Fukui's gloves are also thudding down as he tries to anchor himself. His breath rasps in broken pulls, chest jerking like an engine that just swallowed gravel.
The pain blooms late, sharp and disorienting, ribs burning, chin buzzing, temple pulsing in a way that promises a terrible morning.
But the worst part is the confusion.
Just seconds ago, he had the fight wrapped neatly in both hands. Eight rounds of control, rhythm, dominance, everything exactly where it should've been.
And now he's staring at the floorboards, trying to make sense of how the world tilted underneath him.
How?
How did it suddenly come to this?
A hush spreads through the arena at first, a ripple of murmurs, the crowd trying to process what they just saw.
"…Was that real?"
"Did Okabe actually drop him?"
Then voices rise, one by one, swelling like a wave cresting.
"Okabe! That's how you fight!"
"Finally fighting like a real boxer!"
"Red corner's alive!"
"Do it again, Okabe!"
