VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Within seconds, sweat beads across Ryoma’s face, soaking through his shirt until it clings to him. His breathing stays thin, uneven and sharp. His eyes don’t focus on anything in the room, they’re fixed somewhere far behind the present, caught in whatever the dream dragged him back into.

He’s had plenty of nightmares like this: the crash that cost him his left leg, his first loss to Kazuya Tōjō, Noguchi’s cheap tricks and the bruises of loses he pretended not to feel.

They loop through his sleep like a punishment. And no matter how many times they return, he never gets used to them.

But the worst one always finds him, the memory of that gunshot in the bar, the two bullets tearing into his chest.

Even half a minute after waking, he’s still trapped inside it, breath locked somewhere between his ribs, no awareness of the two men staring at him from only a meter away.

“Hey, Ryoma…” Kenta says quietly. “You okay, man?”

But there’s still no reaction, not even a blink.

Kenta glances at Aramaki. They exchange the same confused flicker. Then Aramaki steps closer, slow, careful, and lays a hand on Ryoma’s shoulder.

The reaction is instant. Ryoma jerks back like he’s been burned, pushing himself away with a choked gasp.

For a split moment, he looks small, young, not a teenager, not even a child, but something closer to a toddler seeing a nightmare take shape in front of him.

He looks so fragile, exposed, and terrified.

And then, just as fast, it’s gone. He blinks hard and the present slams back into him. His eyes sharpen, the fear sealing itself behind a glare.

What replaces it isn’t anger, but the kind of cold hostility people wear when they’ve been witnessed at their weakest, a mask to hide his fear.

Aramaki raises a hand again, only meaning to check on him. “Hey… you good? You look terrified at something…”

Ryoma knocks the hand away before he can finish. He stands, abrupt and stiff, refusing to meet their eyes, refusing the quiet sympathy hanging in the air.

Without a word, Ryoma turns and heads for the door, shoulders still tight. Anything is better than letting them look at him after what he just showed.

“Hey, dude!” Kenta calls out. “Where are you going? You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m just thirsty,” Ryoma mutters. “Need to buy something to drink.”

“There’s still a whole box of bottled stuff right here,” Aramaki says, confused.

Ryoma doesn’t look back. He doesn’t look at them, doesn’t look at the crates of isotonic stacked against the wall, doesn’t look at anything that might make him stay. Yes, he’s thirsty. His mouth is dry as sand. But more than water, he needs distance, needs to be alone.

***

Half an hour later, the door slides open again.

Ryoma steps in quietly, half-empty isotonic bottle dangling from his hand. His face looks calmer, but only in the way someone looks after shoving everything down far enough that no one can reach it.

Kenta and Aramaki are still seated in front of the flat screen, the glow of the Class A tournament painting their faces. They glance back at him, and then exchange a quick silent agreement not to mention what happened earlier.

“Yo,” Kenta says casually. “Okabe’s up now. Come watch.”

Aramaki lifts a chip in salute. “Round three now, and dude’s getting mauled already.”

Ryoma doesn’t even look at the TV. “Nah. I’m good.” Short and clipped, before he drops onto his mattress instead, twisting the cap back onto his drink.

Before he lies down, his phone lights up, a message from Aki. He reads it, eyes narrowing a fraction, then speaks without looking up.

“Okabe won.”

Both boys blink.

“Huh?” Aramaki says. “You… predicting it?”

Ryoma shakes his head. “No. He already won. Fought ugly, but he won.”

Kenta frowns at the screen. On the TV, Okabe is still struggling, still eating shots, nowhere near turning the fight around.

“What are you talking about? It’s live,” he says.

“There should be a delay,” Ryoma mutters. Then there’s another buzz from his phone. “Ah. New one. Ryohei’s already walking to the ring. Crowd’s loud.”

Kenta and Aramaki stare at him, then at the TV, where Okabe is still getting beaten senseless.

“…What the hell,” Kenta whispers.

Aramaki looks back at Ryoma, then at the screen again, disbelief settling in like fog. The “live” match hasn’t even reached the part Ryoma’s talking about. And it won’t for another several minutes.

