Ryoma slips inside, shoulders tight, body coiling into a clean right aimed straight for Aramaki's ribs. The moment Aramaki sees the motion, too sharp, too committed for a simulation, he goes rigid.
Something cold crawls up his spine, hollowing out his stomach.
"Oh… shit…?"
He has no time to block. All he can do is brace, jaw clenched, ready for the blow to fold him in half.
But the punch never comes. It only taps his ribs, light and controlled, more a reminder than a threat. Ryoma drops his glove, and nods once.
"You're improving," he says, voice calm. "But your counter came too late."
Aramaki blinks, swallowing hard. He then laughs in that awkward way people do when they're terrified and don't want to admit it.
"Yeah… I didn't think you'd actually fall for it, so my follow-up just… froze for a second."
Ryoma studies him for a moment, and then presses a firm fist against Aramaki's chest, right over the heart.
