By the next morning, Sinichi Yanagimoto's name is everywhere. The sports columns lead with the same clean summary: Champion defends title in seven.

Photos freeze the moment Murai hit the canvas; knees folded, glove scraping the mat, Sinichi already turning away. The headlines are efficient, almost clinical.

YANAGIMOTO STOPS NO.1 CONTENDER IN ROUND SEVEN

TEXTBOOK DEFENSE, DECISIVE COUNTER

Most of the early coverage treats it like routine maintenance. A champion did what a champion was supposed to do. Murai fought well, stayed disciplined, lost clean. Acceptable outcome. Expected, even.

But two days later, a longer piece slips into the back half of the sports section, wedged between match schedules and gym advertisements.

"What changed wasn't the punch that ended the fight," the article begins. "It was everything that came before it."

The journalist rewinds the seventh round frame by frame. Mentions foot placement. Shoulder alignment. The way Sinichi's lead hand drifts just enough to disguise the shift.

Yanagimoto didn't switch stances to survive. He did it to control space.

On late-night boxing panels, the tone changes.

"He wasn't panicking," one pundit says. "That's the scary part. You don't develop that kind of comfort mid-fight unless you've been trained for it."

Another shakes his head. "If he's committing to this, he's rewriting how people prepare for him. You can't just study one look anymore."

Clips circulate online; short, looping videos with circles drawn around Sinichi's feet, arrows marking angles that weren't there before.

Someone posts side-by-side stills: southpaw, orthodox, and then back to southpaw again, the difference subtle enough to miss if you blink.

On discussion forums, the arguments stretch for pages.

"Switch-hitting in the level of a title fight could shorten your career."

"No, it extends it if you know what you're doing."

"Murai losing like that doesn't mean he fought badly."

"Exactly. That's why it's worse."

There's also a popular thread titling itself: THE SCIENCE BEHIND YANAGIMOTO'S SEVENTH ROUND.

Post after post dissects balance, muscle memory, reaction time. Someone brings up old footage, claims Sinichi had been laying the groundwork since the title fight against Jurobei. Another insists it's new, refined specifically for international competition.

By the end of the week, the language shifts. It's not about defending champion, not about solid win. People start talking about Sinichi's evolution.

And for the first time since he won the belt, Sinichi Yanagimoto isn't being discussed as someone holding a title, but as someone becoming harder to deal with.

***

Of course, the same conversation makes its way to Nakahara Boxing Gym. Aki is the one who carries it in, already grinning as she drops the topic in Ryoma's direction, asking what he would've done if he'd been the one across the ring from Sinichi that night.

"You think you could've seen it coming?" she asks, perched on a bench near where Ryoma is stretching.

"Not to brag," Aramaki calls out from across the gym, "but he noticed it back during Sinichi's fight with Jurobei, months ago."

Aki turns toward him, blinking. "Eh… really?"

"Back then, we weren't sure," Aramaki says. "We thought it might've been desperation. Last night cleared that up. Sinichi's been training to fight both ways, to be a true switch hitter."

Aki nods, thoughtful for half a second, scribbling something into her notebook. Then the familiar mischief returns. She leans closer to Ryoma, invading his space on purpose.

"If you noticed that early," she says lightly, "does that mean you could actually anticipate it? Think you could beat him?"

Ryoma shifts without looking at her, turning his body away as he extends one leg, stretching deliberately out of her reach.

"Who cares," he says. "I'm not fighting him. OPBF's my focus. And you know that."

Aki's smile doesn't fade. "The OPBF champion's a switch hitter too. You can't just pretend this doesn't matter."

Ryoma exhales, slow and controlled. "I'm glad you brought it up. Just not right now." He straightens slightly before settling back into his stretch. "I've got my own fight in four weeks. That's the only problem I'm solving."

Aki eventually lets the switch-hitter talk die out, but she doesn't give up. She pivots, casual as ever, circling back to a different curiosity.

"So," she says, tapping her pen against her notebook, "are you ever going to tell me what you figured out about Ramos' boxing? Or is that still classified information?"

Ryoma doesn't look up. He keeps stretching, methodical, unhurried.

"There's nothing to tell," he says.

