VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The decision is announced, and the tension finally drains from the row like air from a punctured tire. Okabe stretches, arms over his head, then turns with a grin.

“So, Coach. Fight’s done. You heading home now?”

Ryohei leans in, mock-serious. “Yeah. You didn’t come for Shimamura’s fight, remember?”

Nakahara clicks his tongue. “I’m staying.”

“Oh?” Okabe raises a brow.

“Kenta’s driving,” Nakahara says flatly. “I need to make sure the van gets back to my place safely.”

The silence lasts half a second. Then they laugh.

“That’s the excuse?” Okabe says.

“Very responsible,” Ryohei adds. “A true guardian of public transportation.”

Nakahara ignores them, arms crossed tightly over his chest. A vein throbs faintly at his temple, betraying how much effort it takes to keep his expression unmoved.

Aki suddenly frowns. “Wait. Where’s Kenta?”

“He said he was going to the bathroom,”Aramaki says.

Okabe scoffs. “He’s been gone a while.”

Ryohei’s grin turns sharp, drawing his face closer to Nakahara. “I’ll bet he went to see Shimamura.”

Nakahara stiffens, a reflex he didn’t have time to hide. And for a brief second his gaze flicks toward the corridor before he forces it back to the ring.

“He probably said ’bathroom’ so he wouldn’t have to say it out loud,” Ryohei continues. “Didn’t want to hurt your feelings, old man.”

Nakahara exhales slowly. “…be quiet and watch the fight.”

“Watch the fight?” Ryohei repeats, feigning innocence far too eagerly. “What fight are you talking about, old man?”

Nakahara clicks his tongue, refusing to take the bait. In truth, he does want to see Shimamura, wanted to, from the start. Gives Shimamura a word or two, maybe advice.

But here, under their eyes, he keeps the mask on and pretends he couldn’t care less.

***

Meanwhile, the challenger’s locker room is warm with movement and low noise, the sharp smell of liniment cutting through the air.

Kenta sits on a folding chair near the wall, laughing with Shimamura like they’re killing time after practice instead of waiting on a title fight.

“You always did talk too much before fights,” Kenta says, shaking his head. “How many times did Coach tell you to shut up and breathe?”

Shimamura snorts. “Yeah, and how many times did I ignore him?” He rolls his shoulders, loose on the surface, though there’s a tightness behind the smile. “You know… if I stop talking, I start thinking. That’s worse.”

They laugh again, a little louder than necessary, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls. For a moment, it almost feels normal.

Then the laughter fades, before Shimamura speaks again, quieter now.

“…Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says, quieter now. “Wait, does that mean Okabe and Ryohei are here too?”

“They are,” Kenta replies easily. “They bought tickets way ahead of time, you know. Like kids on a field trip.”

Shimamura hums, amused. “Figures.”

Kenta smiles. “Just because you’re not with us anymore doesn’t mean we stopped being friends.”

Shimamura nods, eyes lowering briefly, the smile still there but thinner. After a beat, he looks up again.

“What about that kid?” he asks.

Kenta raises an eyebrow. “Ryoma? What? You expect him to come?”

Shimamura exhales. “Yeah, right… I know he never liked me from the start.”

“True,” Kenta says. “You never made it easy on him.”

Shimamura exhales through his nose. “Yeah. I know. I was too hard on him. Never welcomed him properly.” He leans back against the locker. “Now he’s OPBF champion already. Man… the old man must be proud.”

Kenta doesn’t answer. He just watches Shimamura, understanding more than he lets on.

He remembers how it really started; an accident, a careless moment, Shimamura’s hand clipping Nakahara’s head, Ryoma’s anger igniting before anyone could stop it.

Too much pride on both sides, words said too sharply, and then Shimamura walking out for good. But beneath all of that, there was something else.

Shimamura had been with Nakahara since he was ten. Kenta knows that, for Shimamura, the gym is almost like a home.

But when Ryoma arrived with discipline, relentless, frighteningly serious, the old man changed. Or maybe Shimamura only noticed it then. Nakahara called it discipline. Shimamura called it favoritism, though he never ever said it out loud.

Moments later, a staffer pokes his head in, stealing their attention.

“Ten minutes.”

Shimamura nods. “Got it.”

Kenta stands, grabbing his jacket. “I should leave now. We’ll be cheering from the stands.”

“Thanks,” Shimamura says, genuine this time.

Kenta nods, and reaches for the door.

“Kenta, wait,” Shimamura calls out again. “…Is Nakahara here too?”

Kenta turns, smiling. “Yeah. He cares about you, man. You know that.”

Shimamura doesn’t reply, only watching Kenta slips out.

Almost immediately, Shoyo scoffs. “Funny. They kicked you out of their gym, and now they show up like nothing happened.”

Hisaki snorts. “Yeah. Small minded, if you ask me.”

