Date: March 6, 2017
Day: Monday
Time: 6:12 PM
Location: Fukuda Boxing Gym, Arakawa Ward, Tokyo
The signboard was old.
Paint peeling. Letters faded.
FUKUDA BOXING GYM barely clung to the wall like it had survived one too many eras.
Daiche Arikawa stood in front of it, gym bag over one shoulder, school uniform still on, tie loosened. At eighteen years old, he was already taller than most bantamweights who trained here, his frame lean but coiled tight like a spring held back by habit.
He pushed the door open.
The bell rang.
Not a cute one. A metal one. Sharp. Honest.
Inside smelled like iron, sweat, and time.
6:14 PM
Coach Fukuda was in the back office counting receipts with a pen older than most of the fighters. Mid-fifties. Broad shoulders. Crooked nose. Eyes that didn't miss anything worth noticing.
"New member?" Fukuda asked without looking up.
"Yes, sir," Daiche replied. Calm. Polite. No nerves.
Fukuda finally looked up.
Tall kid. Hands like a laborer. Posture too relaxed for a beginner.
"Form's on the counter. Monthly fee's posted. No discounts."
Daiche nodded, filled the form out cleanly.
Name: Daiche Arikawa
Age: 18
Weight Class: Bantamweight
Experience: Amateur training only
Fukuda raised an eyebrow at that last part.
"Go warm up," he said. "Bag's open."
6:21 PM
Daiche removed his uniform jacket, rolled his sleeves, and wrapped his hands slowly. Each motion was practiced. Not rushed. Not sloppy.
The other boxers barely noticed him.
Then the bag moved.
Not wildly.
Not stupidly.
Just… precisely.
Thud.
Thud-thud.
Pause.
Slip.
Step.
Thud.
The bag didn't swing much. It vibrated.
Daiche moved around it, southpaw stance, feet light but grounded. His punches weren't loud. They were heavy. The kind of heavy you feel in your chest instead of your ears.
Coach Fukuda looked up.
Then stood.
6:24 PM
Daiche shifted angles, switched briefly to orthodox mid-combo, then slid back to southpaw without breaking rhythm. His footwork drew half-circles on the mat. No wasted steps. No noise.
The bag jerked once.
Then stopped.
Fukuda frowned.
Heavy bags weren't supposed to stop like that.
Daiche stepped in, dipped his shoulder, and threw it.
A stiff overhand left hook.
Not fast.
Not flashy.
Perfect.
The bag snapped backward, chains rattling violently before going dead still.
The gym went quiet.
6:26 PM
Fukuda walked over, arms crossed.
"You trained before."
"Yes, sir."
"How long?"
Daiche wiped his hands with a towel. "Since I was seven."
"Who taught you?"
"My father."
Fukuda nodded slowly, eyes scanning Daiche's stance, his shoulders, the way his weight settled naturally over the balls of his feet.
"You southpaw?"
"Yes."
"You switch like someone who's been hit hard for it already."
Daiche met his eyes. "I learned fast."
A thin smile crept onto Fukuda's face. The kind that hadn't shown up in years.
6:29 PM
"You're not here to play boxer," Fukuda said.
"No, sir."
"You're tall for bantamweight."
"I know."
"You hit like you're angry."
"I'm not."
Fukuda laughed once. Sharp. Short.
"Good," he said. "Angry fighters burn out."
He pointed at the ring.
"Tomorrow. 5:30 PM. Tuesday. Roadwork first. Late once, don't come back."
Daiche bowed slightly.
"Yes, Coach."
6:31 PM
As Daiche left the gym, the bell rang again.
Outside, the sky was darkening. Neon signs flickered on. Somewhere, a ramen shop waited to close for the night.
Coach Fukuda looked back at the heavy bag.
It still hadn't moved.
End of Chapter 1