Chapter 1: Eyes On the Prize

Whispers ripples through the table again. And you’d think Reika would have built up some immunity to gossip by now. But her expression says otherwise.

Ryoma, on the other hand, looks about as bothered as a cat ignoring a vacuum cleaner. His interest is more on the young journalist than anything else.

This was supposed to be a simple "drop phone, leave" mission. Yet somehow, meeting this journalist has him sticking around like he just found a subplot he wasn’t expecting.

"So, you’re Fujimori Aki?" he says.

Aki perks up instantly. "Oh, you remember my name! Wait... did I actually give you my full name last night?"

"No," Ryoma says flatly. "I saw it under the article about my debut match inBoxing Spirit Weekly."

Her face lights up like someone just told her she’s gone viral. "Wha... so you read my piece? How was it?"

Ryoma leans in, tone deceptively mild. "How was it...?"

Her smile falters. "What? Something wrong? You didn’t like how I used your quotes from last night’s interview?"

"My quotes?" His brow arches. "Which quotes? I talked to you for fifteen minutes, and exactly none of my words made it into that article."

Aki blinks like she’s just realized she left the oven on. Then she’s digging her phone out of her bag like a surgeon looking for forceps.

"Hold on... maybe you read the wrong..."

She stops, mid-breath, staring at the screen.

"Oh, God. What is this? Who even wrote this?"

Ryoma tilts his head just far enough to peek at her phone. And there it is, her own byline, sitting smugly under the last paragraph.

"Isn’t that your name?"

"Yes, but..." She scrolls up, muttering, "These are my lines... but where’s your...? No. No, no, no. I wrote this as fair as possible, but these... these aren’t mine."

Ryoma exhales through his nose. "Look! I only bothered answering your questions because you said you’d been following me since the Interhigh. Yet you made me look so bad in that article."

He half-turns to go, but Aki suddenly appears in his path, bowing so fast it’s a wonder her blazer doesn’t slip off her shoulders.

"I’m so sorry..."

She bows once, a solid respectable bow, just deep enough to convey apology without risking a head injury.

"This is my first month as a pro journalist, and apparently my editor didn’t like my draft."

Then she bows again, a little quicker this time.

"Someone must’ve rewritten it. I’m so, so, sorry..."

By the third bow, it’s starting to feel less like remorse and more like an involuntary workout routine.

Ryoma just stands there, caught between irritation and the uncomfortable suspicion that if she bows one more time, social etiquette will require him to start bowing back.

Then he waves a hand. "I get it. It’s the business. No need to..."

"No, really, let me make it up to you," she actually bows again. "Ah... why not come join us, my treat! First paycheck today. I even invited my friends to celebrate."

That makes Ryoma look even more uncomfortable.

"But I..."

But Aki is already dragging an empty chair over before he can finish.

"I insist."

"...Fine," Ryoma says eventually. "I haven’t eaten yet. I can order whatever I want, right?"

Aki straightens up, beaming like a café owner who’s just spotted her first customer in a week.

"Of course. Anything you like."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Besides, you’ve got to watch your weight, right? You won’t eat much."

And just like that, Ryoma’s no longer a stranger with a phone. He’s part of their hangout now. The other girls don’t seem to mind either. In fact, they’re already chatting with him.

Though if you looked closely, you might notice Reika’s smile has migrated somewhere between "forced" and "are we done yet?"

The longer Ryoma sticks around, the more obvious it becomes that Aki is thoroughly enjoying his company.

She’s leaning in when she talks, laughing just a fraction louder than necessary, and somehow managing to bring every topic back to boxing.

Ryoma’s Vision Grid System quietly kicks in, outlining her micro-expressions like a boxer reading an opponent’s footwork

Posture: Forward lean of ~8 cm; engagement indicator.

Eyes

Expression: genuine enthusiasm.

Leverage potential: High.

Ryoma leans back slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. This isn’t just casual admiration, but the kind of interest that could be steered.

If Aki had really been following him since his Interhigh days, then earning her trust could mean access, and access often meant opportunity.

"She’s a journalist, loves the sport, and already thinks I’m a prodigy."

"If I play this right, she’ll be writing my name into every headline... and headlines lead to big-money fights."

Meanwhile, Reika is... well, pretending to be utterly disinterested, and failing spectacularly. She’s stirring her drink with a straw like it’s part of a scientific experiment, eyes fixed on the table... except for those occasional "covert" glances at Ryoma.

Of course, "covert" in this case means about as subtle as a cat pretending it wasn’t just caught stealing chicken. The moment Ryoma looks her way, her gaze snaps back to her cup, as if she was always that fascinated by iced tea.

Then Aki glances at Ryoma and says with a grin, "You know, Reika’s dad is kind of a big deal in the sports world. Boxing too."

Ryoma’s eyes flick toward Reika, his expression neutral but the faintest spark of calculation in his gaze looks like he’s just uncovered another goldmine.

"Is that so?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

Reika lifts her chin slightly, as if to clarify, "He runs an international sports marketing agency. Most of his work deals with overseas clients, football, basketball... and yes, he also deals with boxing promoters now and then, helps market some of the big events in the States."

Ryoma’s face brightens, but still hiding his true interest. "Guess it runs in the family then... being able to make an impact in a world full of tough players. Now I get where that strong personality comes from."

The words land harder than she expects. Reika blinks, caught off-guard, and feels the warmth creeping into her cheeks.

It’s like the rare dizzying rush of being acknowledged by someone you secretly don’t want to impress... yet can’t help wanting to.