The scent of grilled soy and simmering broth drifts through the cool night air as Ryoma and his mother sit side by side on short stools at a humble street vendor's stall.
The lanterns above sway, casting a warm, flickering glow over bowls of steaming soba and aging menus taped to the cart's frame.
Nearby, crates of bottled soda lean against the counter. And behind the cooktop, an elderly man in a white apron stirs the broth with the same slow movements he's likely used for decades.
"Hmm," Keiko hums, lifting her chopsticks. "This place hasn't changed at all. Still cheap. Still good."
Ryoma offers a faint smile. "Cheap's good. I can afford cheap."
"Oh, hush. You just won your debut," she says, nudging him. "You get paid for that, right?"
"Haven't even checked," Ryoma replies, twirling his noodles idly. "They wire it to the gym. Coach will probably take his cut before I even see what's left."
"Hmph. That's boxing?" she takes another slurp.
"That's boxing," he echoes with a small shrug. "Most rookies don't make much. You start at small venues, no TV. You need a few good wins before anyone with money even notices."
Keiko blows gently on her soup, smiling. "Still. You looked strong. Confident. I think you really have what it takes."
"Tonight, I got lucky," Ryoma says. "I fought a guy from a pretty well-known gym. One of his seniors is the current champion in a higher weight class. We were just the curtain-raiser, but still, I made it onto TV."
"Whoa, that's my boy," Keiko beams, clapping her hands. "And someday, you'll be the main event. No need to rush. Your time will come."
Ryoma freezes, just for a moment, then nods with an unsure smile. Her words, warm and encouraging, feel different now. But there's still something hasn't changed in her.
In Ryoma's previous life, she had said something similar, after his loss to Tōjō. The moment had been different, the outcome worse, but the unwavering belief in her voice had always been there.
She had supported him wholeheartedly, from the very beginning, ever since his first amateur match in high school.
And yet, now, those same words carry a bitter edge. Because he remembers how he let her down. How he had abandoned her for ambition, for someone else, for a version of success that demanded sacrifice.
He left her alone in that small apartment, telling himself it was temporary, that he would make it up to her. But by the time he came back, it was too late.
"Hey," Keiko's voice cuts through, gentle and warm, pulling him back.
She leans toward him with the ladle passed by the old vendor.
"You spaced out. Want more noodles? You need to gain weight, you know. Build some muscle. You're still wiry."
Ryoma blinks, then lets out a small, dry laugh. "Yeah. More muscle."
She doesn't press. Just smiles and ladles more noodles into his bowl with a mother's quiet care.
"Ah, that's right… what about Kaede?" she asks softly, stirring her broth. "Have you seen her lately?"
Ryoma nods, but his gaze drifts. "Yeah… I actually ran into her right after the fight. But we didn't talk much. She was with some friends, and I had press interviews to get through."
Keiko gives a small, knowing smile, the kind mothers use when they sense something unspoken.
"Mmm… If you're serious about her, you should show it. Make time. Relationships need care, Ryoma."
She pauses, letting her words settle before continuing.
"I know you're still young. A teenager, technically. But not for much longer. You'll be twenty in a few months. You can't stay a kid forever."
Ryoma doesn't reply right away. Just listens, quietly, as the warmth from the soba and the weight of her voice settle into his chest.
***
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the heartbeat of the city's nightlife, Kaede is still out, sharing what little free time she has with her coworkers.
The tavern buzzes with low conversation, the clink of glasses, and the sizzle of skewers over an open flame. It's a tucked-away izakaya, nestled in a narrow alley strung with red lanterns, the kind of place only locals remember, hidden from the modern city by nostalgia and wood smoke.
Kaede sits at a corner table with three coworkers, her hair tied up, blazer draped over the back of her chair. A half-empty glass of umeshu rests in front of her, and the flush in her cheeks glows faintly in the warm light.
"So you actually know the guy?" one of the women asks, eyes wide with curiosity. "That Takeda? The boxer? He's all over local feeds tonight."
"We went to high school together," Kaede replies, keeping her tone even. "That was his debut. He just turned pro."
"Ah, I heard the commentator mention he just graduated. Doesn't that mean he's younger than you?"
Kaede nods. "Yes… only by a year and few months."
"He's hot, and young," another chimes in. "That brooding look? Classic. You better lock that down."
Kaede smiles, a polite practiced smile, the kind she uses when someone says something that brushes too close to something real. The other girls notice and tease her even more, their laughter light, genuinely happy for her.
But it's different with Tatsuki Shiba, the only man in the group. He takes another long sip of his drink. Whether to wash down the bitterness of a bad day or to drown the quiet sting of the moment, even he isn't sure.
Later, after the laughter fades and the group disperses into the night, Tatsuki offers to walk Kaede to the station.
He doesn't try anything, just walks beside her, hands in the pockets of his coat, quiet and observant.
Until then…
"You looked proud, back there," he says.
"I am," Kaede replies simply. "He's been training a long time."
"Yeah, but boxing's rough. One bad hit and it's over."
Kaede doesn't respond right away. Her steps stay even, but her eyes drift away from his.
Tatsuki tilts his head, catching her gaze under the soft glow of a streetlamp. "You ever think about what happens next? If he keeps rising, and you're left watching from the sidelines?"
Kaede frowns slightly. "He's not that kind of a man."
"You sure?" he says gently. "People change. Glory does that. So does failure. One way or another… it gets harder. Either he walks away, or you do."
She doesn't answer, only looks uncomfortable.
His voice then softens, lower now, more personal. "Look at you. Still young, pretty, having good job, stable future. You don't need to chase someone else's dream."
Suddenly, Kaede's pace slows just enough to feel it. And there, sensing he's managed to plant a seed of doubt, Tatsuki Shiba leans in a little, pressing further.
"You deserve someone who knows what they want," he says, his voice low and steady. "Someone who sees your worth… and is willing to fight for it. Not just to win you, but to hold on to what really matters."