Nakahara steps out first, followed by the others down the dim hallway. The gym outside is pitch black, only the faint glow of streetlights slipping through the high windows.

Hiroshi reaches for the switches by the entrance. And the overhead lights flare on one by one, illuminating the ring, the heavy bags, the rows of lockers…

…and Kenta.

He's halfway through climbing in through the small window, frozen like a burglar caught mid-crime.

His legs are still dangling outside. His hands are gripping the frame. His shirt is dusty from scraping the wall.

Kenta's eyes widen the instant he sees them.

"…Oh."

He drops down awkwardly, landing with a thud.

"You guys are still here? What kept you this late?"

Nakahara doesn't blink. His voice comes out flat and cold.

"I should be the one asking you. What are you doing sneaking in through a window at this hour?"

Kenta doesn't immediately answer. He brushes off his clothes, turns away, and grabs the two stuffed bags he left on the floor; school bag on one side, duffel gym bag on the other.

He zips them both shut with unnecessary precision, buying himself time.

Finally, he mutters, "…I was thinking about… I don't know… maybe staying here tonight."

Nakahara squints. "You… ran away from home?"

Kenta rubs his cheek with the heel of his palm, glancing aside. "Kind of. I just… I've been thinking whether I should quit boxing or…"

"Or to leave the house?" Nakahara finishes for him.

Kenta stops. He looks up this time, for real. There's a flicker of resolve under the shakiness.

"You finally gave me the chance. And now I know there's still hope. So I…"

"No." Nakahara cuts him off sharply. "Go home."

Kenta's brows twitch. His fists tighten at his sides, knuckles whitening.

Everything he's been holding in since he came home after the fight; the humiliation, the replay of his own father's treatment toward him, the sting of watching others move forward while he's stuck, all of it compresses into that tiny involuntary clench.

"I can't, Coach..." His voice cracks, not from tears, but from frustration. "If I stay, I'll never go far in this sport. Even after beating Park Hyun-seok, my old man didn't care. He just…"

He shakes his head, jaw tight.

"If I stay there, I won't grow. I know it."

Nakahara exhales a short irritated breath and turns his back on him, marching straight into the office without another word.

"Coach… Wait!" Kenta hurries after him, almost tripping over his own bags.

But before he reaches the doorway, Nakahara reappears. Something metallic jingles in his hand.

He holds out two things: his bike keys, and the keys to his own apartment.

"Here," Nakahara says quietly. "Take these. And go to my place."

Kenta freezes. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His eyes shine instantly, betraying the emotion he tries so hard to swallow.

"C-Coach…"

"Hey, hey," Nakahara snaps, waving a hand. "Don't start crying. You're a boxer. You're supposed to be leading this gym. You're the oldest here. So man up."

He jerks his head toward the door. "We're busy. Now go."

Kenta bows his head deeply, hands trembling as he accepts the keys. He doesn't look back as he walks toward the exit, shoulders tight, head lowered so the tears won't fall where they can see.

Nakahara and the other two watch him from behind. For a long moment, none of them speak. Hiroshi rubs the back of his neck. Sera folds her arms. Nakahara stands still, his expression fill with exhaustion.

They don't hear Kenta cry as he leaves.

But from the way his shoulders shake, from the way he clutches those keys like a lifeline, there's only one conclusion they can reach:

Whatever he's been dealing with at home, it must be far heavier than he ever let on.

For several seconds, the gym is utterly silent again, deep and hollow, the kind of silence that settles after something heavy slips out of the room.

Hiroshi exhales through his nose. "Damn kid," he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Could've just said he needed help instead of crawling through a window like a stray cat."

Sera snorts once. "Stray cat? More like a raccoon," he says, walking back to the office. "You saw his face… he looked like he'd been wrestling the wall before we turned the lights on."

Nakahara doesn't say anything. His eyes are still on the entrance. His shoulders haven't relaxed yet.

After a moment, he gives a rough sigh and turns back toward the office.

"Let's finish the paperwork," he says, voice low and worn.

Hiroshi and Sera fall in behind him. They don't comment on Kenta again, not directly, but the air is different now. A little heavier, a little sadder.

Until then, Sera breaks the silence.

"…We can't keep thinking only about Ryoma," he says softly. "Kenta… from what I've seen, he has real potential. He's older, sure, but he deserves a proper chance."

Nakahara exhales a long tired breath, and nods with a solemn heaviness.

"Yeah… Aramaki too," he mutters. "Ever since those two got close to Ryoma, they've turned into a whole different breed."

A small huff escapes him.

"Damn kid might be a better coach than all of us at this point."

That earns a real reaction. Hiroshi snorts first, then Sera lets out a short laugh, the tension finally cracking just a little.

For a moment, the mood lightens, the weight in the room lifting as they let themselves breathe. But Nakahara kills the moment with a single sentence.

"Anyway… don't forget about Logan."

Both Sera and Hiroshi stop laughing immediately.

"I'll give him this," Nakahara adds. "He really does think Ryoma can go far. But don't mistake that for kindness. He sees a gold mine, not a boxer. And he's already planning how to dig until there's nothing left. For him, the kid's potential is something to harvest, not to protect."

Sera's arms fold again, his face tightening. Hiroshi's jaw shifts, irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

The brief humor vanishes. The reality returns.

And the three of them stay in silence, reminded of exactly what they're up against, and what they have to protect.

***

The next morning, Utsunomiya, Tochigi Prefecture

The morning air in Utsunomiya is cold enough to sting the lungs, the kind that makes every breath feel clean and sharp.

Logan steps out of his Lexus, locking it with a soft chirp, and takes in the modest two-story building before him.

Tachibana Boxing Gym.

He steps inside, adjusting the collar of his coat as the boxers briefly look up, then return to their routines. His eyes quickly find the man he's here for: Daisuke Yoshizawa, broad-shouldered, compact, stern, with the presence of someone who's earned every bit of respect in the room.

Yoshizawa finishes a pad round, lowers the mitts, and turns toward him with a flat expression.

"You're Logan from NSN," Yoshizawa says. Not welcoming, not rude, just a statement of fact. "If this is about Sinichi's next fight, I don't have time. We're just a month away from a title defense. I can't spare a second for press, business talk, or…"

His eyes narrow slightly, "….some rookie's drama."

Logan offers a polite smile. "I understand you're busy, Yoshizawa-san."

"I'm not interested," Yoshizawa says, already turning away. "Ryoma Takeda is talented, sure. Your company helped his profile rise. Fine. But that has nothing to do with us."

Logan slips his hands into his trousers pockets, entirely unbothered. "If you think I came here to push Ryoma Takeda into a title fight with your champion…"

He pauses, just long enough.

"…then you're wrong."

Yoshizawa stops mid-step. Slowly, he turns back around, eyes sharper than before, really looking at Logan now.

"…Oh?" he says, voice measured, cautious. "Then what exactly did you come here for?"

Logan's smile widens, not smug, just knowing.

"Something else."

Yoshizawa studies him, brow tightening ever so slightly.

But Logan says nothing more.

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