Hanazawa's vision turns white, just for a heartbeat.

The ring disappears, sound collapses into a dull pressure, and Hanazawa feels his balance float, untethered from the canvas.

"What… was that?"

He couldn't clearly recall what hit him. And there's no time to finish the thought as a hook crashes into his right cheek.

DSH!

His head whips left, neck snapping tight as his feet scrape to recover.

Another hook is already coming from the opposite side. Hanazawa reacts on instinct. His gloves come up wide, late, catching the punch only halfway.

Leather still slaps against his forearm, but the knuckles still sneak through, clipping the left side of his head.

Thud!

His jaw clenches. The shock rings, sharp and close.

Hanazawa retreats a half-step and resets, muscle memory taking over before confusion can settle in.

His spine bows forward again, posture dropping low. The guard tightens, elbows cinching in, chin buried.

He angles his body and braces. And Aramaki is still swinging, right, then left, hooks carving tight arcs.

Dum. Dum.

Dum. Dsh. Dum. Dum

Hanazawa absorbs them on the gloves this time, guard and shoulders lifted, head tucked as his body rocks with the impact, swaying like a pendulum but staying under him.

The surprise is gone, but the danger isn't.

Aramaki feels the defense change. Hanazawa's guard doesn't close; it widens, settling into a hook-dulling guard carved out of long fights and bad habits.

His gloves stay high, chin tucks down, shoulders rise, elbows flare just enough to let hooks die on forearm and muscle instead of face.

"Those hooks aren't landing clean," one commentator says, leaning closer. "But look at Hanazawa's body… he's still getting knocked side to side."

"And that matters," the other says. "Even half-blocked shots take something out of you."

Aramaki's hooks thud into leather and shoulder, the impact blunted, bled off.

So he adjusts.

He slips his lead foot half a step inside and bends his knees, threading a left uppercut straight through the diagonal arms.

Dhuak!

Hanazawa's head snaps up violently, guard split for a heartbeat as the punch lifts his chin clean above the line of defense.

"Oh…!" a commentator shouts.

"That's disgusting!" the other explodes. "He split the guard… right up the middle!"

Aramaki doesn't admire it. He's already moving.

The right hook whips in next, but Hanazawa reacts on pure survival, snapping his left glove high, catching it on the edge. The punch skids off at an angle, but the message is already delivered.

Now that the guard lifted too high, Aramaki begins digging low to the ribs.

"Did you see that adjustment?" the first commentator says, voice sharp now. "He didn't force the hooks anymore. He changed the answer."

"That's cold," the other adds, almost breathless. "That's not desperation. That's cruelty."

Aramaki steps deeper, committing his weight. The left hook comes again to the ribs.

Thud!

It lands flush.

But he's stepped too far. Hanazawa crashes forward, arms clamping down in a rough urgent clinch.

The space collapses again.

Hanazawa hugs him tight, smothering hips and shoulders, and from inside the knot his right glove sneaks free, tapping a short, ugly shot into the ribs.

Aramaki's supporters have had enough.

"What are you doing, ref?!"

"That's dirty… he's fouling him in there!"

The referee steps closer, hand half-raised, but Hanazawa loosens the clinch just enough to stay within the rules.

He stays glued to Aramaki, chest to chest, forehead scraping along Aramaki's neck.

Their heads are so close they can hear each other breathing. In that blind pocket, they trade short punches; compact, ugly, thrown by feel more than sight.

But there's a difference now.

Hanazawa's legs can't fully support him. Aramaki's earlier shots have stolen the spring from them.

His punches thud without drive, all arms, while Aramaki's blows land heavy and unforgiving.

So he leans, clamps down again, desperation creeping in.

"Enough, kid," Hanazawa pants. "Don't get carried away."

"Begging already?" Aramaki grunts back, and sneaks two small punches upstairs.

The crowd surges again.

"Break them!"

"Ref! Do your job!"

This time, Aramaki is the one who creates room.

He posts his left glove briefly against Hanazawa's face, just enough to tilt it aside, and swings the right.

Hanazawa forces one last low hook into the ribs in response. But Aramaki's hook upstairs lands cleaner.

Dsh!

Both punches land, but the second is the one that matters. Hanazawa's head snaps to the side. His balance breaks, boots scraping as he staggers a step.

Aramaki's left arm whips through, a sharp hook already loading, but…

Ding!

