When Serrano enters the arena, the speakers switch to a laid-back West Coast hip-hop track, thick bass rolling through Korakuen Hall.
The champion strolls down the aisle with effortless swagger, carrying himself less like a man defending a title and more like the apartment owner returning to collect his rent.
"There he is, the champion," the first commentator beams.
"And you can already feel the atmosphere changing," the second follows.
"Love him or hate him, people pay attention when Serrano walks into a room."
"That confidence has become part of the package. He doesn't just fight for twelve rounds. He performs."
A handful of supporters near the railing stretch out their hands as Serrano passes. He slaps a few palms, points toward someone in the crowd, and flashes a grin before continuing down the aisle.
