Moments later, the arena lights dim without warning. For a split second, the restless noise still lingers, the residue of frustration from the canceled semifinal.
Then the first note of Hamakawa's entrance theme cuts through the speakers. And the reaction is immediate.
The complaints die. Sections that had been muttering only moments ago fall quiet, heads turning toward the tunnel in unison. A wave of anticipation rolls across Yoyogi like a held breath.
A spotlight locks onto the entrance. From there, Shoji Hamakawa steps out, no exaggerated gestures, no theatrics. He just walks with measured steps beneath the lights, hood down, eyes forward.
And the arena rises for him. Applause spreads from the lower bowl upward, steady and genuine. It isn't chaotic cheering. It's recognition, and genuine respect.
Some fans lift towels with his name. Others clap rhythmically, as if welcoming back something familiar, something stable.
