VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The warmth of their laughter swells around him, but it only makes the shadow in Ryoma’s chest heavier. At last, he bows to them, forcing a smile.

“Thank you, everyone… but I should go. I need a shower. This sweat stinks worse than Shinzo-san’s catch.”

The room bursts into laughter again, Shinzo shouting in mock outrage. Shimizu claps Ryoma on the back, hard enough to rattle his ribs.

“Fine, fine. But don’t you dare lose. We’ve already staked our pride on you, boy.”

Ryoma nods once, slipping out into the dusk. The door shuts behind him, muffling the laughter.

He said he needed a shower. But at home, he doesn’t shower immediately. He strips the soaked hoodie from his shoulders and stares at the mirror.

The reflection is pitiful. It’s a body worn thin by hunger. But worse than the sight of himself is what it drags back; how he let Serrano almost hit his mother and plant the fear in her.

His memory traps it in perfect clarity, every angle, every flicker. His eyes never forget, and now, that image transforms, from his mother’s fear into his fire, her sorrow into his fury.

Ryoma’s fists tighten, veins bulging. There are insults he can endure, sacrifices he can accept, pain he can carry.

But this, a fear carved into his mother’s face, is something he will never forgive.

***

Outside, the town carries on as if nothing has happened, shops glowing under the dusk, voices spilling from narrow streets. But back at the barbershop, Fumiko is still at work, hiding her own shadows behind the rhythm of scissors and smiles.

The second customer runs his hand through his freshly trimmed hair, admiring the mirror with a grin.

“Perfect. Just like always.”

Fumiko bows low, her smile warm, practiced. “I’m glad it suits you. Please come again.”

She walks him to the door, her laughter light, almost musical, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. But the moment the door closes, Fumiko’s mask slides.

She drifts back to her chair and lowers herself slowly, one hand pressing against her brow. The scissors no longer tremble, but her fingers do.

The fear lingers. Serrano’s voice, his shadow over her son, Ryoma’s body braced to take the blow meant for her.

“Behold!”

She remembers it with painful clarity, a foreigner by the roadside, savoring the moment right after driving his fist into her son’s stomach during his cutting weight regime.

“The prodigy kneels before me. Kissing my shoes, just as I promised you he would.”

Then the moment Serrano swung his hand at her.

Fumiko’s eyes shut tight, but shutting them only sharpens the memory. It is the curse of her vision, the same keen sight she unknowingly passed to her son.

The images have burnt into her mind in perfect detail. Every crease of Serrano’s hand, every line of her son’s jaw, every flicker of fear in her own reflection, all of it remains, vivid as though it still unfolds before her.

A gift, you might call it. But to her, it is something else entirely. She is not Ryoma. She does not chase thrill or fight for glory. She has no iron nerves to armor her heart. For all her outward strength, inside she is soft, and fragile.

Her lips move in a whisper, barely a breath. “Please… not again. Not like then. Not like when they brought him back to me from the sea…”

Now the image of her husband flashes, soft, pale, and broken after the Tohoku tsunami, and she clamps her hand harder against her forehead, as if she could squeeze it away.

But suddenly, the bell above the door jingles again.

“Hi, are you still open? I’d like to get a haircut.”

Fumiko blinks, straightens, and in an instant her smile returns. This time, a young woman steps in, brushing loose strands of hair from her shoulders.

“Welcome,” Fumiko says, her voice steady now. “What style would you like today?”

The girl tilts her head thoughtfully. “Something shorter, but still soft… maybe layers, so it doesn’t sit so heavy?”

Fumiko nods quickly, seizing the relief of routine. “Of course. A layered cut will frame your face nicely. Please, have a seat.”

They chat lightly as Fumiko combs the girl’s hair. The customer laughs, brushing a strand from her cheek.

“Summer’s the worst for my hair. It frizzes the moment I step outside.”

Fumiko smiles gently, her keen eyes already tracing the strands. She sees how the curls bend just above the ears, how the ends split in uneven places, how the girl’s skin gleams faintly from the neon light.

Her gaze always captures too much, every flaw, every detail, sharper than most would ever notice.

“At least you have volume,” she says softly, comb gliding through the curls. “Women with straight hair envy that, you know.”

“Envy?” the customer chuckles. “I’d trade for straight hair in a second. At least you don’t have to fight with it every morning.”

Fumiko tilts her head, amused. “And yet the straight-haired ones complain they look too plain. No one’s ever satisfied with what they’re given.”

The woman sighs dramatically. “True enough. Guess we just like to suffer together.”

Their voices weave casual, ordinary threads, the kind of everyday talk that softens the weight of living, even as Fumiko’s sharp eyes continue tracing the smallest imperfections.

But when she lifts the scissors, her hand betrays her. The tremor runs through her fingers again, rattling against the comb. Her chest tightens. She cannot keep it steady.

Panic sparks. She sets the tools down hurriedly, murmuring an apology, and turns away. Her hands dive into the small handbag tucked beneath the counter.

From within, she draws a familiar vial, the pills she has hidden carefully, always out of Ryoma’s sight. Two tablets roll into her palm. She swallows them dry, pressing her hand to her lips.

It’s a secret, one more weight she bears alone. While her son fights his own battles as a boxer in the ring, blind to hers, Fumiko has her own struggle.

“Are you… okay?” the young customer asks hesitantly, tilting her head.

Fumiko forces a small smile, one hand lingering at her temple. “Just a moment. I’ll be fine.”

She stays seated, letting her breath settle as the medicine begins its slow work. The sharp edges inside her chest dull little by little, like storm waves calming against the shore.

The pounding in her head softens, and the blur in her vision clears. She clings to these small changes, fragile but enough to push her forward.

When she rises again, she smooths her apron and picks up the scissors, voice returning to its usual gentle tone.

“Now then, let’s finish this.”

The blades move, steady once more. By the time she sets them down, the cut is clean, the style neat. And the customer beams, touching her hair with delight.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Fumiko bows, walking her to the door, a cheerful smile stitched across her face. Seeing a customer happy always eases her burden, if only for a heartbeat.

But once the door closes, the quiet returns, and she knows the truth. The memory lingers. The fear is still there. And she is still the same fragile single mother.

When the pills wear off, Fumiko knows that all the pressure, the headache, and the unbearable anxiety will come back to her.