Standing till the end

You stand leaning against the padded turnbuckle inside the packed, roaring main arena, where blinding spotlights cut through the haze and high-definition screens zoom in tight on every subtle detail of your physique. In this league, the crowd doesn't just bet on who lands the hardest punch—they bet on the tension, the drama, and the raw physical chemistry between the fighters. You take a deep breath to steady your pulse, scanning the opposite corner to size up your opponent.

Out steps Kaito Akabane. Tall, with a lean, sculpted frame, he looks effortlessly handsome in his crisp blue trunks. With his soft brown hair and warm eyes, he looks far more like a popular university heartthrob than a dangerous fighter. As he steps over the ropes, he catches your eye, giving you a smooth, friendly smile that lingers just a second too long as his gaze sweeps over you.

The referee calls both of you to the center of the ring. Rather than keeping a strict distance, the ref casually checks your wraps, completely unbothered as the two of you stand chest-to-chest in the narrow space. On the massive overhead screens above, a close-up of your face next to Kaito's flushes the arena, drawing a wave of eager cheers and catcalls from the high-rolling patrons in the front rows.

Kaito says softly, his voice warm and bright enough to easily cut through the roar of the crowd. He gives you a respectful, reassuring grin as the referee steps between you to check your gear.

His demeanor is so genuinely sweet and approachable that it almost makes you forget where you are. But as the referee steps back and signals for both corners to prepare for the opening bell, Kaito turns around, takes his position, and pops his mouthpiece in.

CLANG!

The instant the bell rings, Kaito's warm smile vanishes completely. His posture drops into a tight, sharp high guard, his eyes lock onto yours with terrifying intensity, and he immediately explodes forward across the canvas, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. The friendly student from two seconds ago is completely gone—replaced by a relentless predator zeroing in on his target.

Natsume effortlessly dodges each incoming punch, landing a sharp counter on each one.

The first counter snaps Kaito’s head to the side. The second clips his ribs before he can seal his elbow in. By the third, the crowd has erupted—Natsume’s speed turning every reckless entry into a clean, stinging answer.

For half a heartbeat, Kaito’s advance falters.

Then his smile disappears.

He rolls his shoulder, draws a sharp breath through his mouthguard, and fixes Natsume with a silent, predatory stare. No complaint. No frustration. Just calculation tightening behind his eyes.

The next time he steps in, there is no wild combination waiting at the end of it. Kaito feints the jab, shifts his lead foot outside Natsume’s line, and suddenly drives his long frame across the escape route. His left glove cuts off the angle while his right hand fires toward the body—not thrown to hurt, but to make Natsume choose between absorbing it and giving up the ropes.

The instant Natsume moves, Kaito follows. A short hook skims past the guard, then a straight punch snaps toward the opening above the gloves. He keeps pressing, shoulders rolling, feet never settling long enough to be caught cleanly again.

His voice comes out low and breathless, stripped of its usual sweetness.

He dips beneath the next counter and surges forward with a compact three-punch burst—body, ribs, head—each strike chained to the last, forcing Natsume to give ground beneath the white-hot arena lights.

Natsume meets him head on, refusing to give up ground. Each punch Natsume takes, he gives an equally nasty response, not letting Kaito hit for free.

Natsume refuses the retreat, and the collision becomes immediate and brutal. Kaito’s glove thuds into the body; Natsume answers against his cheek. Kaito’s hook catches the guard; Natsume’s counter drives into the ribs before Kaito can fully recover.

Neither fighter gives an inch.

The impact rolls through Kaito’s frame, but instead of backing away, he plants his feet and leans into the exchange. His high guard tightens around his face. A thin red mark appears at the corner of his mouthguard, and his eyes grow brighter beneath the arena lights.

Natsume’s question reaches him between breaths.

For one dangerous second, Kaito’s expression twists into something delighted.

He slips outside the next straight punch and fires back—not one clean combination, but a storm built from broken rhythm. A jab snaps toward Natsume’s guard. A short right drives into the centerline. Kaito pivots, shoulder-checking the space between them as he whips a left hook toward the body.

The moment Natsume tries to answer, Kaito is already there.

He crowds the distance, forcing the fight into a suffocating pocket where speed has less room to breathe. His punches come shorter now, tighter and heavier, each one designed to make the next counter harder to launch. He takes a glancing shot across the brow and answers with a straight right that cuts through the opening before his feet carry him forward again.

