Elsewhere, in Nakahara's cramped office, the mood is far less composed. The place feels smaller than usual, almost suffocating under the clutter.
Papers and boxing magazines pile in precarious stacks across the desk, training schedules curl at the edges where coffee cups have been set down too many times, and a faint musk of sweat and liniment oil lingers in the air.
The narrow window barely lets in light, making the overhead lamp's hum feel louder than it should.
Nakahara drops the folded newspaper onto his desk with a sharp slap, the sound cutting through the room like a jab. He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening as he glares down at the headline.
"No bribery, no dirty deal." His voice is sharp with irritation, every word spat like something bitter. "They keep repeating that like a prayer. And they keep hounding Maruyama, as if he was the one who bribed the ref."
