VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Somewhere in a dark room, Shimamura sleeps poorly, dragged under by a dream that refuses to loosen its grip. His counter landing clean, Yanagimoto folding, and then the white towel falling like a verdict he cannot swat away.

Then he wakes with a sharp inhale, sweat clings to his skin like a second canvas. His heart hammers violently against his ribs, not from fear, but from a lingering sense of being interrupted at the brink of something