It is the name behind a name that he always defends because there is no one else to.
He stretches out his legs, take a sip of black coffee, grimace. It's already cold, a thin film forming over the stale drink.
The break room is buzzing dimly; visitors, spectators, other professionals chatting, eating.
"Nervous?" Touya drags out the chair next to him, the metal legs screeching quietly, and takes a seat.
He grunts, rolls his shoulders. It's not that he's not confident of his skills. Touya eyes the fan that he turns over repeatedly in his hands, and then glances out the window when they both hear a recognizable squeal of tires.
A sports car slides up to the front of the building, sleek crimson, turns into the parking lot.
Touya stands to make his leave. They share a brief nod.
He taps the fan against the palm of his hand, runs a thumb lightly over the worn out frame.
One of the staff members approaches, leaning over his shoulder. "It's time, sir."
He is led through the corridor to a room and as he slides the door open, a cool silence breezes over him. Light glints off a familiar pair of glasses.
He takes a seat.
The lines spread out before him are comfortable shapes cutting across his vision.
He looks up at his opponent; Ogata Honinbou meets his gaze evenly.
He slides open the fan, snaps it shut.
An age-old title, a name attached to a face that only he knows.
He lowers his head, and the other man does likewise.
The first match for the Honinbou title has begun.