Meanwhile, Utsunomiya feels far removed from the noise of Tokyo, especially from this high up. Shinichi Yanagimoto stands near the window of his luxury apartment, the city lights spreading beneath him like something owned rather than admired.
The television glows behind him, muted but unavoidable, replaying the same images everyone else in the country is watching.
On the screen, Ryoma is already on the stretcher, surrounded by medics, the title decided but untouched, as if it no longer belongs to the ring.
Shinichi doesn't sit. He watches standing, arms folded, posture loose but alert, like he's studying footage rather than history being made.
There's no flinch when Jade McConnel goes down. No tightening in his jaw when the referee waves it off. Instead, his lips curve, just slightly.
"So that's how you did it," he murmurs, "Ryoma Takeda?"
