Isamu's apartment door clicked open with a hollow sound.
The place was dim, quiet, and suffocatingly still—like it had been waiting for him to bring the anger in with him.
He kicked his shoes off harder than necessary and stomped inside.
The room wasn't messy, but it wasn't clean either. Training clothes draped over a chair. A pair of gloves left on the floor. An untouched instant meal sitting on the counter from that morning.
Then he saw it.
An envelope resting neatly on the small dining table.
White. Thick.
His name written on it in rough handwriting.
Isamu froze.
He didn't have to open it to know what it was.
Again…?
He picked it up slowly and slit it open. Bills slid out—rent money, utility money, food money. Enough to keep him afloat another month.
A note was tucked inside.
"For Isamu – Dad"
Just that. No letter, no compliments, not even a single 'How are you?'.
Just an envelope done seemingly out of obligation.
Isamu's chest tightened.
He let the envelope fall back onto the table and let out a bitter, shaky laugh.
"That's all I am, huh…?" he muttered. "A monthly bill to pay. Not even a letter overseas for crying out loud…"
The frustration boiling inside him finally overflowed.
He turned to the sandbag hanging by the window—one he'd installed specifically to practice late at night.
He didn't even wrap his hands.
He drove his fist into it.
BAM.
Pain shot up his knuckles, but he didn't stop.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
"I'm half-baked?"
Another punch.
"You think I need you?"
Another.
"You think I need anyone!?"
The bag rocked violently, chains rattling overhead.
He kept swinging—until his arms trembled and his breath grew ragged.
He pressed his forehead against the sandbag, sweat dripping from his chin.
"Why…" he whispered. "Why does it feel like everything's slipping away…?"
A long silence filled the room.
Then—
A soft knock.
"…Isamu?"
Isamu stiffened instantly.
That voice.
He knew it anywhere.
Coach Nakamura.
Isamu wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. "Go away."
Another knock. Calm. Steady.
"I'm coming in."
"You're not—!"
But the door opened anyway.
Coach Nakamura stepped inside, closing it gently behind him.
He didn't look angry.
Didn't look disappointed.
He just looked… tired.
Old, but not fragile.
A boxer's face—creased from years in the ring and years yelling at stubborn kids like Isamu.
Coach's eyes scanned the room, noting the envelope on the table, the sandbag still swinging, the redness in Isamu's knuckles.
"You didn't listen to what I said," Coach Nakamura said quietly. "Is that really what I've taught you?"
"I'm not coming back, and it's not like you chased after me when I left," Isamu muttered.
"Well, I'm here now."
Isamu clicked his tongue and turned away.
"Save it, Coach. I'm not coming back."
Nakamura didn't raise his voice.
He just walked deeper into the room, hands behind his back, steps slow.
"Your pro test is in a few months," he said calmly. "Years of work, preparation, and discipline brought you here. Throwing that away because of one spar is—"
"I don't care."
Nakamura paused.
Isamu glared at the sandbag as if it were an enemy.
"I don't care about the test. I don't care about the gym. And I sure as hell don't care about what past we had."
His voice trembled—but not from fear.
From anger.
From exhaustion.
From pride bleeding out.
Nakamura let out a slow breath. "Isamu… you aren't thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly."
"No," Nakamura said, stepping closer. "You're hurt. Your pride is wounded. And you're running because you think leaving means you keep control."
Isamu's fist clenched. "Stop acting like you know me."
"I do know you."
"You don't!" he barked. "All you see is a world-title. A promising kid! A prodigy! Something you can brag about! Well guess what—your prodigy lost! Your promises of a world champion failed!"
Nakamura didn't react.
He simply let the words stay in the air.
Isamu pointed a shaking finger at him.
"You want me to stay because you need me to succeed for you. For the gym's reputation. For the future you imagine! But I don't owe you anything!"
The room felt heavier after he said it.
Nakamura exhaled softly.
"…Is that truly what you believe?"
Isamu swallowed hard.
"Why else would you come here?" he snapped. "Why would you bother? I can just find another gym. There's over fifty in Tokyo."
The words tasted bitter, even to him.
Nakamura stepped beside the sandbag and gently steadied it with one hand.
"You can go to a hundred gyms," he said quietly. "But none of them will give you what you actually need."
"I don't need anything."
Nakamura shook his head slowly.
"You need to grow up."
Isamu's jaw tensed.
"You quit because you couldn't handle a loss," the coach continued. "There's nothing more to it. Nobody goes their whole life without losing. And you're harming your own future over one."
Isamu's breath quivered.
"You fear you're half-baked," Nakamura said, eyes meeting his. "You fear you're just talent with no discipline. That one loss is enough to shatter you."
Isamu's fists trembled. "Shut up."
"But running won't change the truth."
"Shut up!"
"You care, Isamu. You care about the sport. You care about boxing."
Isamu stepped back, chest tightening.
Nakamura looked at the envelope on the table.
"You think boxing is the only thing giving you value," he said gently. "Praise, talent, expectations… you let them define you."
Isamu's breath hitched.
Then Nakamura extended his hand.
"So, what about it? Everyone at the gym would like to see you again."
Isamu stared at the hand.
His chest tightened. He grimaced.
In his heart, an amalgamation of shame, pride, and fear churned into a single unbearable pressure.
It grew… and grew… and—
SLAP.
Isamu swatted Nakamura's hand away.
"Don't pity me like I'm some lost dog," he growled.
Nakamura's expression flickered—hurt, deeply—but he didn't argue.
He only stared at Isamu in a heavy, suffocating silence.
Then he shook his head once and walked toward the door.
He opened it halfway… paused…
"And don't think for a second that I ever trained you for my sake."
The door closed behind him.
Isamu stood there.
Alone.
Heart pounding.
Hands shaking.
Confused.
Angry.
Lost.
He looked at the sandbag.
At the envelope.
At the place where Coach had stood.
He didn't speak.
But a crack appeared in the armor he'd been clinging to for years yet a flame has been lit for the very first time in his life.