The gloves on Ryoma's hands feel heavier than they should. But the phantom just tilts its head lazily, expression playful.

"So," it says, voice smooth and disturbingly casual, "what sparring mode do you want this time?"

Ryoma doesn't answer. And the phantom smiles, not kindly.

"Should I keep the same level that dropped you to the canvas?"

It leans forward slightly, shadows gathering around its silhouette.

"Or… should we play a child's game today?"

Ryoma's fingers curl into fists. His pulse thuds once, heavy, controlled, and determined. Whatever mask he wore in the barbershop is gone.

Now? Only the fighter remains, the other version of him, the one that the world hasn't seen yet.

And he stares the phantom down as if ready to tear the room apart. And inside, the thought rises, cold and focused, cutting through him like a blade:

Let's settle this.

His gaze sharpens, lips pulling into something halfway between a grin and a snarl.

"No games," he says quietly.

The room feels smaller, hotter, and charged. There's only Ryoma now, and the phantom he intends to crush.

The curtains are half-drawn, trapping the heavy afternoon heat, and the air hangs thick with stillness; no breeze, no sound, only the quiet thrum of tension as if the walls themselves hold their breath.

And then…

Ding!

The virtual bell snaps into existence.

Ryoma is already moving, slicing the distance, launching himself forward with the reckless hunger of someone who wants the fight over before it begins.

Whatever new strategy he planned evaporates the moment he sees the phantom's face. He isn't thinking, isn't calculating.

It's like another mind has taken the wheel, another memory, another purpose, another emotion. It's the vengeful side of the Cruel King who refuses to accept being dropped.

"Hey, hey… slow down, would you?" the phantom teases, deflecting the barrage with irritating ease.

He then throws a high hook. Ryoma ducks, slips inside the guard. But the phantom instantly hooks an arm around Ryoma's neck, pulling him beneath his chest, suffocating the madness with an iron clamp.

"If you keep fighting like this, don't blame me if I snap something inside your head again."

Ryoma doesn't reply. He widens his stance, braces, and twists his hips, driving a brutal hook into the phantom's core.

The phantom winces, real pain flickering across his face, but refuses to loosen his hold. He clips Ryoma's temple with his free hand, a sharp crack of knuckles.

Dsh!

He shoves Ryoma back, creating barely a meter of space, then unloads a flurry; arms firing like overheated pistons, each strike snapping forward with vicious precision.

Ryoma reads all of them, blocks what he can, and shoulders the ones he can't. But the rhythm is suffocating, tight, grinding, and relentless. Still, he refuses to give an inch, as if his heels have dug deeper into the floorboards.

The phantom retreats one step, resetting. "Hey, this isn't in the script. If we keep this up…"

Ryoma lunges, and a straight cross detonates forward.

Dhuaack!

The phantom's head jerks back.

When it resets, its expression finally fractures, wide grin, wild eyes, mirroring Ryoma's madness perfectly.

"Fine," it growls. "Don't blame me if something happens to your brain this time."

And so the intense fight erupts, no ring, no crowd, no rules, just a cramped bedroom, too small for two, filled with the vicious intent of men who won't run and won't yield.

Two silhouettes, two storms, two predators holding their ground and trying to break the other first.

***

Meanwhile, at Bayan Warriors Boxing Gym, Manila.

The office in the back of the gym is heavy with Manila humidity, the kind that sticks to skin and makes the air feel crowded. A tired ceiling fan turns slowly above, barely moving the heat.

Virgil Santos sits forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the laptop screen. His two assistants, Marlon Reyes and Salem Flores, sit on either side of him, trying not to fidget in the thick warmth.

On the screen: Ryoma dissecting Sekino with ruthless efficiency.

Virgil has studied him before. He's seen the technique, the fundamentals, and the talent. He sees him as threat, yes. But nothing that makes him worried for Paulo Ramos.

At least… that's what he thinks until today.

Virgil pauses the video, and then drags the timeline back a few seconds. Ryoma shifts, so small, so brief that the untrained eye would miss it entirely.

