The sliding door opens with a soft, mechanical sigh. Nakahara steps in first, Aramaki and the rest of the team following behind him.
Habit has them bracing for noise, for clapping, for raised voices, for the loose relief that usually follows a decisive win. Something triumphant maybe. Something loud.
But no, they get none of it.
What greets them instead is movement.
The room isn't quiet, but the sound inside it is focused rather than celebratory: leather snapping against gloves, shoes whispering across the mat, breath being drawn and released with purpose. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, for the scene to register.
At the center, Kenta is working.
Not stretching. Not shaking out his arms.
But throwing punches.
Ryoma stands in front of him with the mitts up, posture low and balanced, feet shifting constantly as if he's the one under pressure.
