Now it's clear that the problem isn't just acclimation.
Jet lag alone would have been manageable. Weight cutting alone, difficult but familiar. But stacked together, layered on top of a body clock dragged halfway across the world, the effect is uglier than Hiroshi expected.
Ryoma's metabolism doesn't settle well. His sleep fractures. His head stays fogged, pressure sitting behind his eyes like it never fully drains.
Even eating becomes work. At lunch the day before, and again at dinner, he had stared at the food Hiroshi prepared for him longer than necessary, appetite dulled, stomach uncooperative, forcing each bite down out of discipline rather than hunger.
Now they're all gathered in one apartment, the discussion circling the same problem from different angles, none of them liking where it leads.
Hiroshi stands near the small dining table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the scale on the floor. Ryoma has just stepped off it.
