The tension settles after the greetings. Ramos is still casual, still loose, still grinning like he wandered into the wrong building, but everyone else in the gym feels the shift.

At one corner, Mita Shiki stands with his arms folded. Sekino warms up under his supervision, slipping and rolling with quiet sharpness, flicker jabs darting out like whispers of light, shoulders weaving in that familiar Philly Shell rhythm.

Meanwhile, Noguchi warms up in the ring, wrapped gloves on, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His hands float in that odd jutting stance of his, part kickboxing, part brawler, fully unconventional. Some of the local fighters stare, confused, unsure if they're supposed to know him.

A journalist finally walks over. "Noguchi-san… forgive me, but I remember hearing you retired from boxing?"

Noguchi nods casually. "I did. Moving to MMA now."

"MMA? Is that so? Sorry, but I don't think I've heard of any of your matches yet."

Noguchi smirks. "Because I haven't had one."

"Oh…"

"I spent my time collecting money from nightclub fights," he says bluntly, tightening the Velcro on his glove. "But I finally get a real MMA debut in January. Make sure you watch. Could be the start of the next great, you know?"

The journalist forces a thin smile. "Y-yes… of course."

Another reporter steps in, curiosity peaking. "Then why answer Ramos' call for a sparring partner… as a boxer?"

Noguchi shrugs like it's the simplest thing in the world. "Why not? It gives me a chance to face someone on his level. Good experience."

He rolls his shoulders loose, then adds more honestly, "And they pay decent. If I'm useful, they said they might call me again, maybe once a week until his fight day. Not as much as what I got at the nightclub…"

Then he chuckles lightly. "But hey, fighting with gloves and rules? It's way safer."

Noguchi goes right back to his warm-up, chopping little jabs into the air, odd timing, sharp angles, the sort of rhythm that always throws people off.

Meanwhile, Ramos is stretched across the bench like he's waiting for his laundry to finish. One knee up, one arm dangling, humming faintly as if this entire room isn't brimming with tension because of him.

He gives a lazy wave to a passing amateur.

"Yo."

The gym can't relax the way he does. They watch Sekino's crisp rhythm, Noguchi's sharp, disruptive movements, and Shiki's stern eye tracking every detail.

And then they look at Ramos; head tilted, smile comfortable, posture loose. It's like sparring a seasoned veteran and a chaotic brawler back-to-back is just part of the morning to him.

For everyone else, the atmosphere feels like standing at the edge of a long, deep drop with no railing.

***

When Ramos finally steps into the ring, Noguchi is already bouncing in the center, hands thrust forward in that odd hybrid guard he shaped from MMA drills. Ramos watches it with mild amusement, mouthguard visible behind a half-grin.

"So you're switching to MMA?" Ramos asks in English, casual as ever.

Noguchi stares at him. "Uh… I don't speak English."

Ramos snaps his fingers. "Right, right. Language barrier. I'm not that good with English myself. But never mind. Let's have some fun."

The bell taps, and Ramos takes the center instantly, small steps, short angles, moving like someone who has lived inside this rhythm all his life. Noguchi juts those extended hands out, forearms angled like a barrier.

After a few probing feints, Ramos snaps out a quick one-two. But both shots slide harmlessly off Noguchi's jutting guard.

He tests again, mixing jabs with steady one-twos, but every time, Noguchi nudges the angle off just enough to make the punches miss clean.

"Interesting," he smirks.

Noguchi dives in, hips low, smothering him with a brief clinch. He bumps a shoulder, digs his glove into Ramos' thigh. It's not a foul, just irritating.

Ramos laughs and twists him off with an easy shove. And soon, the pace turns scrappy, messy, exactly Noguchi's preference.

But then Ramos' shots start landing cleaner. Sharp jabs thump into the chest. A left straight snaps Noguchi's head back.

From the corner, one journalist murmurs, "Wow… he's already adjusted to Noguchi's chaos."

"Yeah," another whispers back. "Not even two minutes and he's controlling the pace."

Noguchi absorbs, adapts, and stubbornly refuses to back down. But he can't land any clean shot, until the bell rings with him still in front of Ramos, eyes lit with the thrill of chaos.

***

Round Two

Noguchi changes his rhythm entirely, hands flicking from odd angles. But Ramos closes in anyway, swarming with combinations that crack through the air like sudden lightning.

BAP-BAP… shff… BAP!

