there’s a faint, unmistakable smile tugging at the edge of it.

"Kid! Get ready. We’re doing a reassessment. I need to see what three weeks of lazing around did to your hands."

Ryoma blinks, caught off guard. "Now?"

"Now," Nakahara says flatly. "Unless you plan on moving up just to get winded walking up the stairs."

That earns a few chuckles around the gym. Ryoma looks down at himself, plain hoodie, no hand wraps, no gloves. Then he glances around, realizing his bag is empty.

He scratches the back of his neck. "Uh... I forgot my gear."

Aramaki steps forward.

"Use mine."

He peels off his gloves, worn but well-kept, and tosses them over.

"Glad to see you back."

Ryoma catches them, smiling faintly. "Thanks, man."

"No need to thank me," Aramaki says, grinning. "Now that you are moving up, you can leave the Super Featherweight to me."

That draws a small wave of laughter again. Ryoma crouches by the bench, reaching for the tape box, but before he can start, Hiroshi steps into view, already standing there, a roll of tape in each hand.

His expression is somewhere between smug and emotional. "You’ve been making me wait for weeks."

"Wait?"

"You promised you’d take me to the world, remember? Don’t think I’ve forgotten."

For a moment, Ryoma doesn’t answer. He just looks at Hiroshi, the coach’s assistant who’s been in this gym longer than anyone except Nakahara himself.

His chest tightens, and a warmth spreading quietly through the ache.

"Yeah. I remember."

Hiroshi tosses him the tape roll. "Then let’s get you back in shape."