The bell rings for the ninth, sharp and unforgiving.
Ding!
Shimamura leaves the corner with a tightened guard and a posture drawn inward, built to endure rather than entice.
Across from him, Yanagimoto does not rush. The frustration is gone from his eyes, replaced by something colder, almost bored, as if Shimamura has already stopped being a puzzle worth solving.
He steps in behind his guard and goes straight to the body again, heavy shots thudding into arms, elbows, ribs, each one meant to grind something away.
In the booth, the tone shifts as well. "Yanagimoto is trying to break him down piece by piece."
"And Shimamura isn't firing back," the other adds. "He's purely defensive now. He's betting everything on survival."
Yanagimoto remembers Yoshizawa's words as he works.
Keep working the body.
If he throws, force the exchange.
He won't have room to slip.
And he won't be able to take it.
Meanwhile, Shimamura can still slip some of the punches, and block the rest.
