VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara tucks the envelope inside his jacket, but the pressure doesn’t leave his chest. When they step out of the office, the noise in the gym softens. Every pair of eyes follows them as they cross the floor.

Ryohei lets out a low whistle. “Coach, first big win in years, huh? You sure that envelope’s not heavy with pride too?”

Okabe and Kenta laugh under their breath. Aramaki and Satoru, two gym members who haven’t actually secured any contract with this gym, can just glance at each other, hiding their pride.

Nakahara gives them all a flat look, the corner of his mouth twitching somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

“Get back to work.” He shoots back at them. “Or are you planning to let the juniors outclass you?”

Hiroshi calls out, “Kenta, I’m leaving them with you.”

Kenta raises a hand. “Just don’t take all day.”

The gym doors groan as Hiroshi steps into the cool autumn air. The early afternoon light is bright but gentle, stretching pale shadows across the pavement. The electric scouter waits by the curb, dusted with a few fallen ginkgo leaves.

“Let’s go,” the coach says, pulling his jacket tighter.

Hiroshi climbs on, and the motor buzzes softly as they start down the narrow street.

The ride is short, barely five minutes. When they reach Takeda’s Barbershop, the shutters are drawn halfway down. A stray leaf flutters past the shop window.

Nakahara eases the scouter to a stop. “So, his mom’s still not healthy enough to work yet.”

“She still needs rest,” Hiroshi says.

Nakahara exhales through his nose. “Hope she gets better soon. Ryoma’s been out too long already.”

He nudges the scouter forward again, turning toward the narrow lane that leads to Ryoma’s apartment.

Old vending machines line the street, their hum blending with the warm scent of grilled chestnuts and soba wafting through the air.

***

Arriving at Ryoma’s apartment, they park the scouter by the curb and climb the narrow metal stairs. The railing is cool and a little sticky with rust. The sound of their steps echoes through the cramped walkway lined with potted plants and laundry racks.

Nakahara stops before a pale blue door and presses the bell. After a moment, soft footsteps approach from inside, and then the lock clicks.

And soon, the narrow hallway smells faintly of miso and antiseptic when Ryoma opens the door.

“Coach?” his brows lift slightly. “Didn’t expect you to come.”

“Didn’t plan to announce it,” Nakahara says, a hint of a smile under his mustache. “Mind if we come in?”

Ryoma steps aside, and they remove their shoes before entering.

The small apartment feels dim and warm. In the living room, Fumiko sits on the sofa, a bowl of porridge half-finished on the table beside a small row of medicine bottles.

Her face is pale but gentle when she looks up. “Oh my… Coach Nakahara, and Hiroshi. What a surprise.”

“Fumiko,” Nakahara greets, bowing slightly. “How are you feeling today?”

“Still breathing,” she answers with a small laugh. “Which means I can’t complain.”

Hiroshi grins. “You look much better than the last time we saw you.”

“Don’t flatter me, dear. I know how I look.”

They all chuckle, warmly, almost like family. And for a moment, the tension that’s followed them from the gym lifts.

Nakahara clears his throat, his voice brightening. “Actually, we came for something else.”

He pulls the envelope from his jacket, eyes glinting with pride. “Our champion here’s got something to celebrate.”

Ryoma blinks, a little wary. “Coach…”

“Don’t play modest,” Nakahara’s voice carries a rare note of excitement. “You were named Most Valuable Fighter at the rookie tournament. First one from our gym.”

Hiroshi opens the case he’s been carrying and sets the glass plaque and the championship trophy on the low table. Light catches on the polished surface, throwing soft glimmers across the wall.

Fumiko’s eyes widen. “Oh, Ryoma…” Her hands tremble slightly as she reaches out. “You didn’t tell me.”

Ryoma only smiles faintly. “Didn’t want to brag.”

She looks at him with quiet pride, and for a moment, the color returns to her face.

Then Ryoma motions to the couch. “Please, sit down. I’ll get you some tea.”

But before he can move, Fumiko waves him off. “No need. I can handle it myself.”

“You should rest, Mom.”

Fumiko frowns, almost teasing. “Rest, rest… everyone tells me that. I’m not made of glass, you know.”

“Still,” he says, gently taking the spoon from her hand, “you shouldn’t push it.”

Nakahara and Hiroshi exchange awkward glances, unsure whether to speak or stay silent. The air grows still, heavy with an unspoken tension.

After a few moments, Fumiko sighs, setting the bowl aside. “Boys, you look like you have something to talk about. I’ll go lie down for a bit.”

Nakahara lets out a short awkward laugh. “You can still read a room better than any of us.”

Hiroshi chuckles too, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’re not very subtle, huh?”

Neither of them tries to deny it. And Fumiko just smiles knowingly before rising from the sofa, her steps slow but steady. She disappears into her room, the sound of the door closing almost too gentle.

Silence settles for a moment before Nakahara lets out a quiet breath. He then reaches into the envelope and takes out a thick bundle of bills.

“Five million yen,” he says, placing it on the table. “That’s the prize money.”

Ryoma blinks at it but doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, not even showing a hint of excitement either.

“As usual, the gym gets its cut,” Nakahara continues, “but since the management’s short-staffed, this time you’ll be taking seventy-five percent. Three million, seven hundred fifty thousand yen.”

Ryoma accepts the money, expression still flat. Then, without hesitation, he separates seven hundred fifty thousand and holds it back toward Nakahara.

“What’s this now?” Nakahara blinks. “Don’t tell me you’re betting with me again.”

“No,” Ryoma shakes his head, smiling. “Please share it with the others. I wouldn’t have won without everyone’s help. Don’t forget Aramaki, too. Even if he’s not under contract, he’s earned it.”

Nakahara stares at him for a moment, then smiles faintly, eyes softening.

“You’re a good kid. The gym’s lucky to have you.”

But his face shifts, hope and concern wrestling beneath the surface.

“So… when are you coming back to train? Our next opponent won’t wait forever.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. His gaze just drifts to the window, to the faint shimmer of light through the curtain. Then he spares a brief glance at his mother’s room, easy to notice despite its subtlety.

Nakahara watches him, and then sighs quietly. “I understand. Your mother comes first.” He tries to sound easy, but his voice falters. “Anyway… have you seen what’s been going on online?”

Ryoma turns back. “You mean the mess Serrano caused?”

“That too,” Nakahara says. “But also…”

“The recent video on X?” Ryoma finishes for him. “Reika’s post.”

Both Nakahara and Hiroshi stiffen.

“So you’ve seen it,” Hiroshi says carefully.

“Yes,” Ryoma answers, voice low.

Hiroshi rubs the back of his neck. “I believe she didn’t mean any harm. Just… careless. She didn’t realize it was one of our closed-door sessions.”

Ryoma nods slowly. “I know.”

His calmness unsettles them both. Nakahara glances at Hiroshi; neither speaks, waiting for Ryoma to say more.

But Ryoma’s gaze drifts toward the window again. His jaw tightens as he starts to speak, but then stops. His fingers tap once against his knee, as if searching for the right words.

When he finally looks back at them, his voice is low.

“Truth is… I’ve been thinking about stepping away.”

He swallows hard.

“Retiring from boxing.”