The gloves on Ryoma's hands feel heavier than they should. But the phantom just tilts its head lazily, expression playful.
"So," it says, voice smooth and disturbingly casual, "what sparring mode do you want this time?"
Ryoma doesn't answer. And the phantom smiles, not kindly.
"Should I keep the same level that dropped you to the canvas?"
It leans forward slightly, shadows gathering around its silhouette.
"Or… should we play a child's game today?"
Ryoma's fingers curl into fists. His pulse thuds once, heavy, controlled, and determined. Whatever mask he wore in the barbershop is gone.
Now? Only the fighter remains, the other version of him, the one that the world hasn't seen yet.
And he stares the phantom down as if ready to tear the room apart. And inside, the thought rises, cold and focused, cutting through him like a blade:
Let's settle this.
His gaze sharpens, lips pulling into something halfway between a grin and a snarl.
"No games," he says quietly.
