Within seconds, sweat beads across Ryoma's face, soaking through his shirt until it clings to him. His breathing stays thin, uneven and sharp. His eyes don't focus on anything in the room, they're fixed somewhere far behind the present, caught in whatever the dream dragged him back into.
He's had plenty of nightmares like this: the crash that cost him his left leg, his first loss to Kazuya Tōjō, Noguchi's cheap tricks and the bruises of loses he pretended not to feel.
They loop through his sleep like a punishment. And no matter how many times they return, he never gets used to them.
But the worst one always finds him, the memory of that gunshot in the bar, the two bullets tearing into his chest.
Even half a minute after waking, he's still trapped inside it, breath locked somewhere between his ribs, no awareness of the two men staring at him from only a meter away.
"Hey, Ryoma…" Kenta says quietly. "You okay, man?"
But there's still no reaction, not even a blink.
