Couldn't sleep. The ceiling was white. The apartment walls were thin. Hasami Town at night was quieter than Tokyo, and because of that—the noise in his head sounded louder. His left shoulder didn't hurt. That was the problem. When there was pain, he could just feel the pain. Focus on that alone. But tonight was too quiet. The shoulder was just dull and heavy, and Soichi's consciousness kept drifting elsewhere. The shadow's trajectory. The arc of his left arm when throwing a jab. Hip rotation came first, shoulder blade opened, then the fist extended. That sequence still remained in his body. Hadn't disappeared. More like reflex than memory—carved deep into muscle, waiting for an exit. The feel of hitting the mitt. That response when it connected right. The leather's hardness and the elasticity beneath. Every time a punch landed, Hiroko's "good" would ring out—ten thousand times repeated from age seven to seventeen, and tonight, for some reason, it came back vivid. Soichi threw off the blanket. Stopped thinking about reasons. If thinking wouldn't let him sleep, moving was better. Outside the window was dark. The clock just past 1 AM. He pulled a hoodie over his jersey. Put on sneakers. Keys in his pocket. Outside, the night sea breeze hit his face. September in Hasami Town—three degrees colder than Tokyo, by feel. Moisture in the air. Faint salt smell. He had no destination in mind. Just walked. Entered the Central Street shopping arcade. Few people even during the day. At night, literally no one. Shutters stretched on. Streetlight cast shadows on stone pavement. Then darkness. Only footsteps echoed. Midway through the arcade, Soichi stopped. The "Minato Pharmacy" sign was lit. Light on late into the night. Not his concern, but something occurred to him. Something—no, something caught. Before processing that sensation, his eyes turned forward. His feet moved before his will. Edge of the arcade. Former seafood processing plant, converted. Single-story building. Onga Boxing Gym—once known as a regional development hub in the JBF Junior registration system. Now just Hiroko, alone, keeping the aging gym alive. He stood before the shutter. Sound. From inside. Not rhythmic. But unbroken. Sandbag. He knew it—low, dull, fist hitting leather. One strike, pause. One strike, pause again. Rhythm broken, but never stopping. Should be exhausted, yet it repeated. (Who is it) Yesterday's sandbag flashed through his mind. New marks. Small fist. Blood stains. Soichi grabbed the shutter. Pulled it up. Rust screamed. Inside air rushed out. Old leather glove smell. Sweat-soaked floor smell. Beneath that, iron smell mixed in. Blood smell. He knew instantly. Deep in the dim gym. Before the most damaged sandbag. A boy. School uniform. Sleeves rolled up. No hand wraps. Bare knuckles hitting the bag. Right fist skin split open. Red stain spreading slowly across the bag's surface. Height around 162 centimeters. Weight around 48 kilos—Soichi judged instantly with a pro's eye. Light flyweight. Thin skeleton, but unexpected shoulder width. The boy didn't stop when he sensed Soichi enter. Just his body angle shifted slightly. Striking while confirming the intruder. Not turning his face. Just shoulder angle to check. Like a wild animal's alert posture, Soichi thought. Eyes met. The boy's eyes were black. Deep black. Not lacking emotion—too much emotion, trapped inside. That kind of black. He looked at Soichi, then immediately forward. Kept striking. Soichi entered. Pulled the shutter down. Stood by the wall. Watched the boy's form. Didn't mean to analyze as a pro trainer, but the pro eye wouldn't stop. Full of flaws. Center of gravity too high. Weight transfer too slow. Right foot toes pointing outward during footwork—bad habit. And—the biggest problem: wrists. At impact, wrists folding inward. Angle in danger zone. Keep this up, tendon damage within six months. (Should tell him) That thought came. Then stopped it. Not his business. Soichi was a broken boxer. Came back after retirement recommendation. A finished man. No position, no right to comment on someone else's fists. No qualification—not anymore. Never got Hiroko's permission. Came here without reason anyway. Just couldn't sleep. Feet just came here. That was enough. Tried to stop watching the boy. That moment. The strike's quality changed. Just one. Fatigue stripped away excess tension, or—something. Something born from the