Chapter 2 – The Silence Between Punches
The sea was grey that morning – the kind of grey that makes everything look like it's holding its breath.
Ryo Kusanagi sat by the window of a small café near the pier, his laptop open in front of him, the cursor blinking like an impatient metronome. He hadn't written a single word since last night. The only thing on the screen was the subject line of that email.
From: Ardent House Publishing
Re: Your Submission – "The Fighter Who Forgot How to Breathe"
He'd stared at it so long the words had started to blur.
He was still half-convinced it was a mistake – maybe a prank, or an automated message gone wrong. The idea that someone – a professional, a real editor – had actually read his manuscript and wanted to talk to him felt impossible.
The barista called his name softly.
"Mr. Kusanagi? One black coffee."
He nodded his thanks, taking the cup with hands that still trembled. The caffeine didn't matter. The warmth did.
His phone vibrated.
Another email.
Mr. Kusanagi,
This is Mina Arata, Senior Editor at Ardent House. I was assigned to review your manuscript personally. I'd like to schedule a virtual meeting to discuss it if you're available this afternoon. 4PM JST.
Regards,
M. Arata
Short. Cold. Professional.
Ryo read it again, and for some reason, smiled. There was no unnecessary flattery, no warmth – just a challenge wrapped in formality. He respected that. It reminded him of the coaches who never praised until you earned it.
He checked the time. 10:47 AM.
He had five hours to prepare.
Five hours to figure out how to talk like someone who belonged in the literary world instead of an MMA cage.
The call started exactly at four.
Ryo sat straight in front of his laptop, wearing a clean black shirt, his notebook open beside him.
When the video connected, he was greeted by a woman whose presence was as precise as her tone.
Mina Arata looked to be in her mid-twenties, dressed in a simple white blouse and thin-rimmed glasses. Her hair was black, tied neatly behind her. Behind her was a wall of books – not decorative but used. The kind of books with creased spines and post-it notes struck out like flags of battle.
"Mr. Kusanagi," she said, her voice even and controlled. "Thank you for making the time."
"Of course," Ryo replied, careful not to let his nerves show.
She adjusted her glasses. "I read your manuscript last week. Twice actually."
He froze. "Twice?"
"That's rare for me," she admitted, though her tone didn't change. "Usually, I know within three chapters if a submission is worth my time. Yours…was frustrating. It's raw, unfocused, but there's something underneath the words. A pulse."
He wasn't sure if that was praise or criticism.
"I can work with that," she continued. "But before we discuss edits, I want to know something. Why did you write it?"
The question caught him off guard. "Why?"
"Yes," Mina said. "Writers write for a reason. Some for money. Some for fame. Some for pain. Which one are you?"
Ryo stared at her through the screen, unsure if he should answer honestly. But something about her gaze – steady, sharp – demanded truth.
"I wrote it," he said slowly, "because it was the only fight I had left."
Mina was silent for a moment. Then she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Interesting."
"I think," she replied, "that you're not done fighting yet."
The meeting lasted an hour.
They went through everything – plot structure, pacing, dialogue. Mina dissected each scene with surgical precision. She pointed out what worked ad what didn't without sugarcoating a single word.
"This paragraph – too self-indulgent. Cut it. You linger too much on emotion without progression."
"This scene- strong tension, but you pull your punches. Don't write like you're afraid to hit your reader."
"This ending – good, but predictable. You can do better."
By the time the call ended, Ryo felt like he'd just gone twelve rounds.
But beneath the exhaustion was something he hadn't felt in years.
Focus.
When the call ended, Mina said one last thing:
"If you're serious about revising, send me the new draft in one month. If not, don't waste my time. I don't sign projects that aren't ready to bleed."
Then she hung up.
No farewell. No fake politeness.
Ryo sat back in his chair, staring at the blank screen. Then, slowly, he laughed.
"She's tougher than any coach I've had."
He hadn't realised it until then – but he was grinning.
For the first time since his injury, he felt the adrenaline of competition again. Not against an opponent – but against himself.
The next weeks were relentless.
Ryo rewrote every chapter from scratch, sometimes staying awake until the sun burned through his curtains. The process was gruelling, but he attacked it like training camp – discipline, repetition, sweat.
He cut out entire sections, rewrote dialogue, stripped away unnecessary emotion until the story felt sharp enough to draw blood.
But what surprised him most was how much of himself he started to recognise in the characters again. Their struggles weren't just metaphors anymore – they were mirrors.
He'd forgotten how good it felt to hurt with purpose.
Every night, he'd glance at Mina's brief, impersonal emails – her feedback like knives, but always precise.
Your prose improved. Still lacks rhythm. Try reading it aloud – your sentences are fighting each other.
Cut Chapter 8's ending. It's sentimentality disguised as depth. Let silence speak instead.
You have a good ear for honesty. Don't lose that. It's your only weapon.
He started to look forward to them.
Her words became his new sparring partner.
Then came the call that changed everything.
It was a quiet evening, rain tapping against his window. He'd just finished rewriting the final chapter when his phone rang.
"Mira Arata" flashed on the screen.
He answered instantly. "Arata-san?"
"You finished the revision,"
"Yes."
"Good." There was a pause. "I read it."
Ryo's heart pounded. He tried to read her tone, but she gave nothing away.
"It's raw," she said at last. "Still rough in places. But it breathes."
That word stopped him cold.
"You wrote like someone who stopped trying to impress and started trying to tell the truth. That's what readers remember."
He didn't what to say.
"So…what now?"
"Now," Mina said, "we move forward. I'll be sending you a preliminary contract tomorrow. It's not a guarantee of publication yet – more of an agreement to develop. But it's a start."
He exhaled, a laugh breaking free. "I…I don't know what to say."
"You can start by saying thank you."
He smiled. "Then thank you, Mina."
Her tone softened for the first time. "You're welcome, Ryo."
Then, before she hung up, she added quietly – "Don't make me regret this."
The call ended, and the rain outside grew louder.
Ryo closed his laptop, leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in years, the silence didn't hurt.
The next morning, the contract arrived.
It was official – Author: Ryo Kusanagi.
Even seeing his name in print made something deep inside him crack open.
The past two years had been a blur of failure and recovery, but now…now there was movement again.
He walked to the pier, the manuscript printed and bound under his arm. The ocean stretched endlessly before him, restless and alive.
He thought about the words. About how they could hit just as hard, cut just as deep, and maybe, just maybe, heal what nothing else could.
He closed his eyes and whispered,
"Round Two."