VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Elsewhere, in Nakahara’s cramped office, the mood is far less composed. The place feels smaller than usual, almost suffocating under the clutter.

Papers and boxing magazines pile in precarious stacks across the desk, training schedules curl at the edges where coffee cups have been set down too many times, and a faint musk of sweat and liniment oil lingers in the air.

The narrow window barely lets in light, making the overhead lamp’s hum feel louder than it should.

Nakahara drops the folded newspaper onto his desk with a sharp slap, the sound cutting through the room like a jab. He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening as he glares down at the headline.

“No bribery, no dirty deal.” His voice is sharp with irritation, every word spat like something bitter. “They keep repeating that like a prayer. And they keep hounding Maruyama, as if he was the one who bribed the ref.”

Across from him, Ryoma leans back in his chair, arms crossed, posture loose but eyes sharp. “Of course, he didn’t. And we know who pulled the strings.”

Nakahara exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah… and that’s the sting. No one’s saying Kirizume’s name. Not once. They’re protecting him.”

Ryoma chuckles under his breath, a sound too amused for the tension in the room. “Should I talk about it to Aki, then?”

Nakahara whirls toward him, glare sharp enough to cut. His irritation flares into something heavier, almost fear. “Don’t you dare. Don’t even joke about that. If you start throwing names around without proof, Kirizume will sue you into the ground. We’re small, no money, no backing. You’ll wreck yourself before you even step in the ring again.”

Ryoma smirks faintly, the edge of arrogance tugging at his lips, but Nakahara’s sudden warning slices through the air, sharp and cold, halting the mood like a snapped string.

The silence stretches until Hiroshi shifts forward in his chair. His elbows rest on his thighs, his tone lower, weight anchoring every word.

“Still… the final’s Serrano. And he’s Kirizume’s fighter.”

The words hang heavy between them, settling like smoke in the cramped office, thick and suffocating. Neither man moves to break it, each waiting for the other to fill the gap.

Finally, Nakahara leans back with a sharp exhale. “After that scandal… Kirizume won’t risk anything bigger. He can’t afford another stain.”

Ryoma shrugs, his grin returning, easy and unbothered. “Besides, there’s no reason left for him to.”

Hiroshi frowns, blinking. “Why do you think so?”

Ryoma’s grin widens, confidence flashing like steel. “Because I’ve already made it to the final. My name’s out there. My reputation’s sky rocketing. After this, nobody can stop my career. Even if Kirizume wants to, he’s got no way to hold me down.”

Suddenly, a cheerful voice cuts through the gym door, muffled but familiar.

“Excuse meee! Anyone home?”

It’s Aki Fujimori.

The three men exchange glances, and the conversation dissolves instantly, each silently agreeing that her ears won’t hear any of this. Nakahara rises from his desk with a sharp wave of his hand.

“Enough talk. Back to training.”

Hiroshi stands first, snatching his towel and flicking it at Ryoma’s leg. “Come on. Let’s sweat it out. Plenty of time before the final, so I’ll make it hell for you.”

Ryoma smirks, swatting the towel back at him. “Like you ever go easy on me anyway.”

“Exactly,” Hiroshi grins, jerking his head toward the door.

They step out of the office together. At the front, Aki waves brightly from the doorway, but Ryoma’s eyes catch on Reika, already chatting casually with Kenta and Satoru. She laughs easily, her voice light, as if she has always belonged there.

Ryoma ignores the scene, following Hiroshi to the training floor, where he begins his warm-up with the rope, shoulders rolling loose.

***

The gym feels more alive than usual. Maybe it’s Reika, laughing at Satoru’s goofy imitations, her voice carrying across the space. Or maybe it’s Nakahara himself, standing taller, shoulders a little straighter, his presence more confident now that a journalist is in the room watching.

Either way, the air is lighter when Aki grins and tosses out her tease.

“So, when are you going to put in a challenge for Renji Kuroiwa?”

Nakahara barks a laugh, sharp but genuine, shaking his head. “What, you want me to commit suicide? No chance. Don’t joke about that.”

But Aki’s smile fades, her tone shifting. “I just came from Asakusa Gym. Coach Maruyama’s still being hounded by reporters. Everyone pressing him about bribing the ref.”

Nakahara’s expression tightens, the humor draining away. “He actually came to me yesterday. Got down on the floor, forehead to the mat, begging forgiveness. Said he never paid anyone off.”

Aki blinks, eyebrows rising. “Really…?”

Nakahara sighs, gaze distant. “I told him he didn’t need to. We both know who was behind it.”

“Yeah…” Aki murmurs, her voice flattening. Then she hesitates, almost reluctant. “Ah, about Noguchi. Maruyama said they’ve kicked him out of the gym.”

“Is that so…” Nakahara shakes his head, regret slipping through the roughness of his tone. “A shame. He’s talented. But there’s no room for that kind of filth in boxing.”

Reika suddenly pipes up, voice bright. “Excuse me! Would it be okay if I filmed some video?”

“Video?” Nakahara squints.

“Promotional material, you know? Like a mini documentary.” She laughs awkwardly, but there’s excitement flickering behind her eyes.

He waves her off. “Go ahead.”

Reika beams, clutching her new camera like a treasure, and scurries off to set up, already adjusting lenses and angles.

As Nakahara turns his attention back to Aki, he notices her staring off, her face caught somewhere between curiosity and confusion.

He follows her line of sight, and then it clicks. She isn’t lost in thought. She’s surprised, her eyes locked on Aramaki, who has just stepped out of the locker room, hands in gloves, towel slung over his neck.

“It’s… Aramaki,” Aki mutters, almost to herself. “Nakahara-san… is he under your management now?”

“Nope.” Nakahara waves the thought away with casual dismissal. “I only allow him to train here. That’s it.”

“But why?” she presses, incredulous. “Isn’t he talented? He almost beat Ryoma, you know.”

“Don’t push it.” Nakahara’s tone sharpens, curt and final. “If you’re really a journalist, you should already know why I can’t sign him.”

Aki’s expression shifts, softening with sympathy. “I understand… but I still want him to succeed. I really do.”

Her voice trembles faintly, as if she’s weighing her words. Then she leans forward, her eyes steady on Nakahara.

“Then… maybe you can help him.”

“Help him how?” Nakahara asks.

“Find him another gym,” she says quickly. “Somewhere reputable, somewhere willing to actually sign him.”

Nakahara sighs. “I’ve tried. But no one accepts him. I feel like there’s something that makes them reluctant.”

“Could it be…” Aki swallows hard. “Kirizume’s influence?”

“Naaah…” Nakahara shakes his head. “They just don’t like me.”

The hum of the gym shifts when Aramaki steps to the heavy bag. The chatter fades a little, eyes drifting his way without meaning to.

Thud!

Thud, dug, bam… bug!!!

Each punch he throws thuds like a drumbeat, sharp and heavy, the bag swinging on its chain with a violence that seems too large for the small space.

Aki and Nakahara catch themselves watching. There’s no mistaking it, the fire in Aramaki hasn’t gone out. The sharpness, the weight, the hunger behind every strike, it’s all still there, alive and searing.

But so is the truth.

The deal he made with Kirizume has shackled him tighter than any rope. Kicked out of the gym that once believed in him. Blacklisted by the others who could’ve given him a new home.

All that talent, all that fury, now only slamming uselessly into a bag.

“Watching him spar with Ryoma every week…” Nakahara mutters, almost to himself “…knowing he might never step into a real fight. It hurts just to think about.”