Kawahara Boxing Club, Chiba City.

Noon light slants through the tall windows, pale and dusty, catching sweat as it drifts in the air like smoke. The gym hums with the steady rhythm of leather on pads, sharp and relentless.

By the office, three men crowd over a folded newspaper on the desk, the bold headline bleeding through the page:

"Kobayashi Ayano — MVP, All-Japan Rookie of the Year."

Suda Hajime folds his arms, his jaw tight. "It's a damn insult," he mutters. "Ayano knocked out his man in front of the whole country, took the trophy home, and they still list him as Class-B. Meanwhile, that foreigner who lost in the Final walks away with a Class-A license. Someone explain that to me."

Beside him, Naoto Miyasaka slaps the paper against the wall, frustration spilling over. "Easy… must be Kirizume's pulling strings again. One phone call to the JBC and Serrano gets fast-tracked. You really think it's about merit?"

Across from them, Coach Fujii Takashiro exhales through his nose, slow and measured.

"You're half right," he says, voice level. "That's what you can do when you have money and connections. But Ayano's situation?" A faint smirk forms. "This is pure business. The JBC's packaging it as a 'promotion test,' but everyone knows it's a money fight. Win or lose, both of them will get their A-license in the end."

Naoto glances up. "You think the other side will agree to it?"

Takashiro gives a short dry laugh, shaking his head in mocking gesture. "Nakahara Gym? A small management like that won't dare say no. Seven hundred thousand yen for the main event, four hundred for the undercard. Even if they lose, they still pocket seventy percent. You think a gym like that can turn down that much money in one night? Not a chance."

***

It's been a week since the JBC called Kawahara Gym, a week since the promise of easy money and prestige.

"Strange, isn't it?" Suda huffs. "For something that's supposed to be 'guaranteed,' they sure take their sweet time."

Naoto shrugs. "Maybe paperwork. Bureaucracy always drags its feet."

But Takashiro doesn't say a word. He's leaning by the window, still waiting for the phone to ring. His thoughts run elsewhere, somewhere in Tokyo, someone at Nakahara Gym that is probably waiting for the same call. Or worse, already got it, but they rejected the offer.

He doesn't know that Nakahara's been pressing the JBC for a better deal, pushing the commission hard enough to make them sweat.

But to Takashiro, ignorance feels like calm.

"Easy…" he exhales. "They will call us soon."

"Still," Naoto presses, "if they don't hurry, Ayano's gonna start breathing fire."

"Well, too late for that," Suda mutters. "He's already here…"

The door open wider as Ayano steps in, hair still wet from training, towel draped around his neck. His expression is pure impatience.

"Coach," he calls, "any word from the JBC?"

Takashiro straightens, exchanging a quick glance with his assistants.

"Not yet," he admits. "They'll call when it's finalized."

Ayano frowns, eyes narrowing. "It's been a week. So what's taking them so long?"

Ironically, the JBC had called them first, days before Nakahara ever got the offer. They'd accepted the fight without hesitation, not knowing that Nakahara was holding his ground, dragging out the talks for leverage.

Now Takashiro and his staff can only wait, caught in that uneasy stretch between hope and doubt. Suda and Naoto stay silent, but the air itself seems to tighten, sharing Ayano's impatience.

"Don't tell me he's dodging again," Ayano clenches his fists. "That Takeda guy… maybe he's running away like last time, while looking for some miracle excuse to avoid me."

Takashiro sighs. "Ayano…"

"No, seriously," Ayano cuts in, his voice rising. "All his fights, it's always some nameless Class-C or washed-up import. He builds his name beating weaklings, and everyone calls him a prodigy. You think he wants to fight me now that I'm calling him out?"

"Enough," Takashiro says quietly, his tone carrying weight. "Let the commission handle it. Your job's to train. Don't let this nonsense ruin your rhythm."

Ayano glares, and then exhales sharply through his nose.

"Fine...."

He throws the towel over his shoulder and stalks out. The silence he leaves behind hangs thick and heavy.

Naoto mutters, "Man's gonna pop a vein if this drags another week."

But suddenly, the phone rings, and they all turn. Takashiro moves first, steady but fast, and lifts the receiver.

The assistants linger nearby, close enough to catch the tension, far enough to pretend they're not listening.

Takashiro's voice is polite, the tone of a man who knows how to deal with bureaucrats. But as he listens, his face slowly shifts.

First he seems neutral. "Yes, we've been waiting."

Then he looks puzzled. "What? Canceled?"

And then his face turns darker. Finally, he ends the call, placing the receiver down with care.

"Well?" Suda asks. "They cancel it?"

Takashiro shakes his head slowly. "No. Not really."

Naoto tilts his head. "Then what…?"

"They're moving it," Takashiro says flatly. "New venue. Ota Gym."

For a moment, both assistants just blink.

"Ota Gym?" Suda repeats. "That's bigger than Korakuen… Why move it there?"

Naoto frowns. "And it's owned by one of the JBC's partners, isn't it?"

Takashiro exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing. "Exactly. Bigger than Korakuen Hall, more seats, more tickets to sell. They're trying to milk this for every last yen. Ota gets the gate, JBC takes the cut. Probably even the broadcast rights too."

He leans back, eyes half-lidded but burning. "They'll make their money one way or another. And they probably told Nakahara the same sweet story."

***

The irony is, Takashiro has no idea that Nakahara's version of that "sweet deal" came with a million-yen price tag. In fact, it was Nakahara who pushed the JBC to move the fight to a bigger hall.

Suda breaks the silence first, tapping his finger against the desk. "Coach… since they're moving it to Ota Gym, doesn't that change things? Shouldn't we… you know, ask for a new purse?"

Naoto nods, cautious but hopeful. "He's right. If the tickets are higher, there's no reason we should still settle for seven hundred."

Takashiro leans back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the window where the late-afternoon light fades to gray. For a long while, he says nothing. Then, finally…

"We could try to renegotiate," he admits. "Technically, we'd have a case. But…"

He trails off, weighing invisible scales in his head. After a long exhale, he shakes his head slowly.

"We already accepted the offer last week. If we start pushing now, they might pull the plug entirely. Seven hundred thousand's still good money for a promotion match. We'll win, take the purse, raise our reputation. That's enough."

Naoto sighs, unconvinced but too tired to argue. Suda frowns, but lets it drop. To them, Takashiro's word sound like wisdom, like a man who knows when to stand his ground and when to yield.

But in truth, it's just pragmatism dressed as caution, fear disguised as experience. Because unlike Takashiro, miles away in a cramped gym in eastern Tokyo, Nakahara wasn't afraid to call the bluff. He'd forced the JBC to raise the stakes, to play on his terms.

And though Takashiro doesn't yet know it, the move to Ota City General Gymnasium wasn't the commission's idea at all.

It was Nakahara's checkmate.

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