Morning.
Sunlight slipped through the narrow gap in the curtains, breaking into faint streaks across the worn floor.
Hashina sat in the chair, arms limp at his sides, eyes fixed blankly on the mirror in front of him. The reflection staring back was of a thin man, hollow-eyed, with sweat-stuck hair and a face marked by sleepless nights.
His body ached—not from training, but from exhaustion that clung like a second skin.
Ever since Kenji stopped calling him to the gym, his mornings had become meaningless.
The punching pads lay untouched on the floor, the gloves hanging loosely in the corner like relics of someone long gone.
He had tried training again, but every punch he threw felt empty, weightless.
His body resisted, his mind dragged behind.
The strikes were no longer a way to find himself—just a desperate act of pretending he still could.
At noon, Hashina went out to look for work.
He stopped by workshops, small restaurants, construction sites—places he'd never imagined himself setting foot in.
But no matter how politely he spoke or how hard he tried to smile, the answers were always the same:
"Sorry, we're full."
"You used to be a boxer? No, we're looking for someone more stable."
"How old are you again?"
Every sentence carried the same meaning: You're too late.
When dusk fell, Hashina sank onto the steps of an abandoned building. The air was cold; the wind slipped through the cracks in the walls, stirring a few old flyers that scattered at his feet.
He looked at his calloused hands, the swollen knuckles, then tightened them into fists—without feeling a thing.
Once, people used to chant his name.
Now, no one even remembers it.
Once, he lived under the glare of the ring lights.
Now, the only light that touched him was the pale glow of street lamps reflected in his dry eyes.
When he returned home, the room was swallowed by silence.
No laughter.
No small footsteps.
On the table lay a folded piece of paper beside a bowl of cold rice and a half-finished soup.
The note was written in the familiar, hurried handwriting of his wife:
"I've taken our son back home for a few days. Please eat properly and rest. If you can… try to find a real job, Hashina."
He held the paper in his hands for a long while, saying nothing.
Then he set it down—no sigh, no tears.
But somehow, the house felt larger in that moment, emptier, until even the ticking of the clock sounded loud and lonely.
He sat against the wall, eyes unfocused.
Outside, the traffic faded, and another day slipped away—a day with no one waiting, no one left to need him.
Late that night, just as he was dozing off on the couch, his phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a name he hadn't seen in years: Saito.
Hashina hesitated. Saito—an old sparring partner. They used to train together back in the day, but after Hashina left the ring, their paths drifted apart.
He answered."It's been a while, Hashina," came the deep, slightly hoarse voice. "You still remember me?"
"Yeah… What's this about?"
"Just thought we could catch up. I still owe you a coffee, remember?"
Saito chuckled, the kind of laugh that felt both familiar and strange."The old café on Yama Street. Tomorrow night, eight o'clock. You in?"
Hashina almost said no—but didn't.
After a few seconds, he simply replied, "Alright."
The café was tucked behind a line of trees, its warm yellow lights spilling softly onto the wet pavement.
When Hashina walked in, Saito was already there, seated in the far corner, two cups of steaming coffee in front of him.
"You haven't changed much," Saito said with a faint grin. "Except for your eyes."
Hashina sat down, his voice quiet.
"They changed because there's nothing left worth seeing."
Saito chuckled under his breath, then went silent.
For a while, they just sat there, the low hum of the coffee machine and the faint drizzle outside filling the space between them.
"You're looking for work?" Saito asked finally."Yeah. It's… not easy."
"A boxer like you, looking for warehouse jobs or security gigs? That's a waste."
Hashina smirked faintly. "Waste or not, no one's hiring."
Saito studied him for a moment, then reached into his jacket and took out a folded slip of paper."You should check this place out," he said, placing it on the table. "Next Saturday night. Something there might suit you."
Hashina frowned. "What kind of work?"
"You'll see. It's nothing dirty—just… a little different."
He slid the paper toward Hashina, smiling faintly."You're still strong. I can tell. You've just forgotten what that feels like."
Hashina said nothing. Outside, the rain began to fall harder, tapping against the windowpane. He looked at the paper—just an address written in black ink.
No company name.
No logo.
"You're not dragging me into some kind of game, are you, Saito?"
Saito took a sip of his coffee, his eyes catching the light."Only a game for those still brave enough to play. But hey—if you don't come, that's fine too. Just think of it as a chance to remember who Hashina used to be."
He stood, put on his coat, and left—leaving the faint scent of coffee and rain behind.
Hashina stayed there a while longer, staring out the window. Raindrops blurred the city lights into pale smears of yellow and white.
He didn't know why, but his hand reached out almost on its own—and picked up the piece of paper.
That night, back in the empty apartment, Hashina sat down and unfolded it again.
The address was short, the handwriting strong and rushed. Under the dim yellow light, the ink seemed almost alive—shifting, beckoning.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed. A quiet thought drifted through his mind:
"Maybe… this will be the last time."