Kenji Nakahara is busier than usual. So busy, in fact, that he looks less like a boxing trainer and more like an overworked businessman; phone pressed to his ear, folders under his arm, jacket half-on, half-off as he hurries across the gym for the third time that morning.
He barely glances at the ring, barely nods at the fighters, barely breathes before another call drags him away.
Ryoma watches him stride past again, this time heading straight to the office. Nakahara disappears inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. Papers shuffle, a chair scrapes, then another phone call starts; his tone tense, clipped, nothing like the calm old coach Ryoma knows.
Minutes later, Nakahara steps out, still talking, already walking toward the exit.
"…yes, two months… no, I can't push it back… just send me the contract draft…"
The gym entrance door shuts behind him before the fighters can catch the rest.
