At least after a minute into the second round, Aramaki begins to adjust to Junpei's flickers. He can dodge and block more now; not many of them land clean anymore.
But taking back control of the fight is another matter entirely. Junpei isn't Ryoma, never takes risks, never trades punches.
Every time Aramaki manages to close the distance, Junpei cuts him with a right and slips away again. He may not be using the Philly Shell tonight, but his footwork alone keeps him untouchable.
It's the same rhythm hidden inside the wild, chaotic flickers. And maybe that's exactly why Aramaki still can't see it.
But Ryoma, watching calmly from the locker room, reads it as clearly as a printed line of text. And it eats at him, not the rhythm itself, but the helplessness of sitting here, away from the corner, watching Nakahara not see it.