His breath rasps through the mouthguard. His grin flashes, sharp and reckless.

The crowd rises as Kaito unleashes another rapid sequence, driving Natsume toward the ropes without ever allowing the rhythm to settle. Every clean response Natsume lands only feeds the pressure, turning Kaito’s measured assault into a faster, more dangerous tide.

Natsume struggles to keep up, but he doesn't give up.

The compliment reaches Kaito between the impacts, and his grin flashes behind the mouthguard. Blood and sweat glint beneath the arena lights as he absorbs another sharp counter, his head snapping back just enough to remind him that Natsume is still dangerous.

Instead of retreating, Kaito steps closer.

The word is almost cheerful. His next movement is not.

He catches Natsume’s wrist against his guard for a fraction of a second, using the contact to smother the counter before driving a compact left into the body. His right hand follows toward the guard, then stops short—an ugly feint that draws Natsume’s attention high. Kaito pivots around the lead foot and attacks the open side with a fast hook.

The exchange pulls him deeper into the fight. His breathing grows rougher, but his pressure only sharpens. He gives ground for the first time by half a step, inviting Natsume to follow, then springs forward as soon as the distance closes.

His gloves whip in from different angles—straight, hook, straight—forcing Natsume to block, slip, and answer without a moment to reset. Kaito takes a clean shot across the cheek and laughs under his mouthguard, eyes wide with fierce delight.

He drives forward behind a long jab, herding Natsume toward the ropes as the crowd surges to its feet. His shoulders roll through the fatigue, every punch carrying the stubborn promise that he will keep coming until Natsume makes him stop.

At this point of the match, Kaito has already studied Natsume's timing. His counters now rendered ineffective, Natsume is practically declawed. Now forced to fight directly, Natsume struggles to land a clean shot. Each exchange drives him closer to the getting knocked down.

The rhythm has changed.

Natsume’s counters no longer arrive on instinct; they arrive a fraction too late. Kaito has memorized the twitch in his shoulder, the slight turn of his hip, the breath Natsume takes before committing. Every time Natsume tries to fire, Kaito is already moving—slipping outside the line, smothering the punch, and answering before Natsume can recover his stance.

Another counter glances off Kaito’s raised glove. He barely acknowledges it. His feet cut off the escape route, herding Natsume toward the ropes as the crowd roars around them.

The word is quiet beneath the mouthguard.

Kaito feints high. Natsume’s guard rises on instinct, and Kaito drives a hard shot into the body beneath the elbow. The impact folds the distance between them. Before Natsume can straighten, Kaito’s left hook crashes into the guard, followed by a straight right that forces Natsume’s head back.

There is no pause between the punches.

Jab. Body shot. Hook. Straight.

Each strike is chosen to dismantle the next response. When Natsume tries to pivot away, Kaito steps across and traps him near the ropes, his long reach turning the narrow space into a cage. Sweat sprays from Kaito’s brow as he leans in, eyes locked onto every flicker of movement.

His grin shows again, fierce and breathless.

Natsume fires back from the pocket, but Kaito rolls with the punch and answers immediately, driving a compact combination through the opening. The final right hand stops just short of a reckless full-power blow, redirected into the guard as Kaito maintains control instead of chasing a careless finish.

The referee watches closely. The arena seems to contract around them, all noise reduced to gloves striking leather, shoes scraping canvas, and Kaito’s relentless breathing.

He shifts his weight forward once more, ready to force the next exchange.

Kaito lands a devastating uppercut on Natsume's chin.

The uppercut lands clean beneath Natsume’s chin.

His mouthguard spins into the air as his head snaps back, and his legs lose their answer. He pitches forward onto the canvas while the arena detonates around him. The referee rushes between them, waving Kaito back toward a neutral corner.

For the first time in the match, Kaito doesn’t chase.

He stands frozen for half a breath, chest heaving, gloves raised, eyes fixed on Natsume. Then he forces himself backward, one step at a time, every instinct in him straining against the referee’s command.

The count cuts through the roar.

At two, Kaito’s fierce grin has vanished. He watches Natsume’s fingers twitch against the canvas, his own breath coming rough and uneven. Sweat drips from his jaw as the adrenaline continues to burn through him.

He presses his gloves together, shoulders rising and falling. The sight of the fallen mouthguard near the ropes finally breaks through the violence of the moment, drawing a flicker of concern across his face.