Noguchi covers and circles, but every exchange ends with him getting punched a step off balance.

Still, Noguchi keeps firing off whatever unconventional idea sparks in his head. Counters come from odd pockets, gloves scraping ribs inside the clinch, a sneaky shot during a half-break, a little forearm check that steals momentum for a heartbeat.

"Bro, you really love being annoying," Ramos says mid-flurry, breathing calm and even.

Noguchi grins behind his guard. "Keep talking, are you?"

He tries to needle him, poke at his patience, but the young champ only smiles wider and swarms in, footwork alive under him.

The gap shows clearly now. Ramos is simply operating on a different plane. Every trap Noguchi sets, Ramos is already past it, slipping around the angle and crowding him again with another tight, snapping flurry.

At ring side, Mita Shiki watches quietly, arms in pockets. Sekino stands beside him, eyes fixed on Ramos' footwork.

"That kid doesn't reset," Shiki murmurs. "He flows from one angle to the next. If you chase the front of him, you'll drown."

Sekino nods once.

"Use your shell," Shiki continues. "Make him hit your shoulders, not your face. Let him smother himself on your guard, and answer with that left. Don't meet his speed, but interrupt it. When he steps to your right, flicker. When he steps inside, piston. Don't give him one rhythm to read."

He glances at Sekino, then at Ramos gliding around Noguchi.

"And remember… he's young. He trusts his feet too much. If he commits hard to a swarm, roll under and drill his body. Make him think twice about crowding you."

Sekino exhales slowly. "So… punish the entries."

"Exactly," Shiki says. "He's fast. But he's not untouchable."

***

Round Three

Both fighters start fast. Noguchi tries to throw chaos at him again, but Ramos finally sharpens the edge; angles doubling, punches flowing in five- and six-hit chains.

Eventually, Noguchi's guard trembles, and his stance bends. He keeps firing back, refusing to wilt, but every trade ends with Ramos landing two clean shots for every one Noguchi slips.

Still, Noguchi doesn't break. He ties up, disrupts, drags Ramos into ugly exchanges just to jam the gears. Twice he slips in those sneaky body counters, sharp little shots that make Ramos lift an eyebrow in mild surprise.

He's landed a handful of body blows by now. But somehow, Ramos' feet are still electric, his rhythm unbroken. His hands keep firing in tight efficient flurries that don't show the slightest hint of slowing.

On the sidelines, the journalists stare with their mouths half-open.

"Is this… really the same guy?" one of them whispers. "The one who was sprawled on a bench watching One Piece?"

"I thought he hated training…" another one whispers.

They watch Ramos glide in, pivot out, pour on pressure with machine-like consistency.

"He's not even breathing hard," another murmurs. "How is he maintaining that pace?"

"No drop in tempo… no hesitation… nothing."

A third leans closer, voice low. "…Didn't some people accuse him of juicing before fights?"

"Yeah. I did hear about that story."

They all fall silent, eyes locked on Ramos as he slips a hook and counters with a five-punch burst, seamless and clean.

"…But doing that just for sparring?"

"No way."

"Right? That'd be insane."

Another clears his throat. "It's only been three rounds so far… too early to judge."

Still, the earlier image of the lazy, anime-watching champion crumbles. What stands in front of them now is a high-performance machine, smooth, relentless, and terrifyingly alive.

***

Finally, the bell ends it with Noguchi heaving for air, sweat pouring. But Ramos? He's barely winded, still bouncing lightly on his toes for another moment before walking back to the corner with light strides, as if he could run another six rounds.

There's a clear level gap. Noguchi stays standing, yes, but only because Ramos never needed to chase a finish.

Noguchi drags himself toward Sekino and Shiki, gloves hanging low, breath still uneven.

"Man…" he wheezes, wiping sweat from his chin with the back of his wrist, "the dude doesn't stop moving. I like chaotic fights, but he… he fights like a toddler on a sugar high. My head's still spinning."

Shiki chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. "You did well. Three full rounds against the number four in the Pacific? Most guys wouldn't last half that."

Noguchi waves him off immediately. "Nah, nah. He was taking me lightly. If that were a real match, he'd have put me on the floor at least once."

He jerks his chin toward the ring where Ramos is cooling down like he just finished warm-up.

"I figure Sekino might do better than me. But who knows… It felt like he never fully committed with his punches."

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