Aramaki sits on the stool in the blue corner, elbows resting lightly on his thighs, breathing steady through his nose. Sweat gathers along his collarbone but nothing about him looks distressed.
There's no swelling, no urgency whatsoever. Only two clean jabs landed, nothing more.
Sera watches him closely while Coach Murakami squeezes water into his mouth. Aramaki rinses briefly, jaw working once, then leans forward and spits into the bucket with a hollow splash.
The first round had been awkward, too much distance, too much hesitation. And Sera can't simply ignore it.
But Aramaki's breathing is steady. His eyes are focused. There is no sign of frustration or doubt in his posture.
Perhaps he is simply being cautious, Sera thinks. It is not every day you share the ring with a former champion.
"So," Sera says lightly, "what's your impression of our former champion?"
He presses the enswell lightly against Aramaki's cheek, more out of routine than necessity.
