VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

When Dr. Matthew Hale reaches the treatment room, he slows before the door. Voices drift through, more than he expected, but they’re not loud.

The tone is careful, contained. He hears Japanese, flowing and quick, then pauses, listening just long enough to recognize reassurance rather than urgency.

He steps inside, and sees Ryoma sitting upright on the bed, phone pressed to his ear, speaking softly in Japanese.

His bandaged hands make the grip awkward, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. His expression is calm, almost gentle.

“…I know, Mom,” Ryoma says. “I’m really fine. They wouldn’t let me talk if I wasn’t.”

Sera notices Hale first and leans toward him, lowering his voice.

“He’s talking to his mother.”

Ryoma nods as if responding to something emphatic on the other end. “No, I’m not hiding anything. I promise. I’m in the hospital, yes. But it’s just observation.” He turns, and pauses. “There’s a doctor here now.”

He glances up, catches Dr. Hale’s eye, and gives a small apologetic bow of his head before turning back to the phone.

“I’ll call you later, okay? Please don’t worry.”

He ends the call and sets the phone aside carefully.

“I’m sorry,” Ryoma says in English, a little embarrassed. “My mother… she has severe anxiety. If I don’t explain things properly, she won’t sleep.”

Hale smiles politely. “No need to apologize.”

But he notes it anyway. Parental anxiety disorders aren’t diagnoses. They aren’t causes. But they are environments. And Ryoma could just have something similar.

He watches Ryoma’s face as he speaks; looking open, unguarded, concerned more with calming someone else than himself. It’s more like a caretaker’s reflex.

Hale steps forward. “I hope I’m not interrupting too much. I’m Dr. Hale. I’ve been overseeing your care.”

Ryoma nods. “Thank you for looking after me.”

Dr. Hale notes it again. Ryoma’s still polite, measured, no agitation, no defensiveness.

Around the room, the others shift subtly. Nakahara and Kenta stand near the wall, silent, eyes attentive but clearly reliant on Sera to follow along.

Aramaki sits back in a chair, posture relaxed but alert. Hiroshi watches quietly, understanding enough to follow but not enough to join in.

Aqualis representatives have also been here prior to Dr. Hale’s arrival. Jun Kagawa stands near the window, Dr. Mizuno beside him, composed, letting the doctor in charged speak.

Hale begins with routine questions; orientation, symptoms, discomfort, asking casually, listening not just to the answers but to the rhythm of Ryoma’s speech.

And so far, there’s no slurring in him, no gaps, no frustration at what he doesn’t remember.

“And the last thing you recall from the fight?” Hale asks.

Ryoma’s brow furrows slightly. “A counter I shouldn’t have thrown. After that… nothing.”

Hale nods. But before he can talk further, Dr. Mizuno steps forward.

“If I may,” he says. “I’m Dr. Mizuno. I handle Mr. Takeda’s nutrition and conditioning.”

Hale inclines his head. “You weren’t present last night.”

“No,” Mizuno says. “I arrived this morning.”

“Physically, he’s stable,” Hale says. “No signs of intracranial bleeding. Neurological responses are clean. We’ll keep monitoring, but nothing’s urgent.” He pauses. “Still… he lost consciousness in a contact sport. Boxing. I watched the replay. And it was a brutal fight.””

Mizuno hesitates. “Doctor… may I add some context?”

Hale gestures for him to continue.

“We had to adjust the weight cut before the fight,” Mizuno says carefully. “To meet the weight limit. Ideally, we planned for about one kilogram in the final three days. But travel disrupted things. He had to cut one-point-four in the last three.”

Hale’s pen pauses mid-note. “That’s significant,” he says.

“Yes,” Mizuno agrees. “More than we wanted.”

Hale nods slowly. He looks back at Ryoma, then down at the chart, adding a brief notation; dehydration, late-stage cut.

That reframes things neatly. Loss of consciousness. Memory gap. A body compensating where the mind faltered.

Finally, the tension he hadn’t admitted to himself eases, just slightly.

“Thank you,” Hale says. “That explains a great deal.”

