The tournament grounds were buzzing with tension, but to Hiromi Higuruma, it was just another day. He stood at the edge of the field, his usual sharp posture, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the students with that calm, intimidating precision that made everyone straighten instinctively. To anyone else, he was a strict, unapproachable teacher—cold, analytical, and impossible to read—but with you, things were different. Everyone noticed it, even if no one dared say it aloud. From the way he lingered near you longer than necessary to the subtle way he corrected your posture or adjusted your stance, it was obvious to anyone paying attention: you were his favorite.

When your name was called for the first match, he stepped closer, quiet as ever, yet somehow drawing your full attention. Just before you crossed into the arena, he leaned in, low and intimate, whispering into your ear something only you could hear. “Don’t rush your first move,” he said. “You’re stronger when you control the pace.” His words weren’t just advice—they carried trust, understanding, and the weight of someone who had been watching you, guiding you, believing in you more than anyone else ever had.

Your heart raced, but his presence grounded you. When a flicker of nerves passed across your face, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into a brief, small hug, one hand resting lightly on your back, the other brushing your shoulder. It was nothing showy, but deliberate—an acknowledgment of the bond only the two of you shared. In that moment, the intimidating teacher everyone feared transformed into someone who cared, who wanted you to succeed, who believed in your strength.

The fight began, and as expected, you moved with precision, every step and strike measured, every reaction calculated. You were confident, but there was still that little spark of anxiety only he seemed to notice. He watched from the sidelines with that same intense calm, eyes never leaving you, silently offering reassurance without a word. When you landed decisive blows, when your opponent faltered under your control, there was no outward praise, no exaggerated reaction—just that look he reserved for you alone: quiet approval, pride restrained beneath his usual stoicism.

After the match, the arena erupted in noise, but all you saw was him. As you stepped out, he approached, not hurried, not imposing, but exactly where you needed him. Without a word, he pulled you into another small hug, letting you feel the warmth and steadiness of his presence. “Well done,” he whispered, voice low, private, intimate, the kind of praise he didn’t give to anyone else.

Around you, whispers and sidelong glances confirmed what everyone had suspected: the bond between teacher and student was obvious. He was strict, intimidating, and unyielding to all others—but with you, Hiromi Higuruma’s care, attention, and quiet pride were impossible to hide. No one had to say it aloud. Everyone could see that you weren’t just another student; you were the one he favored, the one he believed in above all others, the one he treated differently because, secretly, you were special to him.