Back in the Korakuen Arena, the locker room is too quiet for a victory. Ryoma sits on the bench, torso bare, hands still wrapped, gloves resting on the floor like empty shells. His breathing is steady now, slower than it should be after four brutal rounds.
Nakahara leans against a locker, towel over his shoulders, his jaw set tight. Hiroshi is crouched by the gear bag, rolling the wraps with mechanical precision. Kenta stands near the door, hands buried in his jacket pockets, eyes fixed on the floor.
Finally, Nakahara exhales. "You didn't have to hit him that hard."
Ryoma looks up. His expression doesn't change. "I didn't."
The coach blinks. "Then what the hell do you call that?"
"Just finishing what he started," he says.
The answer lands heavy in the room. Nakahara wants to argue, but something in the boy's tone stops him. He looks nineteen, but the weight in his voice feels older than any of them.
