On the tenth day of the camp, Coach Nakahara finally finds time to visit.

With Okabe and Ryohei still recovering from their last fight, the gym is filled mostly with high schoolers who trickle in after classes. Their punches echo off the walls, but the sound never satisfies him.

It's not like the heavy, full-bodied thuds Kenta and Aramaki used to make on the sandbags. Not like the soft, predatory whisper of Ryoma's footwork, the pendulum rhythm that lulled, tricked, and punished.

He's missed that. He wants to see them so badly.

Before he even reaches the lodge's old gym, he already hears the mitt work. But something's off. The sound is duller, softer, lacking the sharp bite he expects from his fighters.

His brow twitches. "Hiroshi better not be messing with their form…"

He quickens his pace. When he pushes open the old sliding door, Hiroshi is right there by the entrance, marker in hand, jotting something on the battered whiteboard.

"Oh, Coach! You're here?" Hiroshi greets casually.

"Hiroshi…?" Nakahara steps fully inside, eyes scanning past him.

And then he sees it. Aramaki is in the middle of a mitt session, with Ryoma, who's holding the pads with a stillness far too precise for his age.

Ryoma gives a tiny lift of the pad and calls calmly:

"Three-two-slip-two."

Bap dap, swish… BAP!

The combination lands, but the pop is soft, almost polite compared to the destructive rhythm Nakahara remembers from Aramaki.

Aramaki is focused, sweating, moving just slightly out of sync. And Ryoma… Ryoma looks composed, almost cold, eyes fixed sharply on Aramaki's form, adjusting angle and timing with minimal words.

Nakahara blinks, unsure if he's surprised or unsettled.

Hiroshi wipes his hands on his pants. "I didn't schedule this. They started on their own."

Nakahara stands just inside the doorway, unnoticed by the boys. He watches a few more exchanges, and his brows knit.

"…Hiroshi," he mutters under his breath, "why did you let them do this? Aramaki's form could get ruined."

Hiroshi looks up from the whiteboard, blinking. "Ruined? I thought they were doing pretty well."

"You call that pretty well?" Nakahara points directly at Aramaki's last combination.

Hiroshi frowns and glances back toward the ring, studying them again. But what he sees now isn't the same as what Nakahara walked in on.

This time, Ryoma is guiding Aramaki through something more deliberate; the three distinct adjustments branching from the spearing-jab stance.

He signals tiny shifts with the mitt angle, nudging Aramaki's elbow or foot with a subtle tap, and the difference is immediate.

Aramaki's form tightens, his weight transitions cleaner, his guard more disciplined.

Hiroshi's face softens. He crosses his arms. "…Why don't you watch them a bit more," he murmurs.

Nakahara opens his mouth to argue, but something in the rhythm of the drills makes him hesitate.

For now, Ryoma slows the pace, giving careful verbal cues, not just standard mitt commands, but tiny corrections layered between the beats.

Aramaki moves through the three variations: spearing-jab feint into a pull-back counter, spearing-jab fake shifting into a gazelle punch, and the genuine spearing jab to stop forward pressure.

It's slow and careful. Then they reset, and Ryoma shifts the tone.

"Now tighten it. Try the base form first. Make it sharp."

The next sequence snaps. Ryoma leads him with a few normal combination, 1-1-2, 1-2-3, before giving cues for the base form of the spearing jab.

Pap, pap… thud!

"Good! Now, the second form!"

Ryoma leads him again with normal combination, and then gives a cues on core, inviting Aramaki to throw the spearing jab.

Aramaki steps in, feint…

"Now pull!"

Ryoma cuts him with a chopping left. Aramaki pulls and shift. Ryoma puts the right mit pad on high, and Aramaki snaps it with a sharp cross.

Pak!

"Good! This time, the third form!"

They reset, Ryoma leads him from the starts to the moment of spearing jab, but before Aramaki hits the mitt pad on the core, Ryoma puts the left mitt on the right side of his head.

"Now, gazelle punch!"

Aramaki follows, and…

Pak!

"That's it! You've got the timing better now. Let's do it again."

They repeat all the three forms with another session. And this time, it's cleaner than Nakahara has ever seen.

Before Nakahara can process it, they start again. But this time, Ryoma doesn't keep it simple. He calls out combinations most trainers avoid, five and six punches strung together in awkward angles, with defensive slips and pivots between them.

It should be messy. It should fall apart. But it doesn't.

Because Ryoma's mitts are always exactly where they need to be, catching every punch, matching Aramaki's rhythm.

He shapes Aramaki's flow, positioning the pads in places only someone with a fighter's sharp eye, and a natural feel for defense, could manage.

Nakahara's eyes narrow, not in anger, but in disbelief. Most licensed trainers don't even attempt mitt work like this.

"How…" he mutters. "How the hell is that kid holding mitts like that?"

Hiroshi doesn't look away from them. "I've been wondering the same thing."

For the first time since arriving, Nakahara falls completely silent, watching Ryoma move, call, guide, and read Aramaki like a seasoned coach trapped in a teenager's body.

And a cold thought slides into the back of his mind. This isn't something he taught Ryoma.

This isn't something anyone taught him.

It's something he doesn't yet understand. And he can't look away.

***

Their session winds down with one last clean combination, Aramaki's gloves thudding into the mitts before Ryoma lowers them and rolls out his shoulders. Only then do the two boys finally notice Nakahara approaching from the doorway.

Aramaki straightens immediately and gives a quick bow. "Coach! I didn't see you there."

Ryoma doesn't bother with formality. "Yo, old man. When'd you get here?"

Nakahara doesn't answer the greeting. His eyes are fixed on the mitts still hanging from Ryoma's hands.

"…Since when," he says, voice tight with restrained irritation, "have you been holding mitts like that?"

Ryoma blinks, as if the question is pointless. "Since just now? Aramaki needed help adding some variation, so we tried a few things. And then it kinda… turned into mitt work."

"Turned into, you say," Nakahara mutters.

Aramaki jumps in, nodding eagerly. "Not gonna lie, Coach… he's good at it. Scary good. He forces me to throw long combinations without losing rhythm, and he reads everything. Catches everything clean."

Nakahara lets out a slow breath. "I see."

Ryoma loosens the straps on the mitts. "Well… since you're here, Coach, maybe let Kenta spar today."

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "I've been helping with his mitts, but he hasn't had a single spar since we got here."

Kenta hears it from across the room, and the words catch him wrong.

Ryoma makes it sound polite, reasonable. But Kenta hears the undercurrent, the hunger, the impulse Ryoma has been forced to suppress for the last ten days.

He's still seeking a chance to go all out, a chance to test something. A chance to sink into that dangerous edge, and the thrill between punches.

Ryoma hides it well, but not well enough. Not from someone who's been on edge because of him. And Kenta doesn't turn away this time.

Because he can still hear Ryoma calling him soft, hear that tone dripping with annoyance, and the challenge behind it. And something in Kenta's chest, pride, or stubbornness, or simple man's nerve, refuses to back down.

He steps forward. "Coach," he says, keeping his voice level, "I've been feeling dull these past days. A spar might help me shake it off."

Ryoma's grin comes instantly, a wide sharp grin, a grin that hides just a little too much pleasure inside it. He turns away before anyone comments, walking toward Hiroshi.

"Tapes, please," he asks.

Hiroshi grabs a roll without thinking and tosses it. Ryoma catches it midair, effortless and smooth.

And Kenta sees it, that grin again, ugly, hungry, barely controlled.

"Fine…"

"If that's how he wants it… I'll prove I'm not the one who's soft."

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