By the third day, Akiyama Jin learned everyone's name.
This was mostly because they kept yelling them at him.
"Jin! Pads!"
"Jin! Tape!"
"Jin! You forgot the ice bucket!"
He moved through the gym like a piece of equipment that had always been there. Not invisible—just accepted. His hands were sore from holding pads, his shoulders tight from absorbing poorly aimed punches, but his expression stayed calm, almost neutral, as if this was all part of a schedule he had already memorized.
The younger boxers had stopped whispering about his age.
They had started asking questions instead.
"Hey, Jin," one of them said while wrapping his hands, "how do you not get tired when you run?"
"I do," Jin replied. "I just don't panic about it."
The kid frowned. "That's… not helpful."
Another leaned over. "How do you move like that? With your feet?"
Jin blinked. "Yes."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Across the gym, Kagawa Genji watched all of this with his arms crossed, pretending very hard not to listen.
"Enough talking," the coach barked. "Sparring."
The mood shifted immediately.
Gloves came on. Mouthguards snapped into place. Jin was handed headgear without ceremony.
"You," Kagawa said, pointing at him, then at a compact featherweight with sharp eyes. "Three rounds. Light."
The kid grinned. "I won't break him."
Jin bowed. "I'd appreciate that."
The bell rang.
The first round was awkward. The kid came in fast, energetic, swinging combinations that were more enthusiasm than structure. Jin didn't counter. He didn't even throw much. He moved—small steps, half-angles, just enough to stay out of trouble.
"You're running," the kid muttered.
"I'm learning," Jin replied.
By the second round, the kid was breathing harder. His punches lost snap. Jin began tapping—light jabs, quick touches, never staying in range long enough to be hit clean.
"Annoying," the kid said.
"That's a good sign," Jin answered.
The third round ended without incident. No knockdowns. No cheers. Just quiet acknowledgment.
Kagawa blew the whistle. "Enough."
The kid pulled off his headgear, frowning. "He's weird."
Kagawa grunted. "You noticed."
The Kamogawa Gym didn't visit that day, but their presence lingered anyway.
Someone brought it up while stretching.
"That Takamura guy," one of the younger boxers said. "Is he always like that?"
"Yes," Jin said immediately.
"How do you know?"
"He threatened me."
"That checks out."
They laughed, the sound echoing off the walls.
Jin sat on the floor, wrapping ice around his knuckles when Mari Iimura appeared in the doorway again, as casually as if this were part of her daily route.
"You're still here," she said.
"So are you."
"I'm supposed to be," she replied. "You're the questionable one."
She leaned against the wall, watching the gym like it was a stage play she'd already seen twice but didn't mind watching again.
"You're fitting in," she said.
Jin glanced around. A younger boxer was arguing with another about foot placement. Someone else was sweeping without being told. Kagawa was yelling at all of them equally.
"I'm useful," Jin corrected.
"That's better than fitting in," Mari said. "Gyms don't care about personalities. They care about function."
"Then I'll survive."
She scribbled something in her notebook.
"Don't write that," Jin said.
"I didn't," she replied. "I wrote that you don't complain."
"That seems worse."
She smiled.
That evening, Jin was assigned pad duty again—this time for Kagawa himself.
"Don't think," the coach said. "Just hold."
Jin nodded.
The punches were heavy. Precise. Every impact sent a jolt through his arms.
"Too slow," Kagawa snapped.
Jin adjusted the angle.
"Again."
The coach stopped suddenly.
"You box like you're waiting for permission," Kagawa said.
Jin blinked. "I am."
"For what?"
"For the right moment."
Kagawa studied him for a long second. "Moments don't ask to be used."
"I know," Jin said quietly. "I take them."
The coach clicked his tongue and resumed punching.
The day ended the same way the others had—sweat-soaked, exhausted, routine.
Jin sat on the gym steps again, this time with two canned coffees. He offered one to Mari when she came out.
She accepted without comment.
"You always sit here," she said.
"It's where the day stops," Jin replied.
They drank in silence.
"You're not flashy," Mari said eventually. "That's going to be a problem."
"I don't want to be liked," Jin said. "I want to be allowed to stay."
She looked at him sideways. "You know those aren't the same thing."
"I'm learning that too."
Mari leaned back, eyes on the darkening sky. "Most boxers burn bright and disappear. You feel like you're… settling in."
"That's dangerous?"
"That's rare," she said.
Inside the gym, someone shouted Jin's name again.
"Coming," he called back, standing up.
Mari watched him go, thoughtful.
As Jin pushed the door open, the bell rattled overhead, loud and familiar now.
For the first time since he'd stepped inside, the sound didn't feel like an entrance.
It felt like routine.
END OF CHAPTER
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