The automatic doors slid shut with a soft electronic chime.
11:58 PM.
The convenience store felt smaller at night.
Under the humming fluorescent lights, everything looked too clean, too still. The shelves were perfectly aligned, aisles empty and quiet. Outside, Tokyo continued on without him—trains rattling somewhere in the distance, footsteps echoing down streets he couldn't see and the echoes of salarymen, students, and folk alike.
Inside, time felt paused almost.
Isamu stood behind the counter, stiff in a brand-new apron that still smelled faintly of detergent. The fabric scratched at his neck. His legs ached—not from movement, but from standing still.
This sucks.
His shoulders rolled subtly, sore from earlier training. Kanzaki Gym hadn't gone easy on him that day.
Hands up.
Chin down.
Again.
Correction after correction until every movement felt dissected, hammering in the 'fundamentals' as they call it.
Isamu considered it beneath him, only curbing his ability to throw punches at his opponents.
The register beeped softly as he finished logging a sale. The last customer shuffled out, plastic bag rustling. The doors slid closed again.
Silence.
Isamu continued to be lost in thought, dissecting the ways on the myriad of combinations that he could throw at Fujimoto.
"I could jab right there, keep pressing onto his defences-then step forward and press a body blow onto him."
THWUP.
Isamu then feels a sudden impact towards his head in the midst of his constant murmuring.
"Break time," a voice called from the back.
Isamu looked up. "Already?"
"Owner's rule," the voice replied. "Slow nights mean short breaks."
He exhaled quietly and stepped away from the counter, stretching his arms as he walked toward the back. The storage room waited at the end of the narrow hallway, its door scuffed and faded.
Inside, it was cramped and cluttered. Cardboard boxes stacked high. Plastic crates filled with drinks and cup noodles. The air smelled faintly of dust and instant seasoning.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The silence pressed in.
He leaned against the wall, eyes closing for just a second.
Then his body moved.
Left foot forward.
Weight light.
Shoulders loose.
His hands dropped.
A jab snapped out—clean, fast.
Another followed, sharper.
He pivoted, imagining a guard in front of him. A head slipping. An opening appearing.
Too slow.
He ducked, hips rotating as he fired a straight from the hip. Compact. Efficient.
His breath matched the rhythm.
In.
Out.
For a moment, the storage room disappeared.
No boxes. No walls.
Just canvas.
Just space.
Just the ring.
"—Wait."
Isamu froze mid-motion.
His heart jumped.
He turned.
His coworker stood in the doorway.
She looked a little older, probably his senior by his guess. Long dark hair tied loosely behind her head, convenience store uniform worn casually. Her arms were crossed, eyes focused—not wide with shock.
Studying him.
"…What are you doing?" she asked.
Isamu straightened immediately, heat rushing to his face. "Nothing."
She didn't look convinced.
"That didn't look like nothing."
He looked away. "Just… stretching."
She tilted her head. "Stretching doesn't usually end with a straight into an uppercut."
Isamu stiffened.
"…What?"
She uncrossed her arms slightly. "That combo you just did. Feint straight, shift your weight, then come up underneath."
She mimed the motion loosely with her hand.
"That's a real one."
Isamu stared at her.
"You… know boxing?"
She shrugged. "A little. My older brother used to train. Amateur stuff."
That explained the way she'd been watching—not gawking, not confused.
Observant.
"…You weren't sloppy," she continued. "Your feet stayed under you."
Isamu didn't know what to say.
No one outside the gym had ever commented on his boxing like that.
"You spying on me?" he muttered weakly.
She smirked. "Door was open. Hard to miss."
An awkward silence settled in, heavier now.
Then she smiled—small, amused.
"You box?"
Isamu hesitated.
"…What's it to you."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "Seriously? You don't have to be an ass about it."
Not trying to make more people dislike him as it is, he reluctantly replies.
"Yeah. Trying to go pro."
"Wow." She leaned against the doorway. "That explains a lot."
"Explains what?"
"The way you move," she said. "You're always steady. Even while handing customers their stuff."
Isamu blinked.
He hadn't realized that.
She tilted her head. "Name's Aoi. I'm on late shifts most nights."
"Isamu," he replied. "First day."
"Yeah, I noticed. You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
He scoffed. "You're not wrong."
Her gaze dropped to his hands.
"…Does it hurt?"
He followed her eyes. His knuckles were faintly red, scraped raw.
"Not really."
She didn't press it.
"Still," she said, stepping away from the doorway, "maybe don't shadowbox back here. Manager catches you, he'll think you're nuts."
"…Got it."
She paused before leaving.
"For what it's worth," she added, glancing back, "that punch would've dropped most people."
Isamu stiffened.
"…Huh?"
She smiled faintly before changing it to a frown quickly. "Just get out of here, I want to have my break too."
Then she walked away.
The door swung shut.
Isamu stood there, heart pounding.
Not from nerves.
Not from boxing.
Something quieter.
He exhaled slowly and shook his head.
Focus.
But as he returned to the counter, his hands naturally fell to his sides.
Just two months left, two months left until I become pro.