Shock still hangs in the air long after Nakahara's words fade. Two million, five million, those are numbers that could tilt anyone's future.
Aramaki exhales hard, rubbing the back of his neck. "Coach… if I lose, just take it from my fight purse. I don't need you paying anything for me."
Kenta's head snaps toward him, eyes wide. Then, almost without thinking, he blurts, "Me too. If I lose, you don't pay my purse either."
The room shifts, not loud, not dramatic. But there's a quiet understanding there; two fighters trying to shoulder the weight their coach placed on himself.
But Ryoma sees something else entirely. And he just lets out a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head dramatically.
"So that's it?" he scoffs. "Already preparing the clean exit for when you lose?"
Aramaki freezes. "Huh? No! That's not…"
"You already pictured yourself losing, didn't you?" Ryoma cuts him off, his voice flat and sharp.
