Meanwhile, the blue corner doesn't erupt. There's noise all around them; but inside the corner, everything feels contained, purposeful, almost quiet.
Nakahara crouches in front of Aramaki, eyes level, studying him first before saying anything.
Then he nods once. "Good job," he says simply. "You picked the best moment to use that cobra shot. And you landed it."
Aramaki meets his gaze and nods back. There's a spark in his eyes now, bright but held in check. He takes the bottle, lifts it, and swishes the water in his mouth. The sound is wet, thick.
He leans forward and spits. The stream hits the canvas edge, tinged faintly red. He gurgles again, slower, then spits into the bucket. It's clear this time.
The cut inside his mouth isn't deep, and it's already settling.
Nakahara taps his knee lightly. "You had that round. But don't let that get to your head."
Aramaki straightens a fraction. "I won't."
