Ryoma sits on the bench, wrapping his fists carefully, the familiar texture biting into his skin, snug, grounding. The sound of the tape peeling, the faint slap of leather gloves nearby, the rustle of feet against canvas, all of it feels like coming home.

Once he finishes, he climbs into the ring. The mat gives under his weight. The gym falls quiet except for the rhythmic creak of the ropes.

Nakahara lifts the mitts, clapping them once. "Show me what you’ve got."

Ryoma exhales, lowering into his stance. His shoulders loosen. His heartbeat steadies.

Then...

Pop!

His first jab lands clean against the mitt, the sound sharp and solid.

Another follows, quicker, heavier. Jab, cross, and then left hook, each one is sharper, the rhythm building like an engine finding its voice again.

The sound fills the room, leather striking leather, breath syncing with motion. Every strike carries something behind it: the frustration of the past weeks, the fear he’s swallowed, the guilt he’s tried to hide, the relief of finally moving forward.

Nakahara feels it through the mitts, that strange simmering weight that only Ryoma’s punches carry. It’s his controlled rage and focused clarity, each hit drives a little deeper into the pad, the air between them snapping like static.

"Good," Nakahara says, his voice rough but steady. "Keep that pace. Don’t hold back."

Ryoma doesn’t hold back, doesn’t even think, no hesitation. His body moves on instinct now, fluid and fierce.

Sweat beads across his brow, runs down his neck. The sound of his breath grows heavier, but it’s not exhaustion. It’s release, every punch feels like peeling off another layer of doubt.

Then he throws a final combination,

Pop, pop... Smack!

The impact cracks through the gym like a clap of thunder. The mitt snaps back hard enough that Nakahara actually shifts a foot to absorb it.

Ryoma straightens, breathing hard but steady. His chest heaves twice, and then he lowers his hands.

Nakahara lowers the mitts slowly, eyes narrowing, assessing. Then, a small grin creases his face.

"Still there," Nakahara says with a faint grin. "Good thing you didn’t take any longer to make up your mind. Another week and you might’ve started to dull."

Ryoma wipes his sweat with the back of his wrist, smiling faintly. "Guess I just needed the right reason to come back."

From the side of the ring, Hiroshi claps once, grinning wide. "Then let’s start again, all the way to the top. Now that you are moving up class, we need to adjust your training regime."

Ryohei whistles softly. Okabe folds his arms, pretending to look unimpressed, but there’s pride written all over his face.

The gym feels whole again, small, worn, imperfect, but alive.

***

A few days later, the news breaks.

The Japan Boxing Commission releases a formal statement to all accredited sports outlets at noon.

It’s written in polite measured language, but the content lands like a right hook through the domestic boxing scene.

***

Japan Boxing Commission — Official Statement

Date: November 3, 2015

The Japan Boxing Commission (JBC) hereby confirms that Ryoma Takeda (Nakahara Boxing Gym, Tokyo) has officially withdrawn from participation in the All Japan Rookie King Final — Super Featherweight Division.

Following Takeda’s withdrawal, the Tokyo Block runner-up, Leonardo Serrano, has been approved to advance as the East Japan representative for the Final bout, scheduled for Sunday, December 6, 2015.

In addition, the Commission has approved Takeda’s transfer of registration to the Lightweight Division (135 lb), effective immediately.

In accordance with JBC regulations, Takeda will be temporarily classified as Class B within the Lightweight category. However, given his exceptional record and outstanding performance throughout the Tokyo Block Rookie Tournament, the Commission recognizes him as eligible to participate in a Class A License Evaluation Match, the details of which will be determined in consultation with his managing gym and the opposing camp.

***

The release is brief, no explanations, no commentary, but it detonates across the industry.

By afternoon, social media threads and boxing forums explode with speculation.

"So he’s skipping the Final and jumping up weight?"

"Did he think he can no longer meet the weight limit?"

"No way, Ryoma’s got the skills for Lightweight. This is just strategy."

"Maybe he’s just scared of losing."

"He’s not scared. He’s just different."

By next morning, the storm hits Nakahara Boxing Gym directly.

Reporters line up by the entrance, cameras dangling from their shoulders, notebooks out. Nakahara stands before them, arms folded, watching as Hiroshi tries to keep the group from wandering too deep into the gym.

"Coach Nakahara!" one of the journalists calls out. "Is it true Ryoma forfeited the Rookie Final to dodge the weight cut?"

Another voice chimes in. "Some say he’s scared of losing under pressure. Any comment on that?"

Nakahara doesn’t move. "He’s not scared of anyone."

"Then why forfeit?" a third asks, adjusting her recorder. "You know the All Japan Final is where rookies become names. Don’t you think walking away from it tarnishes his image?"

Nakahara sighs quietly. "You all love big words like ’tarnish.’ The truth is simpler. He’s moving up in class. That’s it."

"But the timing..."

"...was strange!"

"Most fighters would kill for that Final slot."

"Can’t you just wait a bit longer, and move up class later after the fight?"

The questions blur into one another until Nakahara finally lifts his hand. His tone stays calm, but it carries enough weight to still the room.

"Look. The kid’s been cutting weight so fiercely just to make Super Feather since his debut. His body’s done with that. If he forces it, he breaks. And we’re not here to break him."

One of the younger reporters presses, trying to sound clever. "So you’re choosing health over glory?"

Nakahara actually smiles at that. "We’re choosing longevity over a trophy. Glory’s but a side effect."

A short silence follows, not agreement, just the pause of people realizing they won’t get a headline-ready scandal today.

Still, a middle-aged TV correspondent presses on, his tone sharper. "But don’t you think for fans? It looks like he’s running away."

Nakahara’s eyes narrow, and the smile fades. "If you think moving up means running away, you’ve never had to bleed for a lower weight."

The reporter lowers his mic a little.

Nakahara exhales. "Ryoma’s a fighter. He’ll prove himself where it counts. Not in your columns, not on your screens. But inside the ring."

He turns, already walking back toward the office. "If you need more quotes, come back after his next fight. He’ll give you something to write about."

The cameras stop flashing. The journalists exchange looks, realizing the interview’s over.

***

Same day, late afternoon, the fourth floor of Boxing Spirit Weekly looks like someone lost a war with paperwork.

Aki squints at her monitor, the glow of the JBC press release painting her face. Her fingers hover over the keyboard like they’re on strike.

Then she rereads the headline.

Ryoma Takeda Withdraws From All Japan Final — Moves To Lightweight, To Undergo Class A Evaluation.

She leans back and mutters, "Unbelievable. He ditches the finals and doesn’t even text me."

From across the office, her editor looks up. "Aki, you on Takeda again?"

She nods. "Yeah. Apparently, I’m his biographer now."

"Then move. We need reactions before dinner."

She exhales through her nose, opens a blank draft, and types fast enough to sound productive:

"Takeda’s decision to forfeit the All Japan Final sends shockwaves through the boxing world."

Her fingers move fast, but her thoughts keep slipping elsewhere, to the way Ryoma left his barbershop days ago. He looked free back then. And she should have known something was about to change.

The cursor finally blinks at her last line: " His silence speaks louder than any press statement could."

She smiles faintly to herself, murmuring, "All right, Ryoma. Let’s see what you’re planning next."