Meanwhile, the sizzling grows sharper, too sharp. Ryoma's attention flicks back to the stove just in time to smell the faint edge of over-cooking. He turns off the fire with a calm motion, sliding the pan off the heat.
For a moment he doesn't move. He just stands there, both hands braced on the counter, arms locking as if holding himself in place.
His head dips slightly, breath steadying, not tired but calculating. His focus is now elsewhere, deep inside the spinning gears of his mind.
He's not panicked, not emotional. He's preparing, laying out a strategy the same way he would analyze an opponent in the ring: observable weakness, predictable reaction, emotional openings.
The system's whisper lingers like cold static at the base of his skull, but he's not listening passively anymore.
He's thinking.
If she leaves, the past doesn't repeat.
If she stays, the pattern leads back to everything he already lost once.
