VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

It’s almost midday, but the cold still lingers inside Nakahara Gym. Ryohei and Okabe are laughing near the corner, trading jokes with three of the amateur juniors. Their breath fogs the air each time they shout.

Across the room, Kenta is still hammering the sandbag, sweat flying off his arms, the sound of leather on canvas echoing through the gym in steady rhythm.

Ryoma is at the center ring, mid-conditioning. He’s working the mitts with Nakahara. Each punch lands clean, but he’s still adjusting to his new weight, 64 Kg, the number set for fight day.

But Nakahara’s focus keeps slipping. Between sets, he glances toward the door, then at the clock above the mirror.

The minute hand crawls past ten. But Aramaki still hasn’t shown up. He’s never late, not once. But today, the gym feels a little emptier without him.

For a moment, Nakahara stops calling out numbers. His gaze lingers on the clock again.

“Something wrong, Coach?” Ryoma asks.

“Nothing.” Nakahara waves him off, snapping back to the moment. “Let’s go. One-two. Again!”

Ryoma exhales, nods, throws the combination. But suddenly, a loud sneeze breaks through the steady rhythm of punches.

Everyone freezes. Nakahara and Ryoma both turn toward the entrance, brows furrowed.

Aramaki stands there, half-bent from the force of the sneeze, breath fogging in the cold air.

“S-sorry!”

He bows a few times, rubbing the back of his head. His face’s flushed, whether from embarrassment or fever, no one can tell.

But then, as if to make everyone knows his condition…

“Hh… hyahhchoo!”

Another sneeze bursts out, echoing across the gym.

A few of the juniors laugh quietly, but Nakahara doesn’t. His frown deepens as he watches Aramaki shuffle toward the bench.

Aramaki sets down his bag, shrugs off his jacket, and begins stretching as if nothing’s wrong. His movements are slower than usual, his shoulders trembling slightly.

Hiroshi walks over, towel draped around his neck.

“Hey… you look rough. Are you okay”

Aramaki waves him off with a weak grin. “I’m fine. Just caught a little cold, that’s all.”

Hiroshi glances toward the ring, where Nakahara is still standing with the mitts hanging limp at his sides. Their eyes meet for a moment, a silent exchange of worry.

Then Nakahara’s voice cuts through the gym. “If you’re not feeling well, go home. Don’t force it. You’ll only make it worse before fight day.”

Aramaki straightens, trying to sound firm. “I’m fine, Coach. I can work.”

Nakahara’s tone hardens. “It’s an order, Aramaki. Go home.”

He sets the mitts down on the ring post, then turns to Ryoma.

“Kid, take him back. Use my bike.”

Aramaki opens his mouth like he might protest, but stops when he meets Nakahara’s stare.

Then he nods, slow and reluctant.

“…All right.”

***

Ryoma doesn’t take Aramaki straight home. Instead, he steers the electric scooter toward Suidobashi, to Dr. Hayashi’s clinic, the nearest one from the gym. It’s technically an orthopedic clinic, but for a simple fever, it’ll do.

Aramaki, sitting behind him, protests weakly over the hum of the motor. But Ryoma says nothing, eyes on the road.

At the clinic, the doctor confirms it’s nothing serious, just a common winter fever. He gives Aramaki a small pack of cold medicine and tells him to rest for a few days.

When it’s time to pay, there Aramaki hesitates. His hand lingers in his pocket a little too long before he turns to Ryoma.

“Can I… borrow from you, just for now?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He pays. “It’s okay. It’s on me.”

They’re almost at the door when Ryoma pauses, a thought surfacing, before turning back to Aramaki.

“Sorry, but… back when I won MVP at the Rookie Tournament, I asked Coach to split some of the prize money with everyone. Don’t tell me…”

“No, no,” Aramaki cuts in quickly. “He did. He gave it to me.”

“And you’re completely out of money already?”

“I still have some saved,” Aramaki says quietly. “I gave it all to Kaori.”

Ryoma’s vision grid flickers in his mind.

>

Ryoma narrows his eyes. He knows Aramaki’s only income comes from the small farm. The last harvest was more than five months ago. And now it’s winter.

He exhales through his nose and says nothing more.

They ride in silence for a while. But instead of heading toward Aramaki’s place, Ryoma turns down a different street, toward his own apartment.

“Come in for a second,” he says. “I need to grab something.”

Aramaki sits awkwardly in the small living room, coat still on, while Ryoma goes upstairs.

When he returns, he’s holding an envelope.

“Here.”

Aramaki stares at it. “What’s this for?”

“Don’t bother hiding it. I’m not stupid. Just hold onto it for now, and pay me back after you win.”

Aramaki hesitates, the muscles in his jaw tightening. His pride flickers, but the thought of Kaori and Nanako pulls harder.

Slowly, he reaches for the envelope.

“…Thank you.”

Ryoma waves it off like it’s nothing.

“Come on. I’ll take you home.”

Again, the scooter runs steady through the narrow alley, street wet by snow. The city is half-asleep, the air white with their breath.

After a while, Aramaki finally speaks up, voice carried by the cold wind.

“About this morning…”

Ryoma glances back briefly.

“I went to my brother’s place,” Aramaki says. “Thought I could borrow a little. But he didn’t even speak to me. Just got in his car and left. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Ryoma doesn’t say anything, only keeps his eyes on the road.

He already knows more than Aramaki realizes. From the life before regression, from what happened between Aramaki and Kaori, how they were cut off from their rich families before even graduating high school.

He knows. But for now, he doesn’t say it. He just lets Aramaki talk.

“It’s embarrassing,” Aramaki continues quietly. “Having someone else, someone who’s not even family… help me like this.”

Ryoma finally replies, his tone even but warm.

“Then stop thinking of us as strangers. Me, everyone at the gym. We’re a small team, sure. No name, no sponsors. But we look out for each other. That’s what family does.”

Aramaki doesn’t answer right away. But the next time Ryoma glances back, he sees the faintest nod.

***

Moments later, the scooter finally slows to a stop in front of Aramaki’s house. Kaori appears at the doorway, worry already written across her face.

“Aramaki… You’re home early? Did something happen?”

Aramaki shakes his head quickly.

“No, nothing. It’s just…”

Ryoma cuts in before he can say more. “He’s got a fever. Coach told him to rest. So, Kaori! Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

Kaori glances between them, her eyes soft with gratitude.

“Thank you, Ryoma-kun.”

Ryoma nods once. “I’ve still got training to finish. Take care.”

He rides off, the sound fading into the distance.

Aramaki stands by the roadside long after he’s gone. The cold presses against him, but his thoughts burn hotter than the fever in his blood.

It’s not that he wants to keep distance from Ryoma. But somewhere inside, that old pride still stirs.

It’s the pride of a man who once lived in comfort, but now survives on scraps and borrowed strength.

He doesn’t resent the help. He’s grateful for it. But as a man, he can’t stand the thought of always needing someone else to pull him back up.

He looks down at his hands, and then toward the hut’s window. And beneath the fever, something hotter begins to rise.

It’s a quiet burning resolve. Whatever it takes, he’ll win. He’ll make it to the top.

He has to.