The locker room doesn't explode after a loss. It sags with depression.

Nakahara notices it the way a veteran notices a change in pressure; the slack in shoulders, the quiet spreading too fast.

This is how it starts, one loss becoming permission for another. But the old man won't let it happen.

"Aramaki," he calls quietly. "Put your gloves on."

Aramaki reaches into his bag, takes the gloves out, and slides his hands in, the weight settles differently than it does in the gym.

It always does before a fight.

This time though, it's burdened more by the knowledge that for the first time he isn't facing a rookie, but someone who's lived on the contender list for years.

Nakahara steps in front of Aramaki and raises the mitts.

"Come. Let's test your punches with gloves on first."

The first punches are light, almost tentative.

Nakahara adjusts the angle of the mitts with small movements of his wrists, guiding rather than testing.

He watches Aramaki's shoulders, the way his elbows return, the timing between breath and motion.

But soon, a staffer sticks his head inside, eyes scanning the room before landing on them.

"Tatsuki Aramaki?"

"Yes!"

"You're up."

Aramaki draws a deep breath, then snaps his gloves against his cheeks twice, sharp enough to steady him.

Nakahara looks back. Sera and Hiroshi are already ready with all the tools they need.

One nod from Nakahara is enough.

"Let's go."

The old man moves first. Aramaki falls in behind him, Sera and Hiroshi close at his back.

Before leaving the locker room, Hiroshi nudges Aramaki's left arm gently. "You look like you're walking to a dentist appointment."

Aramaki snorts despite himself. "If dentists had crowds like this, nobody would go."

Hiroshi chuckles. "Just think of it as a short visit. A little pain, then we're done."

"Yeah, right… " Aramaki says, lifting an eyebrow. "A little pain."

The grin sticks a little longer than he expects as they keep moving.

Their strides are even, like they've learned how to walk under this kind of pressure. Aramaki has too, but inside, his heart beats louder than it should, heat blooming in his ears.

The staffer pulls the door open. At once, sound and pressure rush out, slapping into him. And his ears, already warm, swell until they feel twice their size as the arena breathes down on him.

They step into the aisle together. The lights bleach the path ahead, the ring distant but waiting.

Then voices start to rise.

"Aramaki!"

Cheers ripple outward, uneven but growing. Then one man holding one pole banner shouts aloud.

"Here comes the cruel king's vanguard!

The Cruel King's Army stands, black shirts and raised fists, chanting for him the way they always do.

They finally beat their drums for the first time tonight.

"ARA-MAKI! Dum-dum… dudum… dum!"

"ARA-MAKI! Dum-dum… dudum… dum!"

Aramaki hears it, but lets it slide past. It's just loyalty to Ryoma, and he knows how to carry that without letting it weigh him down.

But suddenly…

"Hey! Aramaki!"

Seven men lean over the railing ahead, arms stretched out, faces flushed with excitement.

"Three times the price!" one of them shouts.

"We paid triple just to see you!"

Aramaki stops, blinking. "What the…?"

"Give us another thrilling fight!"

"A devastating knock out this time!"

Their words hit closer than the chants.

Aramaki swallows hard, eyes locking onto them. For a split second, everything rushes back, the pressure, the gloves feeling heavier than they should.

"Aramaki," Sera puts a hand on his back. "Let's go."

Nakahara doesn't stop walking either, doesn't turn around.

Aramaki exhales sharply and pushes off, shifting into a light jog, not running, not rushing. He settles in right behind Nakahara, one glove on the old man's shoulder.

"And here he comes, Tatsuki Aramaki," one commentator says. "Five fights in, and every single one has ended the same way: the crowd on its feet."

"It's the punches," the other adds. "Heavy, cruel shots, and no hesitation. We've seen him take clean hits too, and he doesn't blink. No panic. Never retreat. "

"Up to now, though, it's been at the rookie level. But tonight's different."

"Exactly. His opponent tonight is the man who's taken far worse and kept coming. We're about to find out how far Aramaki's power really goes."

Aramaki slips through the ropes and rolls his shoulders, then gives a brief flash of shadowboxing, nothing long, just a few sharp movements.

It's something Ryoma told him to do once: give them something to hold on to.

He lifts a glove in a casual raise. And the response surprises him.

"You look great, Aramaki!"

"That's it!"

"End it fast!"

"I know you can do it!"

