A beat.Then another.A slow, steady rhythm, like the world knocking at his skull.
Isamu's eyes twitched open.
The gym ceiling stared down at him, fluorescent lights humming quietly. His jaw ached. His ribs burned when he breathed. A towel was draped over his forehead—now half-slid off.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been out.
A voice echoed distantly: "He's waking up!"
Isamu jerked upright immediately, swatting away the towel. Pain shot through his torso, but anger numbed it.
He didn't want to see anyone.
Not Coach Nakamura.Not the gawking gym members.And definitely not Ushi.
Without a word, Isamu stood, staggered once, then forced his legs into motion. He shoved open the sliding door of the Nakamura Gym, ignoring the startled calls behind him, and stepped out into the cold Tokyo night.
It felt like the whole city looked at him.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started walking.
Then walking became jogging.Jogging became running.
Soon he was sprinting through the narrow streets, dodging pedestrians and blurring past neon storefronts. His breath tore painfully from his lungs, but he kept going—like if he slowed down, the shame chasing him would catch up and swallow him whole.
Why am I even doing this?The question gnawed at him, its teeth deep.
Cars rushed by. The smell of yakitori stalls drifted from alleys. A delivery bike nearly clipped him as he cut across a crosswalk, but he didn't stop.
I'm a genius… right? That's what they all said.
When he first joined the gym, he'd been treated like a miracle.A natural talent.A prodigy.
"Look at that movement!""His hand-speed is unreal..!""That kid's going places!"
He remembered the flashes of praise—voices showering him with admiration every time he knocked down another beginner, every time he landed a clean counter from his signature lowered stance.
He'd eaten that praise like oxygen.He'd shaped his entire identity around it.
But why did I start boxing in the first place…?
He slowed near the edge of Sumida River, his breath visible in the cold air. He leaned against the railing, panting hard, sweat dripping into his eyes.
Did I ever love it? The training? The pain? The discipline?
No.He knew the truth.
He'd only ever loved being admired.
He had loved the way people looked at him like he was different.Special.Destined.
Until today.
Until Ushi—a nobody, a beginner—punched him so thoroughly that the illusion cracked straight through his skull.
Isamu's chest tightened.
"Damn it…" he muttered, slamming a fist against the railing. "That idiot didn't even look like a fighter."
He took one more shaky breath.
Then he stood up straight.
No. I'm not running away. I'm going back. I'll prove all of them wrong.
He wiped his sweat-soaked face with his sleeve, turned around, and began jogging back toward the gym.
By the time he returned to Nakamura Gym, most of the younger members had left. Only a few senior fighters remained, talking near the entrance.
Isamu stopped outside the door.
Inside, he heard voices.
"You saw him, right? Hands-low Hayate dropped by a beginner…" a senior boxer laughed, not maliciously—just surprised.
Another voice replied, "Still, that kid Ushi… he's something. A bit rough, but he learns fast."
Isamu felt his jaw tighten.
Then he heard Ushi's voice—quiet, hesitant.
"I… I really didn't mean to hurt him. I just followed what coach taught me. But… Isamu, he's amazing. I know that. I hope he doesn't hate me."
Isamu blinked.
But before he could process it, another senior sighed deeply.
"Isamu's a prodigy, sure. But he's half-baked. Too used to praise. He never built a foundation."
"Yeah… talent without discipline is just—"
Isamu stopped listening.
The words hit him like another liver shot.
Half-baked? Prodigy?
His stomach twisted painfully.His throat tightened.
So that's what they really think of me? That I'm nothing but empty hype?
His pulse thundered in his ears.
He slid the door open fast—so fast all of them startled.
The seniors turned.Ushi nearly dropped his gloves.Isamu's expression was burning with humiliation, rage, betrayal—all turned inward.
"So that's it, huh?" he spat. "Half-baked? A fraud? Is that what you think of me?"
One senior raised his hands. "Isamu, wait—that's not—"
"Save it."
Ushi stepped forward. "Isamu! Please—just let me explain—"
"Don't talk to me like we're friends."
Ushi froze.
Isamu breathed sharply through his nose, fists clenching.
"This gym… all of you…"His voice shook.From anger—or from the sting of hearing something he feared was true.
"Is that how you all really think of me?"
The seniors exchanged stunned looks.
"Isamu— be reasonable, just stay right here and we'll talk." Coach Nakamura called out from across the room.
But he was already turning away.
"No," Isamu growled. "I quit."
Ushi's voice cracked behind him.
"Isamu—please! Don't leave because of me!"
But Isamu didn't stop.
He didn't look back.
He stepped out of the Nakamura Gym, letting the door slide shut behind him.
The sound echoed like the end of a round.
Or maybe an entire chapter of his life.
Isamu shoved his hands in his pockets and began walking into the night again—alone.
But as he disappeared down the street, one thought buried itself deep inside him:
I'll come back stronger. I'll make them regret calling me half-baked. All of them… even you, Ushi.