Ryoma sprawls across the mat, his face pressed flat into the sour puddle. Warm bile clings to his cheek. His face goes pale, his breath rasping, shallow and uneven.
Around him, the gym is frozen in a tense half-circle. No one throws punches now, no one dares hit the bags.
All eyes are locked on him, some wide with fear, others curious, whispering sharp fragments of gossip.
"What's wrong with him now?" Okabe mutters.
"Who knows…" Ryohei shrugs, but his face clouded with worry.
Then Hiroshi waves a sharp hand at the crowd.
"Back up. Give him air."
The command slices the murmurs, and the circle hesitates before peeling away a few steps. But still, every gaze lingers.
Hiroshi crouches low, searching Ryoma's face. Sweat glistens at his temples, bile stains his jaw.
"Damn… this doesn't look good. We should get him to a hospital."
His eyes lift, locking on Reika.
"Can we use your car?"
