By the end of the week, Akiyama Jin stopped being "the older guy" and started being "Jin-san."
It wasn't a promotion. It was a compromise.
"Jin-san!" a voice called. "The tape's empty again!"
Jin looked over from the ring. "Shimada, you used half the roll on one hand."
Shimada Haru, nineteen and built like a stick, stared at his wrapped fist. "I like it thick."
"That's what she—" someone started.
"Run five laps," Kagawa Genji said without looking up.
Shimada groaned and took off running.
Jin hid his smile and climbed into the ring with another set of pads. This time it was Mori Kensuke, a compact junior lightweight with a permanent scowl and a tendency to swing like every punch was personal.
"Don't move so much," Mori complained as Jin shifted half a step back.
"Then don't reach," Jin replied.
Mori clicked his tongue and threw a hook that slapped cleanly into the pad. The impact rattled Jin's forearms.
"Again," Jin said calmly.
From the corner, Sato Ryo, one of the senior members, laughed. "He's enjoying this too much."
Kagawa's eyes flicked over. "Less talking."
They obeyed immediately.
The names came slowly, like everything else in the gym.
Shimada Haru, the endurance kid who never paced himself.
Mori Kensuke, power-first, patience-last.
Sato Ryo, a journeyman who'd been around long enough to know when not to dream too big.
And then there was Fujii, the gym manager, who Jin was fairly sure knew everything and pretended otherwise.
"You're not on the board yet," Fujii said, tapping the corkboard near the lockers where bout schedules and gym rules were posted. "No name, no record."
Jin nodded. "I haven't earned one."
Fujii hummed. "Coach hasn't kicked you out either."
"That's progress."
"Don't tell him I said that."
That afternoon, the Kamogawa Gym returned.
They arrived noisier than last time.
"Ippo, stop bowing so much!" Aoki shouted.
"I-I'm sorry!" Ippo replied automatically.
Kimura sighed.
Takamura laughed like a villain.
"Hey!" Takamura boomed. "The dancer's still here!"
Jin bowed politely. "Good afternoon."
"Don't bow to him," Mori muttered. "He'll think he won."
Takamura leaned in, inspecting Jin like a suspicious piece of meat. "You got a name yet?"
"Yes."
"Oh?" Takamura grinned. "What is it?"
"Akiyama Jin."
Takamura stared. "That's boring."
"That's consistent," Jin said.
Aoki snorted. "I like him."
"Of course you would," Kimura said.
Kagawa clapped his hands. "Sparring. Rotate."
This time, Jin didn't face Ippo.
He faced Kimura.
Kimura adjusted his gloves nervously. "Uh, I'll go easy."
"Please don't," Jin said. "I learn faster when it hurts."
Takamura laughed. "He's got guts. Dumb guts."
The bell rang.
Kimura was smoother than the younger boxers. Better balance. Cleaner punches. Jin had to work—really work—to stay off the ropes. He took a jab on the shoulder, a glancing body shot that made him wince.
"Sorry!" Kimura said mid-exchange.
"Don't apologize," Jin replied, slipping to the side. "Commit."
Kimura did.
The round ended with both of them breathing hard.
Takamura whistled. "He didn't die!"
"That's the standard now?" Aoki asked.
Kagawa nodded once. That was all.
Later, Jin sat against the lockers, unlacing his shoes when Mari Iimura appeared, notebook already open.
"You survived a week," she said. "That's usually when people disappear."
"I'm still considering it," Jin replied.
She smiled. "Good answer."
She flipped a page. "So. Names."
Jin glanced up. "Excuse me?"
"You know everyone's name now," Mari said. "That's when gyms decide whether you're temporary."
"Is that how it works?"
"Gyms are families," she said. "Dysfunctional ones. But families."
Jin thought of Shimada complaining, Mori scowling, Sato laughing quietly. Of Kagawa yelling at all of them the same way.
"I haven't been added to the wall," Jin said.
Mari shrugged. "Walls change."
Inside, Takamura shouted something obscene and got yelled at in return.
Mari closed her notebook. "You're different from the others."
"That's not always good."
"No," she agreed. "But it's always interesting."
She hesitated, then added, "I wrote your name down."
Jin blinked. "You said you wouldn't."
"I said I'd wait," she corrected. "This felt like the right time."
He nodded slowly. "Then spell it right."
She laughed. "I always do."
Before leaving, Jin stopped by the corkboard. Someone—probably Fujii—had added a small slip of paper at the bottom.
Akiyama Jin — Training (Trial)
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
Behind him, Kagawa's voice cut through the gym.
"Oi. Akiyama."
Jin turned. "Yes, sir?"
"Be here tomorrow," the coach said gruffly. "Earlier."
Jin bowed. "I will."
As he stepped outside, evening settling in, Jin glanced back once more at the gym.
His name wasn't written in marker yet.
But it was there.
And for now, that was enough.
END OF CHAPTER
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