The referee crouches beside Natsume, checking his eyes while continuing the count. Kaito remains in the corner, tense and ready, his gaze never leaving his opponent.

The crowd chants over one another. Kaito’s fingers curl inside his gloves.

The words leave him too quietly for the audience to hear, but the intensity in his stare says the rest. He wants the fight to continue—but not as an easy victory. He wants Natsume standing, looking back at him, answering the blow.

The count reaches the next number as Kaito shifts his weight forward, waiting for the referee’s judgment.

Natsume's knees wobble as he uses the ropes to help himself up. As the count reached eight, Natsume raises his guard and the referee allows him to continue fighting.

Natsume's knees tremble as he hauls himself upright with the ropes. At eight, his gloves rise in front of his face—unsteady, but unmistakably ready.

The referee studies him for one long second, then waves Kaito forward.

Across the ring, Kaito exhales through his mouthguard. Relief flashes across his battered features before the fighter in him takes control again. His guard climbs. His feet begin to move.

He advances carefully this time, not rushing into another reckless finish. The knockdown has changed the shape of the fight, but it has not erased Natsume's danger. Kaito circles just outside punching range, eyes tracking the wavering stance and the tight guard.

Then he steps in behind a probing jab.

It is not thrown with full force. It is a question.

When Natsume reacts, Kaito slips to the outside and digs a short punch toward the body, immediately bringing both gloves back to his cheeks. He refuses to give Natsume the clean counter he has been waiting for. A second jab follows, then a sharp angle change that cuts off the ropes without pinning Natsume completely.

His voice is rough, intense, but no longer careless.

The crowd surges as Kaito feints high and shifts low, forcing Natsume to choose between protecting his chin and guarding his ribs. Kaito’s shoulders roll as he presses forward, every movement designed to test whether the knockdown has stolen Natsume's timing—or merely made him more dangerous.

He stops just outside the perfect range, mouthguard flashing beneath a fierce, breathless smile.

His lead hand snaps forward again, and Kaito follows the reaction, ready to meet whatever comes back.

For the first time in his career, Natsume feels like he's being hunted in the ring. The prodigy that has never known defeat, knocked down. Now he's desperate, and desperation makes him dangerous. He takes great risks, and luckily gets great returns. Turning the tide in his favour now.

Natsume's desperation changes everything.

He stops waiting for the perfect counter. He steps into danger, taking a glancing hook across the temple to drive his own punch into Kaito’s ribs. The impact forces a sharp grunt from Kaito and breaks his forward rhythm for the first time since the knockdown.

Natsume follows before Kaito can reset.

An overhand clips the side of Kaito’s guard. A fast left hand slips through the gap and snaps his head sideways. Kaito tries to answer, but Natsume is already gone, pivoting off the ropes and striking from a new angle.

The crowd erupts as the hunter is suddenly made to chase.

Kaito’s feet scrape across the canvas. His high guard rises tighter, but Natsume's attacks come from too many directions—straight shots through the center, hooks around the gloves, sharp punches to the body whenever Kaito braces for the head.

One clean counter catches Kaito beneath the cheekbone.

His vision flickers white.

The smile behind his mouthguard disappears. He steadies himself with a short step, shoulders squared, eyes narrowing as Natsume surges after him. The pressure is no longer comfortable. It is no longer his alone to command.

But Kaito does not retreat to survive.

He plants his lead foot and meets Natsume in the center.

His voice is low and ragged, every word dragged through hard breathing.

Natsume fires again. Kaito slips inside the punch instead of away from it, taking the edge of the glove across his brow. He answers with a compact shot to the body, then another to the guard, forcing Natsume to respect the space between them.

The exchange becomes savage and immediate. Natsume's speed steals the first beat; Kaito’s timing claims the second. Neither man gives the other enough room to breathe.

Kaito’s legs remain steady, but his breathing has grown heavy. Sweat runs from his brow into one eye, and a thin line of blood opens above it. Still, he keeps his gloves high and steps forward behind a long, measuring jab.

His eyes lock onto Natsume's with fierce, unwavering focus.

He feints toward the head, then drives in behind the motion, trying to reclaim the center before Natsume can angle away. The next exchange will decide whether Kaito can restore the suffocating pace—or whether Natsume's desperate surge has truly taken the fight from him.