It's the pendulum rhythm, short, lulling, barely-there. And then the perfectly timed counter detonates.

Virgil slows the clip to half speed, watching every shift of weight, every inch of Ryoma's shoulders, and the clinical focus in his eyes.

"This," Virgil says quietly, "is Soviet rhythm."

Reyes blinks. "Seriously?"

Virgil rewinds again, pointing to the screen. "It's subtle here. But in the fight with Masuda Kokushi? He leans on it for a whole round. He completely controls the pace, dictates the timing. That's classic Eastern bloc footwork.

He leans back, scratching his forehead. "They call him the Chameleon for a reason. But he hasn't fought any boxer with this style. I'm curious where he learned this soviet rhythm."

Reyes scratches the back of his head. "Is it possible that he learned that from Y0uTube?"

Salem snorts. "You can't learn this kind of micro-movement from videos, man. You need a coach who breathes this stuff."

Reyes argues back immediately. "But look at him. He copies his opponent's style from fight to fight. Sometimes in the same round. A month, two months, he picks up entire systems. If he's that kind of learner, watching tape might actually be enough."

Salem opens his mouth to argue, and then stops. The weight of what he just said settles into him.

"…Then how much will he improve by the time he faces Ramos?" he murmurs.

Reyes nods stiffly. "We can't measure him based on his last fight. He might be an entirely new fighter in two months."

The two assistants keep speculating. But Virgil isn't listening. He's already flipping to Ryoma vs. Masuda Kokushi, and then back to Sekino's fight, and then back again.

Slow. Fast. Slow.

Pausing. Rewinding. Zooming in.

He studies the eyes, the breath rhythm, the strange calm emptiness on Ryoma's face each time he slips into a new style.

Minutes pass. The air grows hotter, the fan louder. Reyes and Salem finally stops talking, and glance at each other, unsure what Virgil Santos is hunting for.

But something shifts in the room. Virgil rewinds again, this time further, deeper into the past, Ryoma's debut, the rookie tournament fight, until it's back again to Sekino's fight. He cycles through them in a loop that becomes almost obsessive.

"Coach…?" Reyes whispers.

But Virgil doesn't answer. His stare is fixed, unblinking. Until moments later, finally, a word comes out of his mouth.

"There's something off with this kid," he says.

Salem straightens. "Off how?"

Virgil shakes his head slowly, eyes still on the screen. "When you watch his fights in order… it doesn't feel like he's developing. It feels like he's changing. Abruptly. Too abruptly. Like he's…"

He exhales, voice tightening as he thinks. "…like he turns into someone else entirely each fight. Especially that match with Masuda Kokushi? Two rounds. And he didn't just win. It was a complete domination."

Reyes frowns. "You mean the Sekino fight changed him that much?"

Salem tries to ease the tension with a joke. "People call him the Chameleon. What if he's not just changing his style? What if he's changing his skin, literally?"

He laughs at himself, but Virgil doesn't laugh. In fact, he doesn't react at all.

Virgil's eyes narrow even further, something dark clouding his expression. The kind of unease a trainer only feels when he sees a fighter who breaks the rules of normal progression.

"…Look at his face," Virgil says quietly.

He presses play, then pauses again, freezing the frame on Ryoma's eyes as Masuda drops to the canvas.

His eyes are calm, hollow, dissecting the opponent with an eerie composure. It's not the eyes of a prodigy, not a hot-blooded rising talent. But the eyes of someone who switches selves like masks.

Reyes swallows hard. Salem's brows draw together.

"Tell me," Virgil murmurs, voice low and tense, "does that look like the same boy who debuted last year?"

Neither assistant answers. The truth already hangs in the thick Manila air: the kid frozen on the screen isn't a rookie who debuted just last year.

And they're no longer thinking about technique or skill. They're trying to understand a young man who seems to change faces from fight to fight.

A quiet unease settles in, each of them wondering, silently, what face Ryoma will show next.

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