They keep watching anyway.

The result is already spoiled, the tension dead, but they stay in front of the flat screen out of loyalty, rooting for Okabe because that’s what gym mates do.

When the broadcast finally catches up and Okabe scrapes out the ugly win Ryoma mentioned, neither Kenta nor Aramaki reacts much. Just a faint whistle, a muttered “damn,” and a small nod. The surprise is gone, even if the performance is still shocking to see unfold.

Then it’s time for Ryohei’s entrance.

Aramaki leans forward. “Alright, Ryohei! LET’S GO!!!”

“Oi,” Ryoma says from his mattress, barely lifting his head. “Quiet down. He already wins in the third. And I’m trying to sleep here.”

Both boys freeze, and then exchange a helpless look.

“…Right,” Kenta mutters, voice dropping to a whisper. “Third round it is.”

Still, they cheer, just quieter this time, rooting for Ryohei with the excitement smothered by inevitability. And as the fight starts, their disbelief rises again anyway.

“Holy shit, he’s all over this guy,” Aramaki whispers, leaning on his elbows.

“He’s never looked this sharp…” Kenta mutters.

“He said he was nervous this morning,” Aramaki adds. “This doesn’t look nervous to me.”

Ryoma doesn’t react, still lying with his back to them, but they know he’s listening.

By the time the fight reaches the final minute of round three, and Ryohei knocks his opponent down just like Ryoma said, the room should feel anticlimactic, that the surprise is gone. But still, the performance is undeniable.

Kenta shakes his head, stunned. “I can’t believe our gym has been on a streak like this… Okabe, now Ryohei. A small gym like ours? This doesn’t make sense.”

Aramaki snorts under his breath. “Yeah, it’s great and all, but it feels like we’re riding a wave that’s about to dump us face-first.”

From the mattress, Ryoma finally speaks again. His voice is quiet, but sharp enough to cut through their whispering.

“Stop being so humble.”

Both men turn their heads slightly, still watching the screen, but now listening to him, waiting for the bitter part.

“You keep acting like we’re some nobody gym just because our history’s empty. That’s Nakahara’s problem too. Great trainer, but failure screwed his confidence. When you don’t believe in yourself, you make bad calls. Doubt ruins everything.”

Ryoma sits up slowly, and even without looking at them, he radiates a presence that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. That cold, commanding energy, his “mafia boss aura,” as Aramaki likes to call it, is back in full.

“And don’t bullshit yourselves. We’re not that bad. No one here is bad. Even Sera…”

He pauses, gritting out the next words like they physically pain him.

“…hate admitting this, but the guy’s boxing knowledge is insane.”

Kenta and Aramaki stare at the screen without blinking, but their attention is fully on him now.

“Hiroshi too, great with physical conditioning. Aramaki, you’re much better than you think. And Kenta…”

Ryoma stops there. His tone shifts. He turns his head for the first time, eyes narrowing with something more serious than usual.

“Especially you, Kenta.”

Kenta’s shoulders stiffen, already sensing the weight in his next words, the kind that might change the room’s air.

“You really need to stop selling yourself short,” Ryoma continues. “You’re the strongest in our gym. Compared to Liam Kuroda, I don’t see any difference except the rank gap.”

Aramaki’s eyes widen. “W, wait… what?”

Kenta doesn’t move. And Ryoma goes on, voice flat, blunt and unfiltered.

“You’re too soft. You care too much about everyone. But once you step into the ring, it’s kill or get killed. You need to throw that softness away. If you can’t do that much, then quit.”

Kenta finally turns his head toward him. And Ryoma looks right back, expression flat, but his gaze is intimidating.

“So the old man can spend more time on me.”

For a moment, Kenta wants to fire something back, anything to wipe that cocky tone off Ryoma’s face.

But nothing comes out. The words die in his throat. And in that heavy uncomfortable quiet, Kenta realizes it.

Maybe Ryoma’s right, that maybe he is really too soft.