Natsume's head gets blown sideways by a hook, but he stays rooted to land his own hook. Adrenaline courses through him, pushing his body to the limit, and the fight to his favour.

Natsume's hook whips Kaito’s head sideways. For an instant, the arena lights smear into white streaks.

But Natsume stays planted.

His return hook crashes into Kaito’s cheek before Kaito can fully recover, snapping his guard apart and forcing him half a step backward. The crowd surges at the sight—the relentless hunter finally driven off his line.

Something inside Kaito goes completely still.

The smile is gone. So is the playful edge in his eyes. He lowers his chin behind his gloves and stares through the narrowing gap, breathing hard as Natsume's desperate momentum threatens to swallow the ring.

Then Kaito steps back in.

He slips beneath the next punch by a fraction, the glove brushing over his hair, and drives a short left into Natsume's body. His right hand follows immediately, not thrown wide but buried straight through the center of the guard. The impact forces Natsume to brace, and Kaito uses that instant to pivot away from the ropes.

His legs are heavy. His vision still flickers. None of it matters.

The words are nearly soundless.

Kaito raises his guard and advances with a tighter, more vicious rhythm. No wasted swings. No invitation to trade freely. He feints with the jab, draws Natsume's counter, then crashes forward behind a hard straight and a compact hook that tears across the gloves.

Natsume's adrenaline has made him dangerous.

It has also made him commit.

Kaito sees the opening as Natsume's weight shifts too far onto the lead foot. He steps across, cuts off the escape, and unleashes a rapid sequence to the body and guard, forcing Natsume to absorb the pressure instead of freely returning it.

His voice is rough, stripped down to instinct.

Another counter clips Kaito’s brow, opening the cut wider, but he refuses to yield the center. He answers with a sharp shot that drives Natsume back toward the ropes, both fighters breathing like engines pushed beyond their limits.

The tide is no longer stable. It crashes between them with every exchange.

And Kaito, battered and silent, keeps marching forward.

Natsume feels the ropes hitting his back. He makes a desperate gambit.

Before Kaito can understand what he meant, Natsume clinches with Kaito. They switch places, now Kaito's the one on the ropes, and they break the clinch. Natsume cuts off any escape attempt, keeping Kaito on the ropes.

The ropes strike Kaito’s back.

Natsume's clinch comes without warning. Kaito’s arms are caught between their bodies as Natsume turns his hips and drives through him, reversing their positions with desperate, explosive force. By the time they separate, Kaito is trapped against the ropes, his escape route already sealed.

The arena erupts.

For the first time tonight, Kaito has nowhere to march.

His back presses into the ropes as Natsume cuts off the angle, forcing him to face the center. Blood slips from the cut above Kaito’s brow and runs toward his eye. He blinks it away, breathing hard, gloves tight against his face.

The old instinct screams at him to surge forward.

He restrains it.

Natsume is waiting for that exact reaction.

Instead, Kaito shifts his weight against the ropes and studies him through the narrow gap between his gloves. His chest rises sharply. The pressure is suffocating, but his focus grows colder with every breath.

The word comes out low and hoarse.

Natsume steps in.

Kaito suddenly drops his level and drives both forearms inward, smothering the first punch before it can fully extend. A short left digs into Natsume's body from the pocket. Kaito follows with a compact right across the guard, then immediately tucks his chin and rolls beneath the return fire.

The ropes shudder behind him.

He cannot circle away, so he creates a path through Natsume instead. Kaito bumps forward with his shoulder, forcing just enough space between them to make his reach useful again. A long jab snaps toward Natsume's face—not thrown to land cleanly, but to interrupt his vision.

Then Kaito fires a straight punch down the center.

Natsume's glove catches part of it, but the impact still drives through the guard. Kaito follows with a tight hook to the ribs, his feet planted dangerously close to the ropes as he refuses to surrender the exchange.

His eyes burn with renewed intensity.

Another punch slams into Kaito’s guard. His elbows compress against his body, absorbing the force as his legs flex beneath him. The pressure makes his breathing ragged, yet the corner of his mouth lifts behind the mouthguard.

Natsume has turned the ring into a trap.

Kaito lowers his center of gravity and prepares to break it from the inside, waiting for the smallest overreach—the instant desperation makes Natsume step too far into range.

Natsume feints a punch, and Kaito takes the bait. The moment Kaito tries break out, Natsume's ready with his trap.

