The steady rhythm starts to grate on Ryoma. Jab, guard, pivot. Again. And again. Each exchange feels like water dripping on stone, grinding away his patience.
Ryoma's chest tightens with irritation. If he lets this drag on, it'll be nothing more than glorified padwork. He wants more. He heeds more, needs something real.
Finally, his guard dips for half a beat as he growls, voice sharp enough to slice through the gym air.
"Come on, Kenta! Are you even trying? Or are you just here to dance with me?"
The words snap the silence harder than any punch.
"Watch your mouth, brat!" Okabe barks from ringside, tone thunderous. "Don't forget who you're talking to!"
Ryohei follows, his voice calmer but firm. "Kid, don't get ahead of yourself. Kenta's still your senior. Show some respect."
But Kenta? He doesn't so much as blink. His breathing stays even, his rhythm unbroken. Jab, jab, tight guard, pivot, jab. As if Ryoma's outburst meant nothing at all.
