Aki sat in the corner of the gym after hours, still wrapped in tape and sweat. The echo of the last punch he'd thrown hours ago seemed to linger in the air, along with the low hum of an old ceiling fan and the occasional creak of leather gloves swinging from a hook. Tokyo never really slept, but in this quiet moment, it almost felt like it had forgotten him—and that’s the way he liked it.

He hated press days. The cameras, the fake questions, the whispers about who he was dating (no one), or how cold he seemed in interviews (because he was). Every headline forgot the same thing: he wasn’t fighting to be a star—he fought because he didn't know how to live any other way.

At his side was a worn folder with papers from Hayakawa House—his foundation for kids like him. Kids who had lost everything in a second, because the world was cruel and didn’t care about innocence. Some of them sent him letters. He didn’t always know how to write back, but he read every one.