VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

And it isn’t just the eyes. It’s the faint sweetness of her perfume, the glisten of sweat along her collarbone, the heat rolling off her skin.

This is the very girl he’s been dodging all this time. But now his thoughts scatter, stripped away. Only his instinct left, raw, unguarded, and undeniably male.

They freeze in place. Two figures locked in silence, standing just close enough for everyone else in the gym to notice.

And gyms, as it turns out, are not great places for awkwardness, because awkwardness in a gym doesn’t just exist, but echoes.

Across the mats, Ryohei nudges his partner. “Hey, Okabe… look at that.” His voice is restrained, but the disbelief in it is not.

Okabe frowns, face wrinkling like a paper bag. “That kid…”

He doesn’t even finish, because really, what words can capture this?

But fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, someone else breaks the deadlock.

“Hey, you guys!”

It’s Aki. She’s just arrived, alone, cheerful as ever.

Ryoma’s breath hitches. Instantly, he does what every man does when caught in suspicious proximity: he panics.

He takes one big step back, clears his throat like it’s clogged with gravel, and blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“Told you to be careful.”

And then, without waiting for a reply, he turns on his heel and walks away as if the floor itself has betrayed him.

Aki approaches Reika with steps deliberately slow. Her gaze flicks once to Ryoma’s retreating back, then back to Reika, then to the curious contraption strapped to her body.

“What’s this?”

Reika startles, then forces a smile. “Ah… this is…”

Then she throws a half-hearted punch, cords snapping awkwardly against her arms.

“What was the name again? Resistance band suit. Supposed to make your punches stronger.”

Aki squints. “Yeah, I know what it’s for. But what are you doing?”

“Just… training,” Reika says, her laugh a nervous little heehee. “Who knows? Maybe I have talent as a female boxer.”

Aki takes a step back, tilts her head, and gives Reika a slow once-over. Her jeans, boots, a blouse more suited for a café than a ring.

“Training,” Aki repeats flatly. “In that outfit?”

It’s only when Reika glances at the wall mirror that she realizes how absurd she looks. A woman dressed for a party, tangled in resistance bands like a malfunctioning puppet. The image is so ridiculous that words abandon her completely.

She fiddles with the straps, cheeks hot. “Um… Aki, can you help me take it off?”

Aki steps forward, hands working at the buckles, but her mouth lowers to Reika’s ear. Her voice is soft, but the edge in it is unmistakable.

“Don’t tell me you just did what I think you did.”

For once, Reika stops blushing. The awkward girl is gone. In her place is the Reika everyone knows, bold, blunt, and unapologetic.

“If you already know,” she murmurs, “then don’t bother asking. Just get this thing off my waist.”

***

Across the mat, Ryoma emerges from the locker room, hair damp, face still wet from a quick splash of water. But no matter how he wipes at his skin with the towel, the awkwardness clings like sweat he can’t scrub off.

Ryohei notices first. He cups his hands around his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle. Okabe joins in, the kind of low, mischievous whistle that always spells trouble.

“Well, well…” Ryohei drawls, eyebrows bouncing. “Somebody’s getting popular.”

“Yeah,” Okabe grins, leaning back on the ropes. “Didn’t think you had it in you, kid.”

Ryoma scowls, forcing himself to look composed as he reaches for the tape and gloves on the bench. “Shut up,” he mutters, focusing on winding the tape around his wrists, as if sheer concentration will make them stop.

But senpai never stop.

Ryohei crouches beside him, tone light but loaded. “So? Gonna take her to the movies next? Treat her to popcorn?”

Okabe leans in from the other side, smirking. “Forget popcorn. Straight to the hotel, eh?”

Ryoma chokes on nothing. “What?! No!” His ears burn, though he keeps his eyes fixed on the tape.

“Oh, come on,” Ryohei laughs, giving him a light slap on the shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve never…”

“Never what?” Ryoma snaps, but his voice comes out too quick, too defensive.

Okabe grins wider, sensing blood. “Never had any… experience?”

Ryoma fumbles the roll of tape, nearly dropping it. “Shut up, please!”

The two older fighters share a look, then burst out laughing. Ryohei lowers his voice into mock seriousness, the way older brothers do when pretending to give sage advice.

“Alright, alright. Listen carefully, rookie. If you ever do… you know… just don’t forget to carry safety. Always. Trust me on this one.”

Ryoma’s face is crimson now. “I said shut up!”

He yanks on his glove straps with unnecessary force, desperate to bury himself in training. But Okabe and Ryohei just keep grinning, satisfied at how easily they’ve cracked him.

Meanwhile, Reika notices the antics across the mat. She can’t quite hear what Ryohei and Okabe are saying, their voices half-drowned by the thuds of gloves and shuffling feet, but she doesn’t need to.

Their grins, the way they lean in toward Ryoma, the whistles, their twisted faces, everything gives it away. They’re teasing him, mercilessly, about what just happened.

And for the first time, she sees it: Ryoma’s composure cracking, his cheeks flushed a deep red.

Reika’s lips curl, barely containing a laugh. She drinks in the sight, treasuring it like a rare gem, because Ryoma, the boy who usually keeps everyone at arm’s length, looks utterly human right now.

Then, salvation arrives.

“Hey, Ryoma.”

Aramaki’s voice cuts across the room like a bell. He steps forward, gloves already on, chin lifted in challenge.

“Wanna have a spar?”

The teasing halts, if only for a beat. Ryoma seizes the chance, latching onto it like a lifeline. He stands quickly, tugging at his glove straps.

“Oh, sure! Let’s spar,” he says, a little too fast.

And just like that, the awkwardness is shoved aside, replaced by something Ryoma knows how to handle.

The mood tilts in an instant. Everyone in the gym knows, when Aramaki calls out Ryoma, it’s never just sparring. It’s a storm sharpening at the horizon.

Ryohei and Okabe freeze mid-laugh, the banter drying in their throats. They trade a glance, a silent agreement, like veterans who’ve seen this before. Their grins vanish, replaced by a stillness that feels heavier than silence.

Even Kenta, the human metronome pounding away at the heavy bag, loses his rhythm. The chain rattles as the bag swings aimlessly, forgotten. He stares toward the ring, expression tight, jaw set.

The gym seems to shrink, walls pressing in as the air thickens with anticipation. Every sound, gloves squeaking, ropes creaking, breath drawing, now feels sharper and amplified.

Kenta swipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, eyes scanning the room. No Nakahara. No Hiroshi. Their absence gnaws at him like a loose tooth.

“Hey,” he calls, voice edged with unease. “You gonna be alright?”

Ryoma doesn’t so much as blink. He tightens the strap of his headgear with steady hands, his tone calm, almost bored.

“Relax. It’s just a spar.”

But no one in the gym buys it.

Because a Ryoma–Aramaki spar is never just a spar.