Back in the blue corner, Kurose is still fuming, slamming his palm against the apron, over and over.
"Masuda! Wake up! Get up!" he shouts, leaning so far forward the officials have to drag him back. "It's too damn early to end it! You haven't shown anything yet! You hear me? Get up!"
The referee reaches five.
And Masuda stirs, breath hitching, eyes blinking against the spinning world. At six, he plants a glove on the canvas. At seven he forces himself upright, wobbling, swaying, but standing.
The referee leans in, hands up. "Can you still fight?"
Masuda nods, jaw clenched. "Yes. I can still go."
He raises his gloves, guard tight but trembling. His stance is narrow, his balance unreliable, his breathing ragged.
The ref steps aside and resumes the fight.
"Box!"
Ryoma approaches with an unhurried calm, eyes sharp and unblinking as he studies Masuda's posture. The Vision Grid flickers, and its voice slips into his head.