The feint twitches high.

Kaito’s eyes follow it before his body can stop itself. He shifts toward the opening, trying to burst off the ropes—exactly the reaction Natsume was waiting for.

The trap closes.

Natsume's counter cuts across Kaito’s attempted escape, catching him as his weight leaves the ropes. Kaito’s guard breaks apart under the impact, and his head snaps sideways. The ropes whip against his back while the arena explodes around him.

For a moment, his vision turns to fractured light.

His knees dip.

But they do not buckle.

Kaito catches himself against the ropes, one glove dragging across the top strand as he forces his eyes back onto Natsume. Blood slips into the corner of his vision. His breathing is ragged now, each inhale scraping through his chest.

The familiar smile does not return.

He goes utterly silent.

Natsume steps in to finish the sequence, but Kaito folds inward before the next punch can land cleanly. He wedges his forearms between them, absorbing the blow against his guard, then drives his shoulder into Natsume's chest to kill the distance.

It is not an escape.

It is a collision.

Kaito digs a short punch beneath the elbow, then another into the guard, using the ropes behind him as leverage. His long frame twists violently through the cramped pocket, creating just enough space for his lead hand to shoot up the middle.

The punch snaps Natsume's guard backward.

Kaito follows with a tight hook, not chasing the head this time—aiming for the body, forcing Natsume to protect his center and give Kaito a single breath of room.

His voice is barely more than a rasp.

He presses forward from the ropes, refusing to retreat even though there is nowhere left behind him. His gloves rise again, battered guard tightening around his face as he tries to turn the exchange into another brutal inside fight.

The ropes groan under his back.

The next opening will be smaller than the last. Kaito knows that. His legs are trembling, his brow is wet with blood, and Natsume's momentum is surging—but his stare remains fixed and unyielding.

He waits for the next punch.

Then he prepares to step into it.

Natsume swarms him.

The first punch crashes against Kaito’s gloves. The second slips around them and clips his cheek. A third digs into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs as the ropes shudder behind his back.

Kaito does not speak.

His guard compresses tighter, elbows welded to his body, forehead lowered behind his gloves. Natsume keeps him pinned there with relentless combinations, cutting off every angle before Kaito can turn. Each time Kaito tries to slip along the ropes, another punch meets him—short, sharp, and perfectly timed.

The arena dissolves into noise.

Leather strikes leather. The ropes groan. Kaito’s breath comes in broken pulls as a hook tears across his brow, reopening the cut and flooding one eye with warmth. He blinks once, twice, but the world remains fractured at the edges.

His guard is nearly gone.

Natsume's next straight punch splits the space between his gloves and snaps his head back. Kaito’s shoulders strike the ropes, and his knees dip beneath him.

Still, he does not fall.

His hands drop for one dangerous instant—not from surrender, but because his body has stopped obeying the rhythm he built for it. Then instinct takes over.

Kaito slips under the next hook and drives forward with everything left in his legs.

He does not try to circle out. He crashes directly into Natsume's space, burying a short punch beneath the ribs and ramming his shoulder into Natsume's chest. The ropes snap back as Kaito forces the exchange inward, turning the corner into a violent, suffocating collision.

Another punch catches the side of his head.

Kaito absorbs it without a sound.

His eyes remain locked on Natsume's centerline. Blood runs down his face. His breathing is ragged, his arms heavy, but his body coils beneath the damage, searching for one opening in the swarm.

There.

As Natsume commits to another combination, Kaito twists under the incoming hook and drives a brutal uppercut through the narrow gap between their guards—not clean enough to finish, but heavy enough to jolt Natsume's stance and interrupt the barrage.

For the first time in several seconds, the pressure breaks.

Kaito surges into the space he created, both gloves tight to his face, trying to wrench himself off the ropes before Natsume can close the trap again.

His barrage interrupted, Natsume staggered for an instant. The moment he recovered, he sees Kaito trying to escape the ropes. Natsume decides to play along, giving Kaito a sliver of hope before crushing it completely.

Natsume gives ground.

Only half a step—but after being trapped against the ropes, it feels like an opening. Kaito sees it immediately. His battered legs drive forward, and he slips past the line of Natsume's lead shoulder, trying to reclaim the center before the trap can close again.

For one breath, the ropes leave his back.

Then Natsume pivots.

