Serrano's eyes lift toward him, and this time, there's no rage left, no fire, no anger.
There's only the pale hollow look of a man who's run out of answers.
He opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out, no words strong enough to break Ryoma's gaze.
Then the referee's voice slices through the quiet.
"Hey! Back to the neutral corner!"
Only then does Ryoma move. He turns without a word and walks toward one of the neutral corners.
He's no longer in the zone, but something of it still lingers, the gravity in his stride, the cold weight in the air that seems to follow him.
When he reaches the corner and turns back, Serrano sees that same gaze again. It's sharp as a blade, cutting straight through him, peeling away every shred of confidence he has left.
The silence between them says it all: the gulf in skill, in composure, in everything that makes one man a fighter and another just someone who fights.
