Logan Rhodes steps into Nakahara Gym, his polished shoes clicking once against the worn wooden floor before he adjusts his stride to the uneven boards.

He finds the place looking so humble. The walls are lined with yellowing posters, old newspaper clippings, and photographs that have begun to curl at the edges.

Heavy bags hang unevenly from ceiling chains. The ring at the center shows its age, ropes frayed near the corners, the canvas discolored, the padding a little sunken in the middle.

It reminds Logan of the gym he once trained in back in Detroit, the kind of place where everything looked one day away from collapse but somehow lasted decades.

As Nakahara leads him toward the office, Logan's sharp gaze catches the few things that don't belong: a brand-new medicine ball, a few clean dumbbells, and sleek resistance boxing suits hanging on the rack.

"Reika bought those," Nakahara says, catching where Logan's gaze lingers. "Said we should try looking a bit more modern. Kids like new toys, apparently."

Logan's brow lifts, just slightly. Beside him, Reika straightens her posture, her fingers tightening around her bag strap. There's a flicker of tension in her face.

"You really have high hopes for this place, don't you?" Logan says at last, his tone calm but weighted.

Reika hesitates, then nods once. "Y-yes… I do."

Logan pauses, catching a poster of Ryoma and Aramaki's last fight.

He watched the fights himself, two athletes young enough to still look reckless, yet disciplined enough to already draw attention nationwide.

"This gym…" Logan says finally. "It's not what I imagined."

Nakahara gives a dry laugh. "What, you expected something bigger?"

"Not bigger," Logan says. "Just newer."

"New doesn't win fights," Nakahara replies. "Sweat does."

Logan allows a small nod. "That much, I can see."

***

Inside the managerial office, Logan and Reika sit together on the longer sofa, their postures almost identical, composed, straight-backed, and polite.

Nakahara takes the one-seater, hands resting on his knees, his demeanor somewhere between host and cautious observer.

For a while, the talk stays light. Nakahara's voice fills the small room with an easy rhythm, the kind of chatter used to ease visitors into comfort.

"Reika's been helping us quite a bit," he says with a grin. "She even made us a website, and an official social media account. You'd be surprised how many new kids found us through that."

Reika lowers her eyes slightly, embarrassed. "It's nothing much. Just something simple."

Logan listens quietly, one arm resting over the back of the sofa. He gives no visible reaction, though his gaze lingers briefly on her before returning to Nakahara.

The door slides open, and Hiroshi steps in carrying a tray. Three cups of steaming tea clink softly as he sets them down.

Logan offers a small nod as a cup served before him. Reika expresses a light gratitude, still looking a bit awkward.

"Thank you, Hiroshi-san."

Hiroshi just nods and takes the stool near the flat screen, sitting neatly with his back straight, hands resting on his knees.

The faint scent of green tea begins to fill the room. The conversation continues, small talk about the gym, then a recent tournament at Saitama Super Arena.

Logan nods in all the right places, but it's clear he's waiting for the moment to turn. And when it does, it's quiet.

"Anyway…"

He reaches for the thick brown envelope, placing it neatly on the table. The sound of it touching the wood is soft, but the weight behind it speaks for itself.

Nakahara and Hiroshi both glance at it. Neither says a word, but the way the envelope bulges gives them an idea of what it contains.

Logan folds his hands calmly on his lap. "The boy got the better of me," he says evenly. "Taunted me into making a bet during Aramaki's match. It was… reckless, I admit."

He pauses for a beat.

"Aramaki was struggling early on," he continues. "Looked like he might fold before the fourth round. And Ryoma…"

Logan lets out a short breath through his nose, not quite a laugh.

"He saw through it. Knew exactly what to say to make me take the bait."

The words hang there, quiet and heavy, the kind that could go either confession or accusation.

Nakahara leans forward slightly, his smile polite but cautious. Hiroshi… still doesn't move at all.

Only Reika looks down, her fingers pressed together tightly in her lap.

"So, this envelope…" Nakahara trails.

"One million yen," Logan says. "Ryoma's money. Please give it to him later."

Nakahara nods, doing his best to keep his composure. He picks up the envelope, places it on his lap, and his fingers tap lightly on its surface, almost unconsciously.

He knows the bet wasn't just about money. There's something else tied to it, something that concerns the gym.

He wants to ask, but he's not sure how to steer the conversation there.

But then, Logan saves him the trouble.

"So," he begins smoothly, "have you decided on Ryoma's next fight yet?"

"We haven't actively looked for an opponent," Nakahara says. "Right now, we're focused on his recovery. But another gym did reach out two days ago. I'm… considering their offer."

"I see." Logan's tone is mild. "If the event's handled by another promoter, I'm afraid I won't be able to help with marketing."

"Marketing?" Nakahara repeats, feigning mild ignorance.

"It was part of the wager I made with your boxer," Logan says. "I actually handled some of the publicity for Ryoma's last fight, in partnership with JBC. I suppose Reika might've mentioned that I run a sports marketing company."

"Ah, yes. She did tell us," Nakahara says, forcing a small smile. "We're grateful someone like you took an interest in a gym as small as ours. But I haven't decided Ryoma's next step yet. There's a lot to consider."

"You should move quickly, Nakahara-san," Logan says evenly. "Ride the wave while it's still in your favor. The deal between us was only for one event. If you want to keep the momentum, you'll need something big. Maybe even… a title fight."

Nakahara freezes. The words land harder than he expects. A title fight, it's what every trainer dreams of, yet hearing it aloud makes it sound impossibly close, and dangerously soon.

"Ryoma has just secured his A-license," he says quietly.

"I know."

"And he's still unranked."

"Yes," Logan agrees. "That's the first wall you'll hit. Getting ranked. And even then, there's no guarantee the champion will accept a challenge. Avoidance happens all the time in this sport."

Nakahara nods slowly, the reality sinking in. His polite smile falters. "We know we're still a small gym… but we've built something lately. The reputation, the momentum…"

"Reputation alone won't open doors," Logan cuts in gently but firmly. "There'll be plenty of fighters eager to face your boy. But if I were a champion, I'd want to stay one as long as possible. And to do that, I'd choose my opponents carefully. You can't count on luck or patience. The longer you wait, the higher the risk. Injuries, rust, missed timing."

He leans forward slightly, eyes fixed on Nakahara.

"To make them accept your challenge, you have to give them an offer they can't refuse."

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