The next morning, Osaka was its usual blur of traffic, cigarette smoke, and tired faces. Taiga stood in front of a rusted gate with a crooked sign overhead that read: Glory Gym.
The place looked like it had been forgotten by time. Peeling paint, dusty windows, and a flickering bulb above the entrance. The only sound came from inside—dull thuds, like a heartbeat. Boxing bags.
Taiga hesitated, the business card Genji gave him still warm on his pocket.
"For Fighters Who Refuse to Fall."
He pushed the gate open. The hinges screamed.
Inside, the gym was just as worn-out. Wooden floors stained with sweat and time, walls plastered with faded posters of old fights, and three heavy bags swaying gently in the far corner. A single ring sat in the center like a throne in a ruined kingdom.
And yet... it felt alive.
A boy around Taiga's age was hitting the speed bag with precise, rapid-fire rhythm. Another guy, maybe in his mid-20s, shadowboxed near the mirror, sweat dripping from his brow. An old man barked at him from across the gym.
"Keep your damn chin down, Masaki!"
Taiga turned and saw Genji seated on a crate, reading a newspaper, a half-empty cup of instant coffee beside him. He didn't look up.
"Wasn't sure you'd come," he said.
Taiga stepped forward, eyes scanning the room. "I didn't come to play house. Just wanted to see if this place was real."
Genji folded his newspaper. "It's as real as it gets. You want in, you follow the rules. No street brawls. No underground fights. You train, you learn, you earn."
Taiga crossed his arms. "I've already fought more than any of these guys. Why should I start from scratch?"
Genji stood, walked toward him, and looked him dead in the eye. "Because you've never boxed. You've only survived."
There was silence.
Taiga glanced at the worn-out ring again. Something about it pulled at him. He remembered the street fights, the pain, the silence after every win. They meant nothing.
Maybe this was the place to change that.
"Fine," he muttered. "What do I do?"
A smirk tugged at Genji's lip. "Go change. You're gonna mop the floors."
Taiga blinked. "What?"
"Every fighter starts at the bottom. And here, that means earning your place. Clean the mats, wipe the mirrors, fetch the water. Then, we'll see if you can throw a proper jab."
Taiga wanted to yell, to walk out, but something about Genji's presence kept him grounded. This wasn't about pride anymore.
"Whatever," he said, and grabbed a mop.
As he cleaned, he stole glances at the other boxers. The speed-bag kid nodded at him. Masaki, the older guy, didn't even look. A poster on the wall caught Taiga's eye—an old photo of Genji, younger, arms raised in the ring. The caption read:"Kanzaki Genji – The Man Who Never Got His Shot."
He mopped in silence, sweat forming even without training. This wasn't the kind of gym he imagined. But it was real.
And maybe, just maybe, it could be home.