When Maruyama reaches his fighter, Noguchi slouches forward, but one arm tangled in the ropes, body sagging like a puppet with its strings cut.
His eyes are glassy, isn't conscious anymore. One glance is enough for Maruyama to know his fighter is finished.
Maruyama glares at the referee, jaw clenched. "You should've stopped it earlier. He didn't need to take that beating."
The ref only shrugs, face flat. "You had a towel. You could've thrown it sooner."
The words hit like ice. Maruyama's hands curl into fists, but he swallows the retort, eyes drifting back to his broken fighter hanging in the ropes.
Meanwhile, the commentators' voices still hang in the air. And the crowd seizes on them, turning their echoes into a chant, Ryoma's name rolling louder and louder until it drowns the hall.
But Ryoma doesn't care about the credit or the noise. He strides to the far side of the ring and points his glove into the crowd.
