Then the door swings open, and two of Nakahara's boxers stroll in. Both have had better careers than most in this gym, but the discipline to match? Not even close.
Kenta Moriyama, a broad-shouldered man still in a plain polo shirt. His forearms are dusted with tiny scratches, and there's a tired but grounded look in his eyes. He's not late because he overslept, but because his parents' fruit shop won't run itself.
Behind him comes Shimamura Renji, a different breed entirely. His black hair is perfectly styled, his shirt crisp and open at the collar.
He's dressed more for a night out than a day in the gym. And trailing at his side is his girlfriend, clinging to his arm like a trophy.
"What's going on here?" Shimamura asks, voice lazy, as if the whole place exists to answer him.
"I saw Aizawa earlier," Kenta adds. "Called out to him, but he didn't even turn around. What happened?"
For a moment, Coach Nakahara considers tossing them in with Ryoma, make them sweat, or maybe break the smugness off their faces. But one look at their casual grins and his mood sinks like a stone.
"He's retired," Nakahara says, already turning away. "And with the attitude you two have, I'd suggest you follow him."
"Maah…" Shimamura waves the words aside with a smirk. "Like you've got anyone better than me."
Nakahara stops mid-step. The air in the gym thickens. When he turns back, it's not with words.
Plak!
The slap lands sharp and loud, the kind of sound that hangs in the air after it's over.
"You think you're too good for this place?" Nakahara's voice is low but steady.
Shimamura rubs his cheek, glancing sideways at his girlfriend. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted in surprise.
Then he looks back at Coach Nakara, his face twisted with disappointment.
"I've been nice enough to help keep this shitty gym breathing, and you humiliate me in front of my girlfriend?"
"If you think you're too good for this gym," Nakahara snaps, "then get out. Find another place."
Hiroshi steps forward quickly. "Sir! Calm down! We can't afford to lose anyone else, not after…"
"I don't care!" Nakahara's voice cuts sharp as he drives Shimamura toward the door. "I'd rather train one fighter with the ambition and discipline to match than waste my time on half-hearted boxers like you!"
The shove is hard, and harsh. Shimamura stumbles forward a step, the friction of his polished shoes squeaking against the floor.
Unhappy with being manhandled, especially in front of his girlfriend, he whirls around. His arm sweeps up in a quick irritated motion, meant only to knock Nakahara's hands away from his back.
But the angle's wrong. His forearm clips Nakahara square at the side of the head.
Thock!
The impact jolts the old man sideways into the bulletin board.
For a heartbeat, Nakahara doesn't move. When he straightens, it's with deliberate slowness, and there's a streak of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Hiroshi rushes in to help him. But Ryoma, who's seen Coach Nakahara like a father figure, jumps over the ring ropes with a different intent. His whole frame radiates a kind of fury the gym hasn't seen before.
Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to hurt something. His voice rips through the air like a punch:
"Come here, you fucker!"
Shuji and Tanaka are on him in an instant, grabbing his arms, but Ryoma thrashes like a cornered animal.
"If you're a man," Ryoma points a finger, eyes locked on Shimamura, "then step in the ring! Don't throw cheap shots at an old man! Step in the ring and I'll make you choke on your pride!"
Shimamura doesn't answer. His eyes narrow to slits. He hadn't meant to hit Nakahara, and deep down, the guilt is there. But it's buried under the sting of being challenged by a rookie, a kid who just turned pro yesterday.
He looks at Nakahara, then back at Ryoma.
"Is it him?" he asks quietly. "The one you think can keep this place alive without me?"
"Yes," Nakahara says without hesitation. "And he'll achieve things you could never touch in your life."
Shimamura tilts his head, jaw grinding. "Fine. I'll find another gym. But mark my words… I'll break your boxer the day we meet. That's if… you've got the guts to put him in with me."
Then he turns on his heel, stalks to his sports car, and drives off without waiting for his girlfriend.
Hiroshi guides Coach Nakahara to the nearest bench, while barking at Shuji to grab the first aid kit. But Nakahara waves him off before the box is even opened.
"Forget it," the old man grumbles, wiping the blood with the back of his sleeve.
"We should get you to a hospital," Hiroshi insists, crouching in front of him.
"Stop treating me like some weakling, damn it!" Nakahara's voice snaps like a whip. "I was a boxer too. This…" he gestures to the blood "This is nothing."
Near the entrance, Kenta stands frozen, fists balled so tight his knuckles blanch. His head feels packed with noise, guilt, regret, and questions about where he's gone wrong.
He's always believed he respected Coach Nakahara more than anyone else in this gym. But watching Ryoma just now, how the kid leapt and ready to throw himself at Shimamura, forces him to question that.
His gaze drifts to Ryoma, and a slow heat blooms in his chest. It's jealousy, yes, but not the kind that curdles into hate. It's the sting of seeing someone else act on the loyalty and courage you thought you had.
He remembers the day Nakahara scouted him, how the old man's faith in his potential felt like a lifeline. But the lack of support from his family has kept him grinding uphill, always falling short of expectations.
Now, that faith has shifted to Ryoma, the prodigy every gym in the city had tried to sign. And the sting sharpened when Ryoma actually chose Nakahara's gym not out of gratitude, but because it was close to home.
***
When the others drift away and the gym falls into a quieter hum, Kenta steps forward, until he's standing in front of Nakahara.
"Coach… I know I've done nothing but disappoint you lately," he begins, voice low, almost swallowed by the stillness. "But you have to know I've always given my all. I've been training hard, and I…"
"What about your old man?" Nakahara's voice cuts through him, flat and cold.
The words hit Kenta harder than he expects.
"He's… getting older," Kenta says. "So I can't say he's getting any better. And his hernia…"
"Yeah." Nakahara gives a slow nod. "He won't be able to carry heavy loads until you get him that surgery. And surgery needs money… something even I can't hand you."
Kenta's jaw tightens. There's nothing to say to that, except to swallow it whole. But as the words sink in, so does a hard unshakable thought.
If surgery needs money, then he'll find a way to earn it. And there's only one way he knows that could bring it fast:
A title match.
No more wasting days, no more excuses.