The days blur together after that first punishing session. Every morning starts the same: Ryoma jolting awake at four, dragging his aching body into the cold, lacing his shoes by muscle memory.
The streets are empty except for his steady breath puffing white and the slap of sneakers against asphalt.
And the Vision Grid keeps tally, its flat tone filling his ears where music once did.
<< Body weight: 65.8 kg. Net loss: 1.5 kg. >>
By midweek, the number ticks down again.
<< Body weight: 64.9 kg. Net loss: 2.4 kg. >>
Ryoma spits onto the pavement, hair plastered to his forehead. "Tell me when I get to minus thirty. Then I'll vanish and we'll all be happy."
The gym doesn't spare him either. Nakahara hammers him with mitt sessions that shred his lungs, the old man barking corrections like machine-gun fire.
"Tighten the guard! Faster on the slip!"
Every mistake earns another round. And when Nakahara's done, Hiroshi swoops in with conditioning.
