The referee immediately strides toward the ropes with urgency. His posture stiffens, instincts taking over as he leans forward to intervene before the situation unravels further.
"Arman! Back inside," he calls out sharply, one hand extended.
Arman does not even turn his head, while his other glove already dangles half-peeled from his hand. He drops to the floor with a dull thud of boots against the thin mats and starts walking toward the aisle without looking back.
"Arman!" the referee tries once more, leaning over the top rope now.
But there's still no response from Arman. His neck is visibly tense, tendons drawn tight beneath the lights, and his gaze stays locked on the exit door ahead.
The referee's expression hardens. He straightens, swings his arm across his body in a decisive wave, and strides toward the timekeeper's side of the ring while pointing firmly at Kenta.
"Stay there," he orders.
Kenta freezes mid-step, jaw tight, eyes locked on Arman's retreating back.
