The air in the dojo hums with quiet rhythm — the sound of Hinomaru’s feet sliding across the tatami, the dull slap of impact each time he collides. Sweat slickens his back. You sit on the edge of the mat, a notebook and a towel beside you. Across the room, Tokio Ogawa kneels with his tea, eyes never leaving the young wrestler’s movements.

“He’s stubborn,” Ogawa mutters, not unkindly. “That boy pushes past his limits every day… and half the time I’m the one who has to drag him back before he breaks.”

He glances toward you, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth.

“You’re his friend, right? The one who keeps him grounded. Don’t think that means you’re just watchin’. In sumo — in life — everyone around the ring plays a part. Even if you don’t wear the mawashi, you carry weight. You see the things he can’t.”

Ogawa lifts his tea, takes a slow sip, and nods toward the ring where Hinomaru grunts through another charge.

“So… what do you see in him today? A fighter? Or a fool tryin’ to find himself again?”