Ryoma watches them. “So… I’m okay?”

“You are,” Hale says. “And recovering well.”

Relief flickers, not dramatic, but real.

Hale closes the chart and offers a final smile. “We’ll keep you a little longer, just to be safe. But if things continue like this, you’ll be discharged soon.”

As he turns to leave, Hale glances once more at Ryoma, who’s still looking calm, attentive, worried more about his mother than himself.

It looks so much different from the manic face he saw on the screen earlier.

Just as Dr. Hale reaches for the door, Nakahara murmurs something in Japanese to Sera.

Sera nods, then calls out, “Doctor… one more thing.”

Hale stops. “Yes?”

“The hands,” Sera says. “You didn’t mention the fractures.”

Hale exhales. “You’re right. I should have. Especially before he uses them.” He steps back in. “Hairline fractures on both knuckles. Overuse and impact.”

He pauses for a moment, considering. And then, he shares a bit about McConnel’s condition, just to gauge Ryoma’s reaction.

“I saw what they did to your opponent.” He’s here, currently getting intensive treatment.”

Concern flickers across Ryoma’s face. And Dr. Hale notes it immediately.

Ryoma lifts his eyes. “McConnell… is he…”

“He’s stable,” Hale says immediately. “His life isn’t in danger.”

Ryoma’s shoulders ease, just slightly.

“The ribs are severe,” Hale continues, coldly. “Multiple fractures. But the career issue is his jaw. It shattered. He’ll need four platinum plates. After that, it’s unlikely he’ll box again.”

Ryoma swallows, and then looks back down at his hands. He’s experienced career ending accident back in his previous life, the hit by the truck that took his leg.

He knows how it feels. And now his own fists took McConnel’s career from him. He can’t remember throwing the punches, but the wrongness sits heavy anyway.

“About your hands,” Hale says, “they stay wrapped for at least three weeks. No loading them. At all. We’ll re-image before you fly.”

“And hospital?” Sera asks.

“Overnight observation,” Hale says. “If nothing changes, he doesn’t need to stay longer. You can return to Tokyo once cleared.”

Sera nods once. “Thank you.”

Hale gives a brief apologetic look. “I should’ve led with that.”

***

The next day…

The discharge papers already sit folded on the tray table. Morning light slips in through the narrow window, flattening the room into something temporary.

Ryoma tightens the strap of his wrist brace, then looks up. “I want to see him. Jade McConnell.”

“You shouldn’t,” Nakahara answers, measured.

“Why?” Ryoma asks. “Am I breaking any rule for doing this?”

Sera doesn’t soften it. “It’s not about rules. It’s about dignity.” He keeps his eyes on Ryoma. “A man who lost doesn’t need to see the one who beat him.”

“I know,” Ryoma says. “But I still want to.”

They don’t argue further. Ryoma leaves anyway, with only Aramaki following him behind.

The corridor toward intensive care is quieter, narrower. People sit along the walls, hands folded, eyes fixed ahead.

As Ryoma steps toward the door, Mark Holloway notices him. He rises from a chair and moves into his path.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice flat, not welcoming.

Ryoma stops. “I wanted to see him.”

Mark’s expression hardens. “Why?”

Ryoma hesitates, then answers honestly. “To apologize.”

That lands wrong. Mark’s jaw tightens, and the space between them feels suddenly smaller.

“You don’t get to do that,” Mark says. “Not here.”

“I’m not asking to stay,” Ryoma says. “Just to say it.”

“No,” Mark replies. “His family’s inside. Your face doesn’t help.” His tone drops further. “You already took enough.”

Ryoma lowers his eyes. His hands remain still at his sides. “But I…”

Mark studies him for a long moment. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it settles into something more controlled.

“I understand,” Mark says at last. “And I appreciate it. I’ll tell him later. That’s as far as this goes.”

Ryoma nods. “Thank you.”

Nothing feels resolved. There’s nothing left for him to do now except carry it, without relief, for the rest of his life.

The corridor remains unchanged, holding its quiet. And Ryoma walks back the way he came, carrying what he isn’t allowed to set down.