The night air slaps against his skin the moment he bursts outside, cool, thin, biting just enough to sting the sweat on his skin. Streetlights flare against the pale concrete, throwing long shadows over the exit ramp of Korakuen Hall.
Ryoma fumbles with his phone, thumb trembling as he calls. The screen lights his face in cold blue, but no answer. He calls again, but still nothing.
His breath fogs in the air. The city isn't loud, but it feels far away, like all the sound's been swallowed by the static in his head.
"Come on… pick up." His voice cracks, low and hoarse.
Then a group of fans near the gate notice him. "Takeda! The rookie champ!" one shouts.
Ryoma doesn't hear them. He's already pacing toward the curb, eyes darting along the street for a taxi.
The road outside Korakuen is almost deserted. The echoes of the crowd are trapped inside the hall; muffled roars, distant commentary, the sound of a night still unfolding without him.