"That's what you say every time."

"And it's true every time."

Aki sighs theatrically. "One day, you're going to retire, and all these secrets are just going to evaporate. Tragic."

"You'll see it soon enough," Ryoma says. "When I fight him."

Before Aki can try again, the gym door slides open.

"Oh… Aki, you're here?"

The voice is bright, familiar. Reika steps inside, eyes lighting up as soon as she spots her. She breaks into a quick trot, stopping just short of collision.

Then she bends her knees slightly and tilting her head toward Ryoma. Her smile turns playful, almost ceremonial.

"Good day, Ryoma. How are you doing today?"

"Doing good," Ryoma replies, tone easy.

But his eyes are already past her, locked on Logan.

The air tightens, subtle but unmistakable. Logan Rhodes follows a few steps behind his daughter, hands relaxed at his sides.

Ryoma's gaze is cold, edged with something sharper than curiosity. Reika feels it instantly. She glances back over her shoulder, catches her father's approach, and understands without needing it explained.

Her smile softens. She steps aside, just a little, clearing space between them.

Logan comes to a stop within speaking distance. "Why so hostile? I'm promise not going to take out of this gym this time."

"This time?" Ryoma repeats.

Aki blinks, looking confused with that short exchange. She's known that Nakahara gym has made a business relationship with NSN for organizing their fight event.

But now Ryoma treats Logan this way. And they words, sound hinting about something far serious. Taking you out of this gym? What's that supposed to mean?

But of course, Aki knows better not to dig this kind of curiosity too deeper. Not when it's relating Reika's father.

Ryoma finally finishes his stretching, and raise, but not bowing or greeting Logan as how he should.

"What are you doing here then?" he asks. "Don't tell me Frank Donovan actually accept my conditions?"

"Naah, I'm just fulfilling my debt," Logan says.

"Debt?"

"I lost to you," Logan says, as if reminding him of a minor inconvenience. "Nakahara-san hasn't forgotten. He expects me to pay up."

He straightens slightly, tone turning professional. "So I'm here as the president of NSN. To give you an update on the preparations for your fight."

The managerial office door opens. Nakahara steps out, ready with a practiced greeting, but stops short when he senses the tension in the room. He offers Logan a polite nod instead, choosing not to intrude.

"And I'll need your cooperation as well," Logan continues. "It's been over a week since Sinichi's title defense, and people still haven't stopped talking about him. Frankly, I'm concerned it's going to affect our marketing."

He folds his arms loosely. "So far, we've sold around a thousand tickets, but…"

"A thousand?" Aki cuts in, eyes lighting up. "Already? And it's still a month before fight day?"

Logan nods, unmoved by her excitement. "It's a solid start. But those sales are almost entirely from Ryoma's core supporters, I believe."

He lets the name sit for a moment before continuing. "It's good to have their loyalty. But Ota Gymnasium holds four thousand people. That's our target. And if the conversation stays centered on Sinichi's fight, I'm not confident we'll be able to move the remaining three thousand seats."

"What kind of cooperation are you expecting from me?" Ryoma asks.

Logan doesn't hesitate. "A few things. For now, I want to know if you're available to film a promotional video."

Ryoma narrows his eyes. With Logan, nothing is ever just one thing. There's always another layer beneath the request, another calculation waiting to surface.

A disruption this close to fight day isn't harmless. A month out, every hour matters; routine, rhythm, focus. Someone like Logan knows that better than anyone. He wouldn't ask unless the risk was intentional.

Which means the risk isn't accidental. He's creating it on purpose.

The question is why.

Maybe Logan is simply worried about ticket sales. Or maybe he's manufacturing pressure, introducing noise and friction where there should be focus. A small push, just enough to tilt the balance.

And if Ryoma stumbles, if he loses the fight, the old offer would surface again. Leave the gym. Change environments. Do things the right way.

Ryoma doesn't let the thought settle. He keeps his expression flat. Whatever Logan's angle is, he isn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.

"You know I should be focused on my fight," Ryoma says. "Paulo Ramos isn't someone I can take lightly. Promotion is your responsibility. If you can't handle that much, maybe we should consider hiring another company next time."

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