VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the time they return to the Hamptons Apartments, the sun is already up.

Ryoma stands by the window, hands resting lightly on the sill. Both are wrapped, hidden beneath thin medical bandages, but the dull pulse beneath them is constant, a low reminder that refuses to fade no matter how still he keeps them.

The room stays quiet longer than necessary, until Nakahara finally speaks.

“We’ll need to stay a bit longer. Two days. Until the final re-imaging on your knuckles. The doctor won’t clear you without it.”

Ryoma nods. He’d expected as much.

“And after that,” Nakahara continues, “we fly straight back to Narita.”

Sera, leaning against the counter, adds, “Medical’s covered. Hospital, scans. All of that. But accommodation isn’t.”

Ryoma exhales slowly. “So we’re paying out of pocket.”

“Yes,” Nakahara says. “For the extra stay.”

Ryoma looks back down at his hands. “That’s on me.”

Nakahara shakes his head once. “No. That’s on us.”

He reaches into his bag and takes out a thin folder, setting it on the table between them, deliberate in the way he does it.

“You need to know this now,” he says. “Not later.”

Ryoma doesn’t respond immediately.

“You’re not just the fighter anymore,” Nakahara continues. “You’ve got shares. That means transparency. Even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Aramaki straightens in his chair. “Shares?”

Kenta freezes mid-drink and coughs sharply, water splashing against the rim as he bends forward. “…What?”

Nakahara glances at them. “He didn’t tell you?”

Aramaki blinks. “Tell what?”

“Ryoma bought in last quarter,” Nakahara says. “Twenty-four percent. He’s partial owner now. Same category as me.”

Something shifts in the room, not the volume, but the tension.

Kenta looks at Ryoma. “You own the gym?”

“Part of it,” Ryoma says.

“It wasn’t announced,” Nakahara adds. “On purpose. But it changes things. Contracts. Liability. Decisions.” His gaze settles on Ryoma. “You don’t get to disappear into the ring anymore.”

No one answers. The silence holds, uneven but steady, until Ryoma steps forward and opens the folder.

Numbers fill the page, clean and structured. Base purse. Win bonus. Performance bonus. Corner allocations already marked. Gym expenses accounted for.

“About eighty thousand AUD,” Nakahara says. “Total.”

The figure registers without weight, abstract enough to feel distant.

“Bonuses are split,” Nakahara continues. “Corner takes theirs. The gym takes its cut. What’s left is yours. Some of it stays with the company, same as we agreed.”

Ryoma nods. He remembers that conversation clearly.

“And for now,” Nakahara says, “part of the gym’s share covers the extra days here.”

No one argues. No one seems surprised. Ryoma closes the folder and slides it back across the table.

“Do what you need to,” he says casually.

Nakahara studies him. “You’re okay with that?”

“I didn’t win this alone,” Ryoma says.

The response is restrained, the tension in the room easing without anyone quite acknowledging it.

They drift after that. Kenta turns on the television. Hiroshi starts checking flight logistics. Sera types messages Nakahara doesn’t ask about.

And Ryoma goes back to the window.

Somewhere in the city, the belt is probably being photographed, logged, processed—a title with his name on it, while he still feels like he stepped into someone else’s ending.

He flexes his fingers carefully. Pain answers immediately.

Two more days in Melbourne. Two more days before the rest of it arrives. Whatever the world decides this win means, he’ll hear about it later.

***

It’s well past midnight when the apartment finally empties of sound.

The others have gone to their rooms, doors closed, the last traces of movement fading into the building itself.

Ryoma sits on the edge of the bed, awake.

This is the first moment since the fight where there’s no one else in the room, no eyes on him, no expectation that he should be calm or cooperative.

He doesn’t move right away. He waits, listening, as if the silence itself might object.

Then he speaks. “Vision Grid System, show me my OPBF Title fight.”

A familiar overlay appears, translucent and precise.

***

OPBF TITLE FIGHT — FEBRUARY 25TH

***

The text stabilizes, then dissolves into motion.

The fight begins from his own eyes.

The ring lights glare overhead. The canvas shifts under his feet. He sees Jade McConnel in front of him, close enough to register breath, sweat, the tight set of his jaw. The crowd exists only as noise, a pressure at the edges.

Round one flows into two, then three. Everything feels intact and familiar. His movement, his timing, the way his body responds without conscious instruction.

Then the fifth.

He steps in on the counter.

The angle is wrong. He recognizes it immediately, even as he throws it. Jade’s shoulder turns. A flash of glove fills his vision.

Then the footage cuts.

“Where is the rest?” Ryoma asks.

A new footage appears, but he’s no longer in the ring.

He’s lying in a hospital bed now, propped upright, bandaged hands visible as they fumble with a phone. The image on the screen matches the one he’s seeing now, a replay playing inside a replay.

It’s the continuation of that fight scene, after that failed counter. But it’s not in first person perspective. He sees it as he watched the scene from the video in his phone, the one shared in the internet.

Ryoma’s expression tightens. “This isn’t what I asked for,” he says. “And you know that.”

The footage continues anyway, impersonal, distant. He looks like an observer watching someone else’s life.

“Stop,” Ryoma says. “Show me the missing part. The minute and a half after that punch.”

The display clears.

***

LOADING DATA…

***

Seconds pass. Too many seconds pass.

Then the text changes.

***

NO SUCH DATA STORED

***

Ryoma’s jaw sets. “What do you mean there’s no data?”

The response comes immediately this time.

***

ANALYSIS IS BASED ON VISUAL INFORMATION CAPTURED BY YOUR CONSCIOUS PERCEPTION.

NO VISUAL DATA WAS RECORDED DURING THAT INTERVAL.

***

“That’s bullshit,” Ryoma says. “My eyes were open. I’ve seen the footage. I was standing. I was fighting.”

Silence follows, longer than before.

When the system responds again, the tone hasn’t changed, but the delay feels intentional.

***

EXTERNAL FOOTAGE DOES NOT CONSTITUTE INTERNAL RECORD.

IF YOU DID NOT PERCEIVE IT, IT WAS NOT STORED.

***

Ryoma exhales sharply through his nose. “Activate Speech Assistant Mode.”

The overlay flickers.

***

SPEECH ASSISTANT MODE: ACTIVATED

***

The voice comes without warning, casual, almost amused.

>

Ryoma doesn’t respond.

>

“Enough,” Ryoma says. “Stop playing around.”

>

There’s a faint sound like a chuckle, low and intrusive, resonating inside his head.

Ryoma doesn’t engage with it. “Was it you?” he asks. “That blackout. Did you interfere?”

>

“You know exactly what I mean.”

The voice sighs, exaggerated.

>

“Bullshit. Then who controlled me?”

>

Ryoma’s fingers curl slightly against the bandages, then relax. “Then explain this system. What are you? How did I get you?”

The pause this time is longer. Uncomfortably so.

>

“What?”

>

Ryoma’s jaw tightens. The answer only sharpens his frustration.

“And the thing you mentioned,” he says. “The beast. It was you, right?”

The voice hums, thoughtful.

>

“So you’re saying I did that?”

>

Ryoma stares into the dark, breathing steady, anger simmering without direction. He doesn’t trust the system. He knows that much. But he also knows there’s no clear way to force it into honesty.

The voice returns, lighter now.

>

Ryoma remains where he is, alone with the unanswered gap, knowing that whatever happened in that missing minute belongs to him, whether he remembers it or not.

And that knowledge settles heavier than any diagnosis.