But Aramaki's chest still tightens. For a split second, he wishes he'd stayed invisible.

***

The lights dim. A hush rolls through the arena, and then a single spotlight aimed at the red corner entrance.

Music hits, and Hanazawa Matsusuke bursts through the door with a cocky grin, both arms lifted high, elbows flared like wings.

His head bobs to the beat as he struts forward, shoulders loose, soaking it in. His corner trails behind him, already resigned to his pace.

Unlike Aramaki, Hanazawa welcomes the noise. The boos don't bother him. Being in enemy territory isn't new. And he isn't alone here.

"Beat that kid, Hanazawa!"

"Drop him!"

"Make it ugly like always!"

His supporters look less like fans and more like trouble, fists raised, faces sharp with intent. Hanazawa spots them and answers with exaggerated nods, grinning wider.

"Yeah, yeah… I hear you!

He points a glove toward Aramaki, and then drags it slowly across his own throat before letting his arm fall back to his side.

"Oh, come on," one commentator laughs.

"He hasn't even stepped between the ropes yet," another adds.

Hanazawa keeps walking, swagger intact, spotlight following him all the way to the ring.

Aramaki tries to ignore it. But Nakahara can't.

Out of everyone in the opposing camp, it's Hanazawa who stirs the old man's resentment the most, the one fighter who pushed him into that reckless bet back in Kobe.

Hanazawa notices the old man's contempt, and calls out. "Don't forget our deal, old man! Two million yen after I beat your kid!"

His voice is loud enough to reach the press rows. In that instant, murmurs rise, heads turn to each other as they start making their own speculation.

And the commentators latch on immediately.

"Did you hear that?"

"Two million yen… said out loud!"

"That sounds like a private wager between gyms."

"And if that's true, that's a lot of confidence from Nakahara… or a lot of nerve."

Nakahara stiffens. But Hanazawa just grins, nodding along as if to confirm every rumor taking shape.

***

Even after the ring announcer steps into the ring, the arena doesn't quiet. Aramaki's name is called first, but it all sounds distant to him, like it's meant for someone else.

Then the announcer turns.

"And now, fighting out of the red corner! Representing Raging Fox Gym… this Super Featherweight contender brings experience, power, and no shortage of confidence!"

"His professional record: seventeen wins, seven losses, with eleven victories coming by knockout!"

"Currently ranked sixth in Japan, at twenty-seven years old, he has faced the best this division has to offer…"

Hanazawa lifts his arms, soaking it in. He nods along, grinning, thumping his gloves together.

"…ladies and gentlemen… Hanazawa Matsusuke!"

The red corner roars back, louder than expected, rougher, unapologetic.

Aramaki finally notices the ring announcer slipping through the ropes. For a second, he blinks, confused.

Then he turns toward Nakahara. "Did… they already do mine?"

Nakahara's brow creases. But he gets no chance to talk to him now, and simply slips through the ropes.

"Just focus on your boxing," he says. "Nothing else."

Aramaki nods, swallowing hard. He doesn't speak so far, but two million yen isn't a number you shrug off, clearly not for someone like him.

***

The referee gestures both fighter with a sharp curl of his fingers. A few short words; keep it clean, protect yourselves, obey the break.

Gloves meet once, and he then waves them apart.

Both fighters back into their corners without looking away, jaws set, waiting.

And finally…

Ding!

"Bell's up…" one commentator calls out. "Ten rounds at super featherweight. Tatsuki Aramaki and Hanazawa Matsusuke, and there's nowhere to hide once that bell sounds."

Aramaki steps out of his corner, only a few paces. He sets his feet, guard comes up, elbows tucked, weight centered.

He settles into his rhythm: lead foot sliding back and forth, rear foot planted like a stake in the ground.

But the center drifts just out of reach, and he doesn't seem to notice. The pressure still lingers in his shoulders, in the slight stiffness of his timing.

"Aramaki!" Nakahara barks. "The bell's rung!"

Hanazawa realizes it immediately. His mouth curls into a grin, slow and ugly, the kind a bully wears when he's certain the other guy doesn't know where he's standing yet.

"Oi… kid! Center's right here," he says, gesturing with his glove.

Aramaki blinks, realization sinks in. But he only takes one more steps, and Hanazawa closes the gap before he can claim more space.

"If you're really scared… you should've stayed home."

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