Ozaki Rintaro turns sharply. “Who are you calling small-minded? They’ve got Ryoma Takeda, OPBF champion.

“But he’s not here,” Hisaki argues. “So he’s not on the topic.

“And Ryohei Yamada?” Head coach Maki Tadayuki cuts in calmly. “Class A winner. Title fight coming. You really think they’re a small stable anymore?”

Hisaki and Shoyo fall silent. What they’d meant as loyalty, belittling Shimamura’s former gym to stand beside Coach Tadayuki, lands flat. The coach’s expression makes it clear: that kind of support isn’t welcome here.

Coach Tadayuki turns to Shimamura, his voice steady. “Your past is yours. I don’t need to dig into it. What matters is what you’ve shown here, your talent, and the work you’ve put in lately. Believe in that. Believe in the people backing you now.”

Shimamura straightens, breathing deeper.

“Come,” Maki says. “Let’s warm up.”

The room shifts again, focus snapping back into place.

***

Moments later, Shimamura enters to a thinner sound than a title challenger might hope for. A few claps ripple through the arena, scattered and unsure, quickly swallowed by the space.

This is Tochigi, far from Tokyo, and the seats were never full to begin with. Distance does that. Transfers, taxis, long walks. Most people decide watching from a screen is easier.

Still, a handful of voices cut through the quiet.

“Drunken Boxer!”

“Shimamura!”

“Show us something wild!”

“Hey, you are up against the champion now. Just don’t screw this up!”

The calls are rough, impatient, more demanding than supportive. A whistle pierces through, followed by scattered claps that never quite line up.

Ryohei lets out a small laugh. “Wow. Haven’t heard that in forever. Shimamura the Drunken Boxer.”

Okabe nods, smiling despite himself. “Feels like we just got punched back ten years.”

Nakahara doesn’t say a word. His eyes are fixed on the aisle.

Shimamura moves down the aisle without looking to either side, stride even, eyes fixed ahead. The crowd noise barely registers on him. Nakahara watches closely and feels it at once, something’s off.

Shimamura usually feeds on attention, lets it loosen his shoulders, sharpen his smile. Tonight, there’s none of that. His focus is tight, compressed, wound too firmly around the fight to come.

“…He’s different,” Ryohei mutters, also notices the change.

“Yeah,” Okabe says. “Usually he’d be playing it up by now.”

His lips twitch. Then he cups his hands around his mouth.

“Oi, Shimamura! Don’t get so tensed! The champion’s a coward anyway!”

The reaction is immediate. Heads snap around. Local supporters glare, scanning rows for the offender.

“Idiot,” Ryohei hisses.

The group scatters on instinct; Ryohei ducks left, Kenta leans forward, Aramaki pretends to adjust his sleeve. Okabe drops straight down behind the seats, vanishing.

Nakahara exhales slowly, his gaze fixed on the aisle. “…If they come over here,” he mutters, “don’t expect me to shield you.”

Okabe scoffs. “Like you could protect me from that many people.”

“That’s exactly why,” Nakahara snaps, cutting him a sideways glare. “Stop the antics. This isn’t our gym.”

His attention returns to Shimamura as the fighter gets into the ring and takes off his robe.

Nakahara watches closely, concern threading through his calm. Something has changed, but not in the way people like to dramatize.

Shimamura hasn’t turned into some sculpted showpiece, no sudden bulk, no exaggerated sharpness. What Nakahara sees instead is subtler: a healthier color to his skin, steadier breathing, and a body that doesn’t look drained before the first bell.

No hollow cheeks. No familiar fatigue clinging to his posture.

Nakahara saw the changes in him lately, the work done in the cold without announcement. Whether it will matter once the bell rings is another question. That answer will come soon enough.

***

When the fight begins, it settles into its rhythm almost immediately. Shimamura circles left, careful with his lead foot, eyes locked on the champion’s shoulders.

Sinichi Yanagimoto doesn’t rush him. The southpaw stands relaxed, right hand low, lead right foot hovering just outside range. He hasn’t switched stances yet. There’s no need.

And that, Nakahara realizes, is exactly why Shimamura looks the way he does.

Shimamura moves cleanly. His steps are compact, balanced, never crossing. The punches come straight, disciplined, guard snapping home each time. No baiting, no theatrics.

Against a southpaw, especially one who can switch, there’s no room for sloppiness. So Shimamura boxes the way he was taught before bad habits crept in, before he learned to entertain himself.

Nakahara feels a flicker of recognition, sharp and uncomfortable. That foundation, this discipline, he was the one who drilled it into Shimamura years ago. But it was something Shimamura had long since discarded, buried under swagger and improvisation.

Seeing it resurface now, in front of a champion who thrives on opponents making mistakes, is unexpected.

And dangerous.

Not because of what Shimamura is showing…

But because of what he’s clearly saving.