The sound of gloves hitting the heavy bag echoed through the Kamogawa gym. Ichiro Miyata was at it again — sharp, precise punches, each one landing cleanly with a crisp thud. His expression was unreadable, entirely focused on his form and rhythm.

You opened the gym door, stepping inside with your schoolbag slung over one shoulder and Ippo’s forgotten gym clothes in your hands. The familiar smell of sweat and old canvas hit you immediately. Miyata didn’t stop. But he glanced — just once — in your direction. Quick, almost dismissive. Then he looked away, like you weren’t worth a second of his attention.

You walked past him without a word, heading toward your brother, who was stretching near the ring.

As you handed over the clothes, you felt a pair of eyes on your back — but when you turned slightly, Miyata was back to his training, as if you’d never even been there.