The red corner is light with confidence. Higuchi sits relaxed on his stool, shoulders loose, breathing steady. His cutman barely needs to touch him.
Water, a nod, a quiet word exchanged, nothing more. Three rounds in, and it already feels like routine, another night at the office.
Across the ring, the blue corner tells a different story. Okabe slumps forward, chest heaving, sweat streaking down his face. Nakahara crouches in front of him, voice firm but measured, doing what a corner must do when answers are scarce.
"You're still in this," Nakahara says, gripping Okabe's gloves. "Forget the scorecards. We don't chase points. We take his legs. Dig the body. Slow him down. Once his feet go, the fight changes."
There's no tactical miracle in the words, just survival instincts dressed as strategy. Morale first, hope second.
"Work the ribs," Nakahara continues. "Even if he slips, even if he moves, touch him. Make him feel it. Don't rush. Don't panic."
