The assistants glance at each other, at Junpei, then at Junji, looking for someone to fix what can't be fixed.
"But your legs still work," one says finally, his voice too hopeful.
"Yeah," another adds quickly. "Just move, keep your distance. Don't trade, just run the clock out."
"Even if he presses in, just touch him with the flickers," the third chimes in. "Keep him off. You've done it before."
"Stupid," Junji snaps, his voice sharper than he means it to be. He rubs a hand over his forehead, thinking, weighing everything at once.
"He can't use the flickers now," he says. "You saw how he moved last round. He can't twist his torso without flinching. And running for two more rounds? Against someone like Aramaki? With broken ribs?"
Junpei's still sitting there, eyes lowered, sweat running down his neck. He's listening, but he's not arguing. And that scares Junji more than anything.
After a long moment, Junji straightens. His voice is calm now, but heavy.
