For a brief moment, Alvarez doesn't respond. It's not hesitation in the usual sense, but something closer to recalibration.
The way Ryoma delivers the line, calm, direct, almost indifferent, doesn't align with the impression he formed when he first walked into the room.
In just a few minutes, he's already seen three different versions of Ryoma.
At first, Ryoma appeared composed, respectful, carrying himself with the discipline expected from someone raised under a seasoned coach. Then came the lighter side, the naïve smile, the casual tone when he joined the sofa.
Now, that version is gone. What sits across from him feels colder, far more controlled. The kind of presence that shifts the room without needing to push.
And it doesn't come from a fighter. It comes from someone who understands leverage. Alvarez recognizes it, and with it, a quiet caution begins to settle in.
For a split second, he feels an urge to push back. But after considering it, he decides to shift.