The escape route vanishes. Natsume's foot cuts across the canvas, his body turning with the movement, and Kaito finds himself herded sideways into the same corner he thought he had escaped. The ropes catch him again with a violent snap.

Hope becomes impact.

Natsume's punch crashes into Kaito’s guard, followed by another that tears through the weakened defense. Kaito’s head jerks, and his knees dip hard beneath him. His gloves barely rise in time to catch the next hook.

He understands.

Natsume had not lost control. He had offered him a path out just to make him step deeper into the kill zone.

The realization strips away the last trace of Kaito’s grin.

He plants both feet against the canvas and absorbs the storm. His guard is barely holding together now, forearms trembling as punches hammer against them. One shot slips through and bursts against his cheek. Another drives into his body, folding him toward the ropes.

Still, Kaito refuses to collapse.

His eyes remain fixed on Natsume through blood and sweat, wide and silent. The forward march is gone. The playful violence is gone. What remains is a raw, stubborn instinct to stay upright.

Natsume commits to the next combination.

Kaito suddenly drives his shoulder forward, forcing his way into the attack before the punch can fully extend. He hooks an arm around Natsume's flank—not a clinch, not quite, but enough to smother the angle—and fires a short punch from almost no distance.

The blow lands against Natsume's body.

It does not stop the assault. It only buys Kaito a fraction of a second.

He spends it trying to turn his hips, searching for any route along the ropes. Natsume's foot is already there, cutting him off again.

Kaito’s breath catches. His gloves rise, unsteady but determined.

His voice is hoarse, nearly drowned beneath the crowd.

He braces behind what remains of his guard as Natsume closes in again, preparing to meet the next barrage at point-blank range rather than surrender the corner.

Natsume's words land just before his fists do.

The first punch drives into Kaito’s midsection and folds him over the ropes. The second follows beneath the ribs. Then another—short, heavy, merciless—hammering into the same battered core until Kaito’s breath breaks apart in his throat.

His guard is gone.

Both gloves hang low as his body tries to protect itself, elbows dragging inward too late to stop the barrage. Every impact jolts through him. His back bows against the ropes, and his knees dip dangerously close to the canvas.

The crowd rises with every punch.

Blood from his brow drips past one eye. His vision flickers between Natsume's silhouette and the harsh white lights overhead, but the rhythm of the attack remains clear: body, body, body.

His lungs refuse to fill.

Kaito’s fingers twitch inside his gloves. His instinct screams at him to cover up, to clinch, to survive the corner. But beneath the pain, something older and more violent claws its way awake.

He cannot breathe.

So he stops trying to endure the storm.

As Natsume drives in for another shot, Kaito suddenly drops his weight and crashes his forearm across Natsume's punching arm. The blow still digs into his side, but Kaito uses the contact to drag himself upright, shoulder grinding forward as he forces his long frame into the pocket.

His forehead presses against Natsume's shoulder.

For one fractured instant, the barrage is smothered.

Kaito’s breath comes out as a raw, broken rasp. His arms are trembling. His body is barely holding its shape, yet his eyes lift through the blood and lock onto Natsume at point-blank range.

The word catches in his throat.

He drives a short punch into Natsume's body with whatever remains in his legs, then another into the guard. Neither carries the clean power of his earlier combinations, but they are thrown with desperate precision, meant to create space rather than end the fight.

The referee steps closer, watching the exchange carefully as Kaito tries to wrench himself off the ropes. His shoulder turns. One foot scrapes across the canvas.

There is an opening—small, unstable, and vanishing fast.

Kaito surges toward it, attempting to slip past Natsume's lead side before the corner claims him again. His guard remains shattered, his breathing ragged, but his forward movement returns in one last violent burst.

He refuses to give Natsume the collapse he is asking for.

Natsume lets him escape the corner.

Natsume lets him out.

For one breath, Kaito believes the pressure has broken. He stumbles away from the ropes, shoulders hunched, gloves dragging back toward his face as he searches for space. The canvas opens beneath his feet, and the roar of his corner reaches him through the ringing in his ears.

Then Natsume starts walking him down.

Not rushing. Not wasting a punch.

Just advancing with that cold, deliberate certainty, cutting away every angle Kaito might use. Kaito’s retreat carries him across the ring, step by step, until the familiar red corner comes into view behind him.

His own corner.

The realization lands harder than any punch.

