Sergei leans closer to the ropes, his earlier irritation fading into something quieter, almost awe. The rhythm Ryoma uses now isn't Elliot's anymore.
It's steadier, cleaner. Every bounce of his heels, every snap of his jab carries that familiar Soviet groove, but smoother, refined to an impossible precision.
The tempo shifts are so subtle that even Sergei has to focus to catch them; one moment the slower patient beat, the next a tighter pulse, both blending into a seamless flow.
He's seen countless fighters try to imitate that rhythm. Years of drilling under cold lights, endless footwork drills to capture that elusive sway.
Most never come close. And yet this boy, after one spar, after seeing it only once, moves as if he's lived inside it his whole life.
Sergei's jaw tightens. He wants to stay annoyed, to call it mockery. But watching that smooth deliberate transition, the balance between timing and control, he can't deny it anymore.
