Meanwhile, the atmosphere inside Nakahara's locker room has shifted from chaos into something denser, more concentrated. The earlier panic has cooled into a hard, simmering focus that hangs in the air like trapped heat before a storm.
Nakahara stands in the center with the mitts secured tightly around his hands, leather creaking as he raises them to chest level. Across from him, Kenta rolls his shoulders once, eyes steady and alert.
Just half an hour ago, Kenta had already accepted that his bout might be canceled. Now that Arman has arrived, that resignation has vanished completely, replaced by a calm intensity that sharpens his every movement.
"Don't give me half punches," Nakahara says, voice low but edged. "Again. From the top."
Kenta snaps a jab into the left mitt, then drives a cross behind it. The sound is crisp and heavy, reverberating faintly against the metal lockers lining the walls.
"Harder," Nakahara insists without hesitation. "You're still holding something back."