Beyond the ropes, his team is shouting instructions, but their voices blur beneath the pounding in his head. Natsume's eyes hold a cruel, focused anticipation—the look of someone who wants more than victory. He wants Kaito dismantled where everyone who believes in him can see it.

The ropes touch Kaito’s back.

His swollen chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow breaths. His guard is barely recognizable, elbows hanging low after the punishment to his body. He wipes blood from his eye with the edge of a glove and finds Natsume already stepping into range.

The last trace of hope leaves his face.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Natsume has found the one thing Kaito cannot allow himself to lose: control in front of the people waiting for him to stand.

The bell has not sounded. The fight is not over.

So Kaito straightens.

It costs him. His legs shudder, and his ribs flare with pain, but he forces his spine away from the ropes. His gloves rise in front of his face—not high enough, not strong enough, yet still placed between Natsume and the people behind him.

His voice is torn raw, but the words carry.

Natsume steps closer.

Kaito’s eyes narrow behind his battered guard. He no longer tries to escape the corner. He no longer reaches for a clean exchange. He plants himself in the pocket and prepares to make every inch of ground expensive.

The first punch comes toward his head.

Kaito takes it on the side of his glove and fires back immediately, a short hook aimed at Natsume's body. The punch lacks his old speed, but it forces Natsume to shift. Kaito follows with a straight shot through the center, then tucks his chin as Natsume answers with a vicious combination.

The ropes tremble behind him.

One punch gets through to his ribs. Another clips his temple. Kaito’s knees dip, but he claws his way upright and drives his shoulder forward, smothering the next attack before it can fully extend.

He is trapped in his own corner.

His breath is almost gone.

Yet when he lifts his eyes again, the silence in them has become something feral.

His glove twitches toward Natsume's centerline.

Natsume presses closer, and Kaito braces for the next storm without looking away.

Natsume doesn't go for the face. He wants Kaito completely conscious for this. The rhythm was brutal. Body, body, body.

The first punch buries itself beneath Kaito’s ribs.

His body folds around it. Before he can draw breath, the next strike lands slightly higher, then another beneath the opposite elbow. Natsume refuses to give him the mercy of a head shot. Every punch is deliberate, measured, and brutally intimate in its repetition.

Body. Body. Body.

Kaito’s back slams into the corner pads. His gloves hang near his chest, too slow to intercept the attack. His abdomen contracts helplessly with each impact, muscles cramping as his lungs struggle to pull in air.

The ropes tremble behind him.

His team is shouting, but their voices have become distant fragments beneath the dull thunder of gloves against flesh. Natsume's words linger more sharply than the noise around them.

They believe in you.

Kaito’s knees dip.

For a second, his weight sags into the corner. His head remains clear, exactly as Natsume intended, forced to witness every blow and every face beyond the ropes. His vision narrows until there is only Natsume in front of him, the canvas beneath his feet, and the unbearable pressure crushing the last strength from his body.

Another shot drives into his solar plexus.

Kaito’s mouth opens, but no breath comes out.

The referee steps closer, watching for a response. Kaito’s gloves twitch upward, yet they do not form a guard. His arms feel distant. His legs shake beneath him.

Natsume strikes again.

Kaito finally moves.

Not away. Not cleanly.

He catches Natsume's punching arm against his side and clamps down with both forearms, smothering the next blow before it can land. His shoulder rolls forward as he drags himself upright, forcing his forehead close to Natsume's collarbone.

The corner holds him up.

So does sheer refusal.

His coach’s voice cuts through the haze.

The sound reaches something buried beneath the pain. Kaito’s fingers tighten. His knees straighten by a fraction.

Then he drives his shoulder into Natsume's chest and throws a short, desperate punch into the body. It lacks the force that once made the arena roar, but it lands cleanly enough to disrupt Natsume's rhythm.

One breath.

That is all Kaito earns.

He uses it to lift his gloves and turn his body sideways, presenting less of his core while keeping his feet beneath him. Another punch crashes into his forearms. The impact still shakes his ribs, but he remains upright.

Blood trails down from his brow. Sweat drips from his chin. His face has gone pale beneath the damage, yet his eyes stay fixed on Natsume.

The words emerge broken and breathless.

The referee studies him for another moment. Kaito forces one glove higher, then the other, proving he can defend himself. His body is barely answering him, but his gaze does not break.

He is not safe.

He is not recovered.

