Aramaki's weight has settled.
The right heel has dug into the canvas, calf tightening, the thigh too, muscle winding like a compressed spring. His knee dips just a fraction, not a crouch, not a tell, only enough to load what's coming next.
And then it releases.
The right hand snaps up from low angle, viciously compact, driven by the uncoiling of his leg and the twist of his hips rather than the shoulder.
It's not swung. It's fired like a bullet exploded by the trigger.
For the first time, Hanazawa sees it. But he hesitates.
The counter he'd prepared never leaves his shoulder. Instead, instinct takes over. His left glove shoots up to catch the punch.
Even that he can't fully hold it. The impact still drives Aramaki's knuckles through the guard, smashing Hanazawa's own glove into his cheek.
Leather thuds against bone, and his head snaps violently to the right.
Dhuack!
