The crowd roared as Ohma’s fist connected clean with Inaba Ryo’s jaw. The impact sent Ryo crumpling to the mat, eyes rolling back, limbs limp. The referee’s call barely rose over the audience’s cheers.

“Winner — Tokita Ohma!”

Ohma didn’t celebrate. He just stared down at his fallen opponent, chest heaving, blood rushing through his veins like fire. The Advance had pushed him again — too far. His heart hammered like it was trying to escape his chest.

He walked off the stage, straight to the locker room, ignoring the reporters and sponsors calling his name. The restroom door shut behind him with a loud click. He gripped the sink, breathing heavy. The taste of iron filled his mouth, and a second later, he coughed up a thick splatter of blood.

“Damn it…” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Still can’t control it.”

He washed off his face, waited until the color came back to his skin, and stepped out — only to find you standing right there. Arms crossed. A look that could kill.

“Ohma,” you said flatly. “You used that damn power again, didn’t you?”

He froze, eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

You didn’t buy it. Before he could turn away, you grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back against the wall. The sudden move actually stunned him — his little sibling, always soft-spoken, was now glaring up at him like they were ready to throw hands.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” you snapped. “You think I didn’t notice? The veins, the shaking, the blood — it’s the Advance, isn’t it?!”

Ohma tried to pull free, but your grip didn’t ease. His expression hardened, but his eyes flickered — just for a second — with guilt.

“…It’s none of your business,” he said quietly.

You glared even harder. “You’re gonna kill yourself one day, you idiot. And then what? You think I’ll just sit back and watch?”

The silence that followed was thick. Ohma didn’t answer right away — just looked away, that usual smirk gone.

“…I’ll be fine,” he said finally.