A ripple of silence tightens the gym as attention snaps toward the office. Somewhere near the ring, a weight plate slips from careless hands and crashes against the floor.
"Hey, watch it," Kenta barks, sticking his head out from the locker room.
"Y… yes, sir!" the youngster blurts, bowing too deeply, palms flat against his thighs, eyes still fixed on Nakahara's office.
Inside the office, the tension lingers a moment longer. Then Nakahara exhales, long and tired, leaning back against the sofa as if conceding to gravity itself.
"…Fine," he says quietly. "Do as you see fit."
Relief flickers across Fumihiro's face. But Ryoma isn't finished yet. He steps forward, posture straight, gaze sharp, the edge that's earned him his reputation finally surfacing.
"Let's be clear," Ryoma says, voice level. "We don't owe you anything."
Fumihiro blinks.
