At least after a minute into the second round, Aramaki begins to adjust to Junpei's flickers. He can dodge and block more now; not many of them land clean anymore.

But taking back control of the fight is another matter entirely. Junpei isn't Ryoma, never takes risks, never trades punches.

Every time Aramaki manages to close the distance, Junpei cuts him with a right and slips away again. He may not be using the Philly Shell tonight, but his footwork alone keeps him untouchable.

It's the same rhythm hidden inside the wild, chaotic flickers. And maybe that's exactly why Aramaki still can't see it.

But Ryoma, watching calmly from the locker room, reads it as clearly as a printed line of text. And it eats at him, not the rhythm itself, but the helplessness of sitting here, away from the corner, watching Nakahara not see it.

The second round ends with little change. Junpei still controls the fight flawlessly, and Aramaki returns to his corner with more bruises across his face.

When the third round begins, still nothing changes. The rhythm stays the same; Junpei's control, unbroken.

And Ryoma fumes, the calm finally cracking. His eyes narrow toward the screen, voice low but cutting, not at Aramaki now, but at Coach Nakahara.

"Old man…" he mutters. "You still don't see it, do you? He's repeating the same rhythm, every single exchange. And you're just standing there watching."

Then his Vision Grid system chimes in, that same dry tone that always seems to mock him.

<< Easy for you to say. You've got my assistance. >>

"Shut up," Ryoma snaps. "Even without you, I can read it just fine."

A few people in the locker room glance over. To them, he's just talking to himself.

One of them mutters under his breath, "Guy's losing it. Can't stand watching his own gym mates fight off-script."

Another gives a low whistle. "What a bunch of sore losers."

Ryoma hears that last one. Slowly, he turns his head toward them. No words, just a glare cold enough to freeze the air.

And the chatter dies immediately. Their posture shifts; eyes back to the monitor, pretending to focus.

Before Ryoma can say anything, the locker room door swings open.

"Ryoma~!"

Reika steps in, cheerful as ever, waving like she's crashing a birthday party instead of a fighters' prep room.

Ryoma frowns, and then squints. "What are you doing here? No… how did they even let you in?"

But before she can answer, someone else steps through the doorway behind her; tall, composed, and heavy with presence.

It's the kind of presence that fills the room without a word, the presence that's enough to make Ryoma freeze.

"Why wouldn't they let me in?" he says, his English crisp. "My company did the most in marketing this event."

Ryoma falters, recognizing the man immediately.

"You… You're…"

<< Yes, that's Logan Rhodes, owner of NSN. You'd better fix your attitude if you ever want to earn his trust as your future father-in-law. >>

Ryoma twitches. "Father-in… what the hell are you talking about?"

Still, he straightens up, adjusting his tone, not polite, just composed, a man talking to another man.

"So," Ryoma says in rough English, "your company also got involved in this, huh? Reika convince you to join?"

Logan chuckles lightly, calm and low. "Not really. There's no way I'd let a spoiled girl decide how I run my business."

Ryoma raises an eyebrow. "Is that so? You say it like you didn't even care about my fight. So what are you doing here, then?"

Logan doesn't answer right away. He turns instead to his daughter standing behind him, giving her a silent look, one that clearly says, 'This friend of yours sure has guts talking to me like that.'

Reika catches the message and laughs awkwardly. "Yeah… that's Ryoma. My, uh… my boy… friend. I mean… my friend, who's a boy. Just a boy."

Logan exhales through his nose and looks back at Ryoma.

"JBC came to me," he says. "And I heard they even raised the purse money for you, something they didn't do for the other camp. So yeah, that was enough to get my attention."

He turns to the monitor. Aramaki is still struggling against Junpei. Nothing has changed.

The fight is still one-sided just like how he watched back in the hall. And Logan's expression stays flat, unimpressed.

"So," Ryoma says, catching his attention again, "you're here to talk business with me? Too bad my manager's out there ringside."

Logan laughs quietly. "Business? With you? Don't make me laugh."

"Father…" Reika pouts.

Logan glances at her, sighs, then looks back at Ryoma.

"Alright, I did think about working with your management. But…" he gestures toward the screen. "You made the tickets sell out, sure. But the fight can't stand on marketing alone. Now look at him."

On-screen, Aramaki eats another jab, unable to land a punch.

"He can't even hit back. The crowd's losing interest."

Then Logan looks at Ryoma again, calm and detached, the look of a man who's already made his judgment, and then turns away.

"Come on, Reika. We're done here."

Ryoma glares at his back, jaw tightening, visibly offended. Reika notices it, ready to step in and smooth things over.

But Ryoma speaks first. "You talk like you know everything about this sport."

Logan stops. His brow twitches, just slightly. He turns his head, voice cool but edged. "Kid. I've been in this business since before you were born. I know your worth, and your friend's, the one getting beaten in that ring."

Ryoma smirks, eyes sharp. "Then how about we make a bet?"

Logan blinks once. "A bet? What could a small-timer like you possibly put on the table?"

"Yeah, maybe I'm small now," Ryoma says. "But JBC offered me a million yen for this fight."

The room goes dead quiet. Even the background chatter stops.

"I know that," Logan says. "But that's only if you win against Kobayashi Ayano."

"I will win," Ryoma says flatly. "And I'll put that one million on the line. If my friend out there, Tatsuki Aramaki, loses this fight… you can have it."

Logan studies him. "And if you lose instead?"

Ryoma scowls. "I'm not going to lose, damn it."

"But if you do?"

"…I'll still pay," Ryoma says, tone faltering. "Seventy percent of the purse, plus my own money. One million total."

He steps forward, grin fierce now. "But if my friend wins, you'll pay me one million yen, and help market my next fight."

Logan goes silent, considering. The terms amuse him. The risk means nothing, but the audacity, that's something.

He heard from his daughter that Ryoma's still nineteen. But the one standing before him, it can't be just a teenager.

And he knows, this is not about that one million yen. He knows Ryoma is currently trying to secure a prospect business with NSN.

"Come on," Ryoma pushes. "You run NSN. You've got a betting branch, don't you? A man like you should enjoy this kind of gamble. And one million yen's nothing for someone like you."

Logan watches him for a moment, face still composed. Then, just slightly, his mouth twitches, almost a smirk before he lifts a hand.

"Deal."

Ryoma grins and grips his hand, no handshake, just a crushing grip between two stubborn men testing each other's strength.

A long second passes before Logan releases first.

"Would you let go now?" he says dryly.

Ryoma smirks and folds his arms again, watching as Logan turns and walks away.

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