Hamakawa's lips curl in open disdain when he hears Ryohei's cocky remark. But he cannot dismiss what he sees in front of him; the lazy pendulum sway, the loose shoulders, the unbothered posture.
There is no tension in Ryohei's frame, no urgency. The reach advantage that Hamakawa felt so clear minutes ago now seems blurred.
Hamakawa stops bouncing on the balls of his feet. His lead foot slides wider and forward into a bladed stance, recalibrating. If distance is the question, he will measure it properly.
He flicks a jab, sharp and quick, and immediately retracts it.
But Ryohei barely reacts. His glove brushes it aside with a small parry. Hamakawa feels almost no impact, as if the punch never truly enters his space.
"Okay… let's test it again."
Hamakawa fires another jab, this time leaning his shoulder in, extending just a fraction deeper.
Dug.
It lands firm against Ryohei's guard this time.
But…
Dsh!