The bell cuts it off.

The referee finally wedges himself between them as they separate.

Hanazawa's eyes have gone glassy, half-lidded like he's fighting through sleep, the damage finally settling in. His mouthpiece is smeared red now, stained from that vicious uppercut snapping his chin earlier.

His legs tremble beneath him, knees threatening to fold, but he forces them to hold. He glares at Aramaki anyway, fury burning through the haze; less pain than wounded pride, the anger of a man who refuses to be embarrassed.

Aramaki looks nothing like that. His stance is still solid, arms steady, legs planted. His breathing comes hard, chest rising and falling, but there's no panic in it.

His eyes are still clear, look convinced. A thin line of blood marks the corner of his mouth, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. He just watches Hanazawa, ready, certain, waiting for what comes next.

"Take a look at them as they head back," one commentator says, voice lowering. "You can see the difference now."

"I don't think anyone expected the second round to end like this," another one adds. "Hanazawa was in control early. He toyed with Aramaki in the first round, dictated the pace through most of the second."

"Yeah," the first agrees. "But it only takes one mistake. One opening."

"And Aramaki didn't hesitate."

"He punished him for it. Hard."

In the red side of the stands, the noise changes.

The shouting fades into a low unsettled buzz. Hanazawa's supporters don't cheer now. They lean toward one another, voices overlapping in mutters.

No one says it out loud, but the doubt is there, spreading.

Across the arena, the blue side answers with fire.

"A-RA-MA-KI!"

"A-RA-MA-KI!"

The chant comes harder, louder, pounding in time with the drums. It rolls over the ring and crashes straight into the red corner.

Hanazawa drops onto the stool with a scowl, chest heaving. His jaw works around the mouthpiece as he yanks it out, breath rasping.

"Tch… damn noise," he growls. "Shut them up already."

Masahiro is in front of him immediately, hands steady, voice firm. "Calm down. Breathe."

Hanazawa doesn't look at him. His eyes stay locked on the opposite corner, burning. "And that damn kid," he spits. "Look at them. Acting like it's over."

Masahiro presses the ice against his jaw, studies his eyes, the way they struggle to focus. His brow tightens.

"You got careless," he says quietly. "Just one opening…"

He shakes his head once. "And look what it did to you."

Hanazawa exhales hard, shoulders rising and falling. The anger doesn't leave, but it dulls enough for the words to sink in.

After a moment, he finally looks up. "Hey," he mutters. "What the hell hit me?"

Masahiro frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't give him that opening on purpose," Hanazawa snaps. Then, slower, more uncertain: "I just… I don't remember it. I can't recall what hit me."

"You didn't see the jab to the body?" Masahiro asks. "That spear to your solar plexus?"

Hanazawa scoffs weakly. "I saw that one. Cheap trick. I was already about to knock it away. But then something came out of nowhere. And my vision went yellow for a second."

Masahiro doesn't answer right away. He just looks back toward the blue corner, the chant still echoing, and his frown deepens.

Then he lowers his voice. "It was a cobra shot."

Hanazawa blinks. "A… what?"

"Cobra shot," Masahiro repeats. "A snapping punch comes up from below your line of sight."

Hanazawa scoffs, but there's no bite left in it. "You're kidding."

He leans back, staring at nothing for a moment. He knows what a cobra shot is. Every veteran does. A snapping strike that lives in inches, not swings, but shot from low angle.

He just never thought a kid like Aramaki would have one. Worse than that, he couldn't even seen it.

Hanazawa's jaw tightens as the moment replays in fragments. "So that's what it was…"

Masahiro lets the silence sit.

"My eyes were on his left," Hanazawa says slowly, still trying to reconstruct it. "That spear left… I stepped in to swat it away."

Masahiro nods once. "That must be it. It came up from under your own left, low angle, right when your attention was tied up elsewhere."

Hanazawa grits his teeth, irritation rising, ready to boil over. Masahiro pats his shoulder once, firm and grounding.

"Listen. That punch had weight behind it. Too much for just an arm shot. He must be using his legs, springing into it."

Hanazawa's eyes narrow.

"Let him try it again," Masahiro says. "If you time the step, you can counter him. Use his own momentum. Break him as he comes in."

Hanazawa lets the words sink in. And slowly, a smile creeps onto his face, sharp and humorless, his eyes already hunting.

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