Back in Tokyo…
By midmorning, the street outside Nakahara's gym is clogged with cameras and breath fogging the cold January air.
Reporters crowd the entrance, boots scraping against frozen pavement, voices overlapping as they shout Ryoma's name, Sagawa's injury, the OPBF title.
Nakahara steps out once. Just once.
"We're on a tight schedule," he says, breath steady in the winter chill. "If you care about a Japanese fighter performing overseas, then let him train. That's all."
He doesn't wait for questions. The door closes, shutting out the noise.
Inside, the noise disappears.
Ryoma is already working, tethered to a resistance band, stepping in short bursts, shoulders tight as he drives compact punches into the pad.
The Palloff pull keeps his core locked, every movement controlled, every inch earned.
Sera stands close, stopwatch lowered, watching instead of correcting. Nakahara joins them at the edge of the mat, eyes fixed on Ryoma's form.
