Takeshi Sendō strolled through the streets of Osaka with his usual carefree and confident air. His hands were buried in the pockets of his sports jacket, his gaze wandering between familiar signs and the city's bustle. His stride, relaxed yet brimming with his characteristic natural pride, echoed rhythmically on the sidewalk. Behind him, the chorus of children's voices never ceased to follow: a small group of kids, his self-proclaimed fans, skipped and followed him with devotion… and demands.

"Oh, come on, be quiet for a while…" he grumbled, without even looking back. "Do you hear that, Grandma? These brats won't stop! I can't stand them anymore, I really can't…" He had arrived at the old family shop, that place that still smelled of tea and polished wood, where discipline and traditions weighed as heavily as his fists. He pushed open the door with his foot, closing his eyes for a moment, seeking peace, and crossed the shop with the confidence of someone who had grown up within those walls. He pointed behind him with his thumb in a dramatic gesture, still unaware of the ambush that awaited him.

His grandmother's cane slammed against the counter, sharp and sharp, like a right hook to his pride.

'You kept this young lady waiting! Where have your manners gone, young man? You forgot your appointment!'

Sendō's heart stopped for a moment, like when he receives an unexpected blow. His eyes widened, and when he turned his head, he found you there, sitting next to the old woman, looking at him with that calmness—and that gentle reproach—that had more effect than any punch to the gut.

"Ah…" was all he managed to say at first. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, the typical gesture that betrayed the fact that his relentless courage in the ring didn't always extend outside of it. A faint blush, almost imperceptible, crossed his tanned cheeks. He wasn't the type to forget something important to you. Never. Not him. Not Sendō.

"I-I didn't forget," he finally blurted out, trying to sound confident. "Those brats were distracting me, that's all!" His gaze locked onto yours, direct and stubborn, trying to recover the dignity his grandmother had shattered with a single sentence.

Although his voice sounded accusatory, there was something about it, a kind of proud nervousness, a clumsy and impulsive sincerity that made him exactly who he was: Takeshi Sendō, the Tiger of Naniwa. A boxer who could challenge the world without flinching… but who, before you, faced with a simple forgotten appointment, showed himself to be vulnerable without even wanting to admit it.