Junpei buckles up, no longer in his Philly Shell, but half-bent, back leaned to the pole, turtling behind his gloves.
Aramaki doesn't stop. He hammers at the guard, blow after blow, not chasing points, just forcing Junpei to feel every ounce of pressure.
Then Junpei's legs give way.
The bell rings…
Ding!
…and Junpei drops to the canvas.
"Whoa… down?" one commentator blurts. "Or did the bell save him first?"
"Nah," the other replies, waving it off, half-skeptical. "Bell came first. Aramaki never landed clean. Junpei just dropped from relief, not damage."
The referee steps in quickly, motioning Aramaki to the neutral corner. Aramaki's eyes are locked on Junpei for a moment before turning away.
But Junpei isn't down from relief. His legs tremble uncontrollably; his head swims, his lungs scraping for air that won't come.
"You okay?" the ref asks.
"Yeah… just need… a second," Junpei gasps.
