Meanwhile, at Nakahara Boxing Gym.

By the time the clock creeps past nine, the gym is already silent, all training done hours ago. Only three people remain: Nakahara, Hiroshi, and Sera. They've stayed behind to go through the event's financials, and the whiteboard they began with already ran out of space an hour ago.

Now, wide sheets of paper are taped across the wall. Sera stands in front of them with a marker, writing quickly and neatly. Hiroshi sits nearby with his phone, the calculator app glowing in his hand.

Nakahara flips through a folder packed with printed reports, receipts, and forwarded numbers from sponsors.

"Alright," Nakahara says, tapping a page with his finger. "Let's sum what we actually earned."

Sera nods, marker ready. "Ticket income first?"

"Yeah. Total attendance was 2,500 seats," Nakahara says, "and the final sales report puts total ticket revenue at ¥16,800,000."

Hiroshi punches it into the calculator with a low whistle.

"Next," Nakahara continues, "sponsors. NSN is the main one… ¥3,000,000. The others, seven companies combined gave us ¥2,400,000."

Sera writes the numbers in a column.

"And merchandise," Nakahara adds. "Not sold out, but solid. Total: ¥1,120,000."

Hiroshi tilts the phone so they all see the calculator screen as he adds the categories together.

Sera waits, marker hovering.

"Grand total revenue comes to…" Hiroshi taps the final button. "…¥23,320,000."

Nakahara exhales slowly, not relief just yet, but something close.

"Now," he says, lowering the papers, "from all that, the actual money already deposited into our gym's account so far is ¥19,050,000. The rest is scheduled to come in within the week."

Sera writes the final figure at the bottom of the page, draws a line under it, and steps back. Half the work done, income accounted for. Now the expenses would be the harder conversation.

***

Sera flips to a fresh set of papers, smoothing them against the wall. Hiroshi resets the calculator. And Nakahara exhales, shoulders sinking a little.

"Alright," Sera says. "Income's done. Now for the part that hurts."

Nakahara gives a tired laugh. "Yeah… expenses."

They shift their positions. Sera crouches closer to the wall, Hiroshi leans forward, elbows on his knees, and Nakahara begins sorting through a separate pile of documents.

The mood shifts, not gloomy, but cautious. This is the part where optimism usually dies.

"Venue fee," Nakahara says. "Full-day rental for Ota Gym, plus extra charges for the crowd control staff and late-night extension… ¥1,200,000."

Sera nods and writes the number, circling it once.

"Production," Nakahara continues. "NSN's crew, multi-angle cameras, lighting setup… discounted, but still ¥3,500,000."

Hiroshi whistles again, lower this time. "You weren't kidding when you said Logan convinced you not to go minimal."

"Yeah," Nakahara mutters. "And I know it'll pay off later. But it stings today."

He flips another sheet, and pauses.

"Purses," he says. "Ryoma: ¥1,000,000. His opponent: ¥700,000. Aramaki, Kenta, and their opponents: ¥300,000 each. Undercards fighters: ¥400,000 total."

Sera writes the total: ¥3,300,000, and underlines it.

There are more papers: medical fees, ring maintenance, printing costs, event staff, insurance.

Nakahara names them one by one, giving only the total figures, never lingering long enough to depress himself. Piece by piece, number by number, the wall fills with ink.

When he finally places the last paper down, he rubs his eyes and nods at Hiroshi.

"Alright. Add them all."

Hiroshi bends over the phone again, tapping steadily. The room goes quiet except for the soft click-click of the calculator buttons.

Sera stands still, marker in hand, watching.

A few seconds pass, and Hiroshi squints, clears the screen, and re-enters the numbers carefully.

"…Total expenses come to ¥12,980,000."

Nakahara freezes. Hiroshi turns the phone so they both can see. Sera draws a line under the expense list, writes the number, and then steps back.

Now comes the real moment.

"Income received so far: ¥19,050,000," he says. "Minus expenses: ¥12,980,000."

He looks at Hiroshi. "Go ahead."

One last tap, and Hiroshi shows the screen.

¥6,070,000.

"That's the profit," he says.

Nakahara lets out a long breath, half relief, half disbelief.

"…We actually made money," he murmurs.

Sera smiles tiredly. Hiroshi slumps back on the bench, grinning at the ceiling. For the first time that night, the tension breaks.

But then, for a few moments, Hiroshi keeps flicking his gaze between the wall, the numbers, and the other two, clearly holding something back.

Nakahara notices immediately. "What is it?" he asks, voice gentle. "Just tell."

Hiroshi scratches his cheek, hesitates once more, then finally exhales.

"…Look," he says. "This event was a success because of Ryoma. We all know that. And we all know we could lose him if we fail him. So I was thinking… maybe we give him more than what he was offered. A little bonus. Something that shows we appreciate what he did for the gym."

Sera glances at Nakahara, curious about his reaction.

Nakahara falls silent for a moment, eyes lowering to the floor. It's not rejection, just weight, a heavy thoughtful weight.

"I don't really care," he says quietly, "how much money will actually end up in my own pocket."

He looks at his hands, palms open, roughened from decades in the sport.

"I'm old. At my age… this is my last dream. Before I die, I want at least one of my pupils to reach the world stage. Even if he never becomes a world champion… even if he just gets a title shot, that's enough. To do that, I need this money."

Sera softens, then says, "A small extra won't hurt us. Something like ¥500,000. Just as a gesture."

Hiroshi steps in. "Shinichi Yanagimoto already gave his word. He said he'll accept Ryoma's challenge next. If that stands, we won't have to pay anything. The champion's camp will host the fight. We get Ryoma a title shot for free."

Nakahara's gaze sharpens, all hesitation gone in an instant. "That's his words," he says flatly. "Not his management's. Nothing is official yet."

Hiroshi's confidence falters, but Nakahara isn't finished.

"And even if it becomes official… what if Yanagimoto loses to Hisashi Murai? Then everything changes. Our target shifts overnight. And Murai…"

He lets out a humorless huff. "Murai will avoid the kid just as much as the rest of them."

Hiroshi can't push back against that. The silence stretches, heavy, while Nakahara watches him.

"We made it clear from the start," Nakahara adds. "To keep Ryoma here, we have to keep him moving forward. If he's avoided in Japan, we look to OPBF. And for that path to open…"

He taps the paperwork with two fingers.

"I need this money."

Hiroshi lowers his gaze, though a faint tightness in his jaw shows he's far from satisfied.

Nakahara notices it. He draws in a slow breath, ready to explain further, maybe soften the edges of his earlier words.

Then suddenly…

THUNK!

A sudden clumsy noise snaps all three to attention. Something scraping, a faint metallic rattle.

They all turn toward the gym, which is dark now, only lit by the streetlights from outside.

Then another thump, followed by a restrained groan.

"Ow, shit…"

Someone is trying to sneak in.

Nakahara's eyes sharpen. Hiroshi clenches his fists. Sera's breath stills as she instinctively steps back to give Nakahara space.

For a moment, none of them speak. They're preparing for a fight.

A burglar?

Some drunk trying to break in?

Whoever it is, they're about to regret choosing a boxing gym as their target.

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