boy's center. Not hips, not shoulders, not arms. Something more primal. Connected to the fist in one line. The timing's purity became something different, just for an instant. The sound changed. How it hit the bag. Soichi's thought stopped. (What was that) Not something taught. Not built through training volume. Couldn't put that rhythm's nature into words—couldn't. "Talent" was too cheap a word. "Technique" was wrong too. Something more primitive. Like touching boxing's core. That kind of purity. Just one strike. Then it collapsed. The exhausted boy's body returned. Back to sloppy strikes. But—it stayed with Soichi. That one strike's sensation. Then the boy turned around. "What do you want" Voice was low. Too low for a third-year middle schooler. No emotional fluctuation. Not showing hostility outright, but clearly saying "this isn't your place." That kind of voice. More than words—his stance. The boy angled his body slightly toward Soichi, creating space between himself and the bag. Standing in the middle of his territory. A beast's posture watching an intruder. This dim gym was his place, Soichi understood. Not a cramped apartment room. Not a school where teachers couldn't remember all faces. Not a house where the father disappeared. Only here. Only here could this boy exist with his own fists. In the depths of those eyes, Soichi saw something. Felt like he saw what he shouldn't see. Pure obsession with boxing itself. Something Soichi once had, definitely had, and somewhere—somewhere lost. Its afterglow still lingered in a fourteen-year-old's eyes. (Not my business) Soichi looked away. Turned his back. Headed for the exit. A broken boxer has no right to comment on someone else's fists. Coming here tonight was a mistake. Should've just stared at the ceiling if he couldn't sleep. Took a few steps. In the darkness, an old wooden chair. Didn't see the leg. Tripped. The chair fell. A mop leaning against it cascaded down. Dry sound rang through the silent gym. Loud, clumsy noise. The striking sound stopped. Soichi looked at the fallen chair. The mop. His feet. One second. Two seconds. Said nothing. Silently picked up the chair. Leaned the mop back against the wall. Then headed for the exit like nothing happened. Felt eyes on his back. The boy had turned. Was watching. Soichi kept facing forward. Walked. Grabbed the shutter. Pulled it up. Rust screamed again. Went outside. Closed the shutter. --- Stood in the night Central Street arcade. Tried to walk. Couldn't. From inside, the striking sound resumed. There was a pause. The boy cleaned up the mop maybe. Returned to the sandbag. One strike, another strike, same rhythm continuing. Unbroken sound. Soichi stood in the night alley. Listened to that sound. (Could teach him to fix the wrist angle) Thought that. Simultaneously thought—if I teach him, what if that one strike's purity disappears? Teaching can kill something. Soichi knew that. Seen it in the pro world. Some fighters improve with instruction. Some fighters die when taught. Which one was the boy—didn't know. But if he didn't teach, tendon damage within six months. Soichi didn't put the dilemma into words. Just couldn't move from that spot. Wind came. From Hasami Port direction, night wind carrying salt smell. Mixed with the arcade's rusty shutter smell. Became slightly damp air. The "Minato Pharmacy" sign still lit. Someone still working. At this hour. From inside, striking sound continued. Soichi looked at the shutter. Old iron shutter. The "Onga Boxing Gym" sign letters barely readable in the night. He knew nothing about that boy. Not his name. Not why he kept coming here. Not who gave him permission to use this place. Just the fist marks left on the gym since yesterday. Tonight, saw the boy's eyes. That was all. Soichi exhaled once, long. Then walked. Tried to walk until the sound disappeared. One step. Another step. Stone pavement continued. Streetlight cut off. Shutter rust. Night silence. Walked ten steps. Still heard it. Twenty steps. Heard it. At thirty steps, Soichi stopped. Should've been inaudible at this distance. But it was there—or, heard in a place that wasn't his ears. That one strike's sensation still rang in his chest. (Not my business) Thought it again. This time, couldn't quite believe it. The Onga Boxing Gym shutter stayed closed by Soichi's hand. Inside, only striking sound continued. The boy's name, Soichi still didn't know.