Kanzaki Boxing Institute didn't feel like a gym.
It felt like a corporation.
Polished floors reflected the overhead lights. Flat screens replayed championship bouts in silence. Fighters moved with purpose—measured, disciplined, refined.
Isamu stood in the center of it all, hands buried in his jacket pockets.
This is where real boxers go.
A man in a tailored tracksuit glanced up from a clipboard.
"You're here for enrollment?"
"Pro team," Isamu answered.
The man's gaze sharpened. "Name."
"Isamu Hayate."
The pen stopped.
"…Hayate?"
The man studied his face longer this time. Then he turned and murmured something to another trainer.
Low voices. Curious glances.
"Follow me."
The evaluation ring was surrounded by glass walls.
Inside, a lightweight boxer shadowboxed with flawless form—tight guard, clean footwork. His posture screamed Kanzaki-made.
"This is Fujimoto," the head trainer said. "Debuting next month."
Fujimoto nodded politely. "Nice to meet you."
Isamu climbed through the ropes.
The trainer looked him up and down.
"Before we begin—where did you train?"
"Nakamura Gym."
The atmosphere shifted.
Several trainers exchanged looks.
"…So you're that Hayate," someone muttered.
The head trainer's tone cooled. "Hands-low style. Natural speed. Talented—but difficult."
Isamu didn't respond.
"This spar determines whether we even consider you," the trainer continued. "Understand?"
Isamu nodded.
The bell rang.
And immediately—
Isamu dropped his hands.
Fujimoto's eyes flicked downward, instinctively reacting.
There.
Isamu stepped in.
A multitude of jabs shot out from his hip—clean, fast, invisible until it landed.
CRACK.
CRACK.
CRACK.
Fujimoto's head snapped back, reeling back consecutively.
Behind the glass, someone inhaled sharply.
"He struck first…?"
Fujimoto reset, guard snapping high.
Isamu didn't let him breathe.
In. Out.A blur of motion.
He slipped a jab by a hair's width and countered with a straight that split the guard.
He's fast, Fujimoto realized. No—he's already ahead.
Isamu's feet whispered across the canvas. His hands hung low, but his timing was merciless.
Fujimoto tried to impose Kanzaki's textbook rhythm.
It didn't work.
Isamu shattered it.
A feint drew a response.A pivot created space.A counter straight landed flush.
The trainers leaned forward.
"That footwork—""He's baiting him.""That's unprecedented, insane even."
Fujimoto lunged, desperate to reassert control.
Isamu vanished to the side.
A hook slammed into Fujimoto's jaw.
The lightweight stumbled back into the ropes.
The bell rang.
Silence.
Fujimoto lowered his gloves, breathing hard. He gave a short, respectful bow.
"…You're dangerous," he admitted. "I get it now."
"Maybe just don't bother with the small talk." Isamu replied scornfully.
The trainers gathered.
"He's exactly like the reports," one said."Raw speed. Instinctive.""And stubborn."
The head trainer folded his arms.
"…Nakamura's prodigal talent."
The words landed heavy.
"But also the one who quit," another added.
Their eyes turned to Isamu.
"You walked away from a gym that built you," the head trainer said. "Why should we believe you won't do the same here?"
Isamu met his gaze.
"…I won't lose again."
A long pause.
The head trainer sighed.
"Talent like this is rare," he admitted. "But it's also unstable."
He turned to the others.
"If we take him—he follows our rules."
The trainer faced Isamu again.
"We'll take you. Conditional enrollment. Pro team."
Relief and tension crashed together in Isamu's chest.
"There's a monthly fee," the trainer continued calmly. "Top-tier facilities aren't free."
The number appeared on the tablet.
Isamu's jaw tightened.
Almost everything.
"I'll pay."
That night, Tokyo stretched endlessly around him.
Neon lights blurred past as Isamu walked without direction, the cool air biting at his skin. His legs ached from the spar, but his mind refused to slow down.
Conditional enrollment.
Unstable.
Pro team.
The words replayed over and over.
He stopped beneath a flickering streetlamp and inspected the flyer plastered onto it.
It was a cheap, brightly colored poster.
NOW HIRING – PART-TIME STAFF24-HOUR CONVENIENCE STOREFlexible Shifts – Students Welcome
The edges were creased from being stuffed into his pocket earlier that day.
Isamu stared at it.
He ruffled his hair before lamenting.
"Damn it, I really don't want to work but.."
Minimum wage. Late nights. Early mornings.
Training. School. Roadwork.
All stacked on top of each other.
This is what it costs, he thought.
Not just money.
Time. Sleep. Pride.
He clenched the flyer in his fist.
If I'm going to prove I belong… I'm not relying on anyone.
Isamu slipped the flyer back into his pocket and started walking again.