VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Aki still clutches her notebook, though the pages remain blank. She hasn’t written a word since leaving Kirizume Boxing Gym. It’s her first time riding back with a boxer after sparring, and the silence between them feels almost too fragile to break.

Most reporters she knows only hover around the surface; covering weigh-ins, bouts, and rehearsed press conferences. But this, catching a glimpse of what happens once the gym doors close and the cameras vanish, is exactly the kind of access she’s been chasing.

“So, what happens now?” she finally asks. “Another meeting I’m not allowed into? A secret after-sparring party? Or do you just head back to the gym and call it a day?”

“Not exactly,” Hiroshi answers, his voice low. Then, after a pause: “Before we go back… could you take a detour? There’s a clinic near Suidobashi.”

Ryoma stirs, raising his head just enough to glare sideways. “No, it’s okay. No need for the clinic. I’m not made of glass.”

Hiroshi doesn’t answer him right away. He looks instead at the thin line of sweat still running down Ryoma’s temple, the way his legs lay heavy, unmoving.

Reika’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel. “If he needs a doctor, I’ll go. Just say the word, Hiroshi-san.”

Ryoma snorts, shifting against the seat. “I said I’m fine. Just take me back to the gym.”

The car rolls on in uneasy silence. Hiroshi leans back but doesn’t close his eyes. He listens to the rhythm of Ryoma’s breathing, to the faint catch in every exhale.

Once they pull up in front of the Nakahara Boxing Gym, Ryoma pushes the door open and climbs out slowly, wincing as his legs straightened beneath him.

Hiroshi follows close, watching every step. “You sure about this?” he asks, his voice low, almost testing.

Ryoma gives a thin smile. “See? I’m walking.”

But Hiroshi isn’t convinced. He keeps watching as Ryoma mounts the steps, hovering close enough to catch him if he falters.

“Tell me, when you breathe in deep, what happens?”

Ryoma draws in air through his nose, chest lifting. His face pinches, though he tries to hide it.

“Dull ache. Nothing sharp anymore,” he says.

“Dull can still mean bruised ribs,” Hiroshi mutters, staying at his shoulder. “If I asked you to walk ten steps down that hallway without leaning, could you do it?”

Ryoma huffs, more amused than insulted, and starts towards the gym entrance. His stride is stiff, but steady enough.

“There’s your ten.”

Hiroshi narrowed his eyes. “Any nausea? Vomit? Blood in your spit?”

“No blood. Just dry mouth.” Ryoma pushes the door open with his shoulder, letting the smell of leather and sweat roll out. His voice is lighter, teasing now. “You really going to keep playing doctor with me all the way inside?”

Hiroshi doesn’t rise to it. He keeps at his checklist. “Pressure in your stomach? Anything spreading beyond the spot he caught you?”

“Just sore right here.” Ryoma taps the side of his ribs. “Like a mule kick. That’s it.”

“And your head?” Hiroshi presses. “Clear? No dizziness?”

Ryoma takes a seat on a bench. “Clear as day. I remember every shot he landed. Wish I didn’t.”

Across the gym, the rhythmic thudding of sandbags slows. Shuji Okabe drops his gloves down to his waist, curiosity written all over his face.

Beside him, Ryohei strips his mitts off and strolls closer, eyes narrowing at the small bruise on the corner of Ryoma’s mouth.

“Seriously?” he says. “You come back from sparring Kuroiwa looking like that? I thought you’d be broken… broken nose, swollen eye lids, or something.”

Shuji’s jaw hangs a little. “I figured he’d put you through a meat grinder. But man…, you look clean.”

Ryoma opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, Aki steps forward.

“You guys won’t believe it…” Her voice comes out quick, almost bubbling over. “Kuroiwa only landed two clean shots on his head!”

Shuji and Ryohei freeze, their eyes flicking to each other. Disbelief lingers in the pause.

Aki fills the silence, blurting fast, half-disappointed, half-thrilled. “The Champion just dug to the body. A few shots, that’s it. And then…” she gestures sharply, “Coach Nakahara threw in the towel, right when Ryoma was lighting up the Champion’s face.”

The words hang in the air just as the side door creaks open. Coach Nakahara steps in, and catches her last sentence. His stride falters. For a moment he stands frozen, eyes locking with Shuji’s, then Ryohei’s.

Guilt flickers across his face. But he breaks eye contact instantly, turning away, and walks straight to his office.

The door shuts harder than it needs to, the sound echoing off the gym walls. Silence fills the space he leaves behind.

Inside the office, Hiroshi greets him straight with a question. “So, are you still going to continue with the title-shot within a year plan?

Nakahara walks to his desk, takes a seat, leaning his back to the chair.

“The kid’s different,” he says. “He’s got the kind of potential this country’s never had. We stick to the schedule. But…”

His eyes flick up, sharp.

“Hiroshi, if you see him breaking… you stop me.”

***

At Kirizume Boxing Gym, the locker room lies in a hush that feels too wide for its four narrow walls. Renji Kuroiwa stands alone at the sink, both hands gripping the porcelain rim, eyes fixed on the mirror.

He scowls at the swollen face looking back, muttering under his breath.

“Damn sharp hands… it’s always the sneaky ones that do this.”

A while ago, he’d left the ring as the perfect picture of a champion; shoulders squared, chin raised, face clean enough to front an energy drink commercial.

Now the truth blooms in the glass. His left cheek’s puffed and pink, a ridge swelling beneath the eye, a scrape at the mouth curling into a bulge.

It isn’t the damage of heavy thudding blows, but the after-effect of a sharp puncher, the kind that lands clean, precise, and fast enough to break vessels beneath the skin.

In the heat of sparring, adrenaline held the swelling down, kept the face firm. Now, as his pulse slows and the body cools, the damage blooms like bruised fruit, spreading into visibility with every passing minute.

As rage building up, Renji’s nostrils flare. His jaw works tight, cords straining in his neck as the mirror seems to mock him.

With a sudden growl, he tears one hand free of the sink and drives his fist into the mirror.

Brakk!!!

The glass splinters with a sharp crack, spiderwebbing across his reflection until the swollen face shatters into a dozen broken fragments. He pulls his fist back, clenched tight, and without a word pushes through the locker room door.

Up ahead, Coach Kirizume rounds the corner with two journalists in tow. His voice is animated, his grin brimming with the kind of energy he saves for outsiders.

“…so make sure you write it big. Kirizume Boxing Gym, strongest stable in Tokyo. My boys, unbeatable!”

The two reporters laugh politely. But then, their eyes slide past Kirizume, catching Renji’s face, and their grins falter at once.

Kirizume follows their gaze, and soon, his sweet face slowly changes as well.

“Renji, you…?”

Renji, without missing stride, lifts a hand and scratches the edge of his forehead with one finger, chin low, eyes to the floor, angling it just so, trying to mask the swelling on his face.

The journalists don’t press. They glance at each other, and then shuffle off toward the exit, suddenly full of excuses about deadlines and last trains.

But the moment they hit the street…

“His face… did you see it?”

The other swallows hard. “That’s the Champion… after sparring some rookie?”

They’d come chasing Renji’s greatness. Instead, they walked away carrying a story sharp enough to rattle Japan’s boxing world.

And it’s that kind story they couldn’t wait to put to paper.