The first thing Akiyama Jin learned about Kagawa Gym was that it did not believe in mercy.
"Five a.m.," Kagawa Genji said flatly. "You're late if you arrive at five."
Jin stared at the coach through one half-open eye, the sky still dark enough to argue it was night. He had slept maybe four hours, his legs buzzing with leftover nerves from the day before.
"Yes, sir."
The younger boxers groaned collectively.
They gathered outside the gym, breath fogging in the cold morning air. Jin noticed immediately that he was the oldest one there by at least four years. The others stretched lazily, joking, complaining. One of them looked at Jin and whispered, "Is he really staying?"
Another replied, "Maybe he's the coach's cousin."
Jin tied his shoes without comment.
Kagawa raised his whistle. "Run."
They ran.
At first, Jin stayed near the back, matching their pace, observing. Their strides were light, eager, unburdened. He remembered that feeling. Youth had a way of making effort feel infinite.
By the third kilometer, the jokes stopped.
By the fifth, breathing grew sharp and uneven.
Jin moved up without meaning to. His pace was steady, economical, every step placed with intention. No wasted motion. No panic. One of the younger boxers glanced sideways, surprised to see him there.
"Hey—" the kid panted. "Aren't you tired?"
Jin considered the question honestly. "Later."
They didn't speak again.
When they finished, several of them collapsed onto the pavement. Jin bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing slow, controlled. His calves burned, but it was a familiar burn—one he trusted.
Kagawa watched him without saying anything.
By the time the gym opened, Jin had already been handed a list.
Clean the ring. Hold pads. Wind the tape. Don't get in the way.
He did all of it.
The gym filled with noise as the day wore on. Gloves thudding into bags. Feet squeaking against the canvas. Jin stood behind one of the younger fighters, holding pads as punches snapped toward him in clumsy combinations.
"Again," Jin said quietly.
"What?"
"Your right drops when you hook."
The kid frowned. "Coach didn't say that."
"I'm saying it."
There was a brief hesitation, then the kid adjusted. The next hook landed cleaner.
"…Oh."
Jin nodded. "Again."
Across the gym, Kagawa pretended not to notice.
Late afternoon brought visitors.
The Kamogawa Gym fighters arrived in a loose cluster, loud and unmistakable. Jin recognized them immediately—anyone who watched boxing did.
Aoki arguing with Kimura. Kimura apologizing. Ippo bowing to everyone within range. And Takamura Mamoru, filling the doorway like he owned it.
"Wow," Takamura said, looking around. "This place smells like ambition and mold."
Kagawa clicked his tongue. "If you're here to start something, leave."
"We're here to borrow bodies," Takamura replied cheerfully. "Sparring."
Jin stepped back instinctively, but Kagawa's voice cut in.
"You. Older one."
Jin looked up. "Yes, sir?"
"Get in."
Aoki squinted at him. "Who's that guy?"
Kimura shrugged. "He looks… normal."
Takamura grinned. "That's suspicious."
Jin climbed into the ring across from Ippo. They bowed.
"I'm Makunouchi Ippo," Ippo said quickly. "Nice to meet you!"
"Akiyama Jin."
The bell rang.
Jin moved.
Not fast—just enough. Ippo stepped in with a jab that met air. Another. Another. Jin's feet carried him just out of range, his guard loose, eyes focused.
"Oh," Ippo murmured. "You move a lot."
Jin smiled faintly. "You don't."
The round ended without anything decisive. Ippo was breathing hard, but smiling. Jin felt it in his legs now—the pressure, the weight of constant pursuit.
Takamura leaned on the ropes. "He's annoying."
"That's a compliment," Aoki said.
Kagawa said nothing.
That evening, Jin found himself back on the gym steps, a canned coffee sweating in his hand.
Mari Iimura appeared like she had planned it, notebook tucked under her arm again.
"You survived," she said.
"Barely."
She sat beside him without asking. "Takamura didn't kill you. That's impressive."
"He threatened to."
"That's affection."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment.
"You give advice," she said eventually. "But you don't act like a coach."
"I'm not good at telling people what to do," Jin replied. "Just what I notice."
Mari watched the gym door as laughter spilled out. "You're not desperate," she said again. "That still bothers me."
"It bothers a lot of people," Jin said.
She smiled. "It makes for a bad headline."
"Then don't write one."
"I didn't say I wouldn't," she replied lightly. "Just that I'd wait."
Jin nodded, accepting that.
The gym lights flicked off one by one. Tomorrow loomed—roadwork, pads, pain, repetition.
For the first time, the thought didn't exhaust him.
It grounded him.
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