In boxing, money keeps the lights on. But legacy is what makes people remember who fought under them.
Nakahara has never confused the two. He spends recklessly not because he doesn't understand the risk, but because he understands exactly what's worth paying for.
He stands at the apron without moving, attention fixed forward, on the fighter waiting in his corner.
He studies the set of Kenta's shoulders. The way his breathing stays even. The absence of restless motion. Nakahara has seen enough fighters to know the difference.
Behind that one figure, he sees the others too.
Ryoma, burning too bright to ever be cheap. Aramaki, learning control without losing his edge. And Kenta, who came through dry spells, empty cards, years when phones didn't ring and doors stayed closed.
Young men who trained without guarantees, without promises, trusting him to find a way forward when there wasn't one.
This is what he's betting on.