Yet when Natsume steps in again, Kaito plants his feet against the corner and prepares to meet the next punch standing.

Natsume resumes the rhythm.

The first blow crashes beneath Kaito’s ribs. His body folds, but the corner catches his shoulder before his knees can give. Another punch lands under the opposite elbow. Then another, driven into the same battered center with ruthless precision.

Body. Body. Body.

Kaito’s gloves drop lower with every impact. His lungs seize, refusing to draw in enough air. The sound of his team shouting from just beyond the ropes fades into a distant blur, leaving only Natsume's footsteps and the brutal thud of leather against flesh.

His abdomen tightens helplessly around the punishment.

The next strike drives him deeper into the corner. His head remains clear, just as Natsume intended, forcing him to endure every second of the dismantling. Kaito sees the worried faces beyond the ropes. He sees his coach reaching through the gap, unable to touch him. He sees Natsume standing directly in front of him, calm and merciless.

Another punch lands.

Kaito’s knees buckle.

The referee steps closer, one hand raised, watching for the instant his body stops answering. Kaito’s glove scrapes against the corner pad as he tries to pull himself upright, but his arm trembles violently beneath him.

Natsume digs in again.

This time, Kaito cannot keep the sound inside. A strangled breath tears from his throat, and his body folds nearly in half. His forehead drops toward Natsume's shoulder, his legs wavering under the accumulated damage.

The corner team shouts his name.

Kaito’s fingers curl.

For one fleeting moment, the storm inside him is not aggression. It is only survival—raw, silent, and stripped of every polished expression he has ever worn.

He forces one glove upward.

It barely reaches his chest.

The referee catches Kaito’s gaze and asks whether he can continue. Kaito’s vision swims. Natsume's silhouette blurs, then sharpens again through the blood and sweat.

The answer is almost inaudible.

Natsume steps in for another body shot.

Kaito reacts on instinct. He twists his torso just enough that the punch strikes across his forearm instead of landing cleanly. The impact still sends pain through his ribs, but it gives him a fraction of space.

He spends it slamming his shoulder forward.

There is no strength behind the movement, only timing and refusal. His glove bumps into Natsume's body in a short, desperate counter, forcing Natsume to reset his feet for half a step.

Kaito remains upright.

Barely.

His back stays against the corner, his guard ruined and his breathing broken, but his eyes stay fixed on Natsume with a last, flickering trace of defiance.

The word cracks apart in his throat.

The referee watches them both, ready to intervene as Natsume raises his gloves once more.

Seeing Kaito remain standing ignites a rage in Natsume.

Natsume's restraint finally breaks.

The next punch comes wide and savage, slamming into Kaito’s side with enough force to twist his entire body. His shoulder smashes against the corner pad. Before he can recover, another blow crashes into his ribs, then a third digs beneath his elbow.

The rhythm loses its precision.

It becomes a storm.

Body. Body. Body.

Kaito’s knees fold. His gloves drop uselessly toward his abdomen as his breath vanishes in a thin, broken gasp. The corner ropes catch him beneath the arms, keeping him upright while Natsume tears into the exposed center of his body.

Another punch lands.

Kaito’s head lolls forward. His eyes remain open, but the focus inside them has begun to fade. The arena lights stretch into pale streaks. His team’s voices rise in panic beyond the ropes, yet the sound reaches him as though from the far end of a tunnel.

Natsume swings again.

Kaito’s arm moves on instinct, catching part of the blow against his forearm. The impact still drives him sideways. His legs cross beneath him, and his body sags heavily into the corner.

The referee steps in.

One hand rises between them as the next punch is already beginning to travel.

The referee shoves toward Natsume and waves the fight off. Kaito’s body slips down the corner pads immediately after the pressure leaves him. He catches the middle rope with one glove, trying to remain upright, but his fingers cannot hold.

His knees touch the canvas.

The count does not begin.

The referee drops beside him, shielding him from the corner while the team rushes through the ropes. Kaito blinks slowly, blood and sweat running across his face, his breathing shallow and uneven.

The words barely form.

His coach catches him before he can slump sideways. Kaito’s gaze searches past the surrounding bodies until it finds Natsume through the confusion. There is no grin left, no challenge, no strength for another exchange—only the stubborn awareness that he lasted until someone else finally decided the fight had gone too far.

Then his eyes lose focus, and his head falls against his coach’s shoulder.