VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Logan studies her across the table, saying nothing. For a moment his eyes drop to the open page again, the photo of Ryoma frozen mid-swing, sweat suspended in the air like glass.

He doesn’t move, but Reika can see something shift in him, the faintest flicker of thought, the calculated gaze in his eyes.

But then, as if deciding it isn’t worth a reply, Logan exhales through his nose, pushes his chair back, and stands. He reaches for his jacket, and snatches the car key from the counter.

“I’m going to work,” he says.

Reika blinks, the air leaving her chest.

“So that’s it?” she mutters. “You’re just walking away?”

But he doesn’t answer.

“Are you afraid?” Reika presses.

That one finally makes him stop. Logan turns halfway, one hand still on the car key. His face stays composed, but his eyes sharpen slightly, as though reassessing her.

“A deal, huh?” he says. “Fine. But if he loses even once within a year, just one fight, you go to college. In the States. No excuses.”

Reika hesitates. Her throat tightens, but she lifts her chin, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Deal,” she says.

There’s a small pause between them. Then Logan nods once, almost satisfied.

“Then let’s see what you can do,” he says quietly.

He walks toward the door, shoes clicking against the tile, and then the door shutting with a clean final sound.

The mother only shakes her head with a small smile, never looking up from her work in the kitchen.

Reika stays where she is, pulse still racing, the faint smell of his coffee and cologne lingering like a challenge.

***

In just three days, Reika’s trending post finds its way to Nakahara Gym. Unfortunately, it doesn’t go quite as she imagined.

At first, the clip runs mute on Satoru’s phone, its faint light cutting through the still air. Sweat still clings to the boys’ necks as he swallows hard.

And then…

“Senpai!” he calls, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Come here a sec. Look at this.”

The others pause mid-training, curiosity tugging harder than fatigue. Ryohei and Okabe wander over, towels slung around their shoulders, peering down at the phone.

The silence deepens as the short video plays again. They all recognize the place instantly: their floor, their sagging ropes, the worn sandbags.

In the frame, Ryohei and Ryoma, sparring, inside that shrunken ring.

“Don’t tell me,” Okabe growls. “That girl’s been playing with us from the start.”

Ryohei scowls beside him. “This isn’t something we show the public. It’s our training, our system, and she just throws it online?”

Okabe snorts. “You think it’s a coincidence? Her dad’s loaded, right? Probably sponsoring the next guy we’re fighting. She must be working with them. And that girl showed our training ground to the enemy.”

The room buzzes with low murmurs, frustration spreading like static. Finally, Okabe slams his towel down and storms toward the office.

“We’re talking to the coach.”

Meanwhile, Kenta and Aramaki pause by the sandbags, trading quick glances. Curiosity stirs, but they pretend to stay focused, hands still resting on the worn leather.

Inside the managerial office, Coach Nakahara sits at his desk, Hiroshi’s phone in his hand, already staring at the same video. The glow from the screen lights the sharp lines of his face.

Okabe and Ryohei burst in, both visibly angry, Satoru still following from behind.

“She tricked us, Coach,” Okabe says, pointing at the screen. “She said it was just for sponsors, to show her father privately. Now it’s all over social media. Everyone’s seeing how we train.”

Ryohei crosses his arms. “You think people won’t study this? They’ll start learning Ryoma’s patterns, his rhythm. We’re handing them free intel.”

Hiroshi quiet until now, speaks up from the corner. “I don’t think she did it for that.”

Okabe turns sharply. “Then what? Haven’t you seen the post yourself?”

Hiroshi shakes his head. “I have, but I don’t think she’s helping the enemy. She doesn’t even understand what she’s doing. She’s just too ignorant.”

The silence that follows feels heavy. But Okabe still looks clearly unsatisfied.

“Ignorant or not, it’s still wrong. She shouldn’t post anything without our permission. Not about us. Not about Ryoma.”

He looks to Nakahara again, frustration simmering.

“You remember what she said, right? This was supposed to be a sponsor reel. Nothing more. And now people are dissecting every frame.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer immediately. He keeps watching the video, the same thirty seconds of calm and controlled movement, before finally closing the screen.

This whole thing is clearly detrimental to the gym. The video may look harmless to outsiders, but to them, it means something else. A window into their training, into Ryoma’s rhythm and habits, it’s the kind of intel a future opponent could use.

Even so, Nakahara can’t dismiss what Hiroshi just said. And despite the trouble, he still has high hopes for Reika, if not as an ally, then at least as a potential link to sponsors the gym desperately needs.

He can’t afford to handle this emotionally. This is business, and he has to treat it as such, calmly, professionally, without letting pride or anger cloud his judgment.

Leaning back in his chair, he exhales slowly. “Alright. That’s enough for now. Go back to your training. Leave this matter to me.”

The room stays tense. Okabe and Ryohei exchanges glances, clearly dissatisfied, but they turn toward the door.

But before they can step out, Nakahara’s voice stops them.

“And one more thing,” he says firmly. “If she ever comes here, you don’t bring this up. Not a word.”

Okabe frowns, turning back. “But Coach…”

“I said I’ll deal with it,” Nakahara cuts in, tone sharp. “You focus on your work. Now go.”

Okabe’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing more. They finally leave in silence, the soft click of the door the only sound that follows.

“What about Ryoma?” Hiroshi asks. “After all the things he’s been through lately, and knowing his temperament, you can guess how he’ll take this. If he finds out, he’s going to be furious.”

Nakahara falls silent, weighing the thought. He was planning to call Reika himself, but now, he realizes he’ll need to talk to Ryoma first.

“Has his mother been discharged from the hospital?” he asks at last.

“They left two days ago,” Hiroshi replies.

“Good. Let’s pay him a visit… and bring his tournament prize while we’re at it.”

Hiroshi collects the trophy and glass plaque from the display shelf, and waits by the door.

Meanwhile, Nakahara pulls the envelope from the safe. It’s thick, five million yen, Ryoma’s prize money.

And for a long moment, he just stares at it. The paper feels heavier than it should, the kind of weight that settles in the chest more than in the hand.

It’s been years since he’s held that much in one go. Years of scraping by, of patching old mitts and chasing sponsors that never called back.

And now, somewhere between pride and temptation, between loyalty and greed, the line begins to blur.

For a second, he isn’t thinking about training, or even Ryoma. He’s thinking about what this means.

This is the gym’s first real win, the kind that draws attention that might finally put Nakahara Boxing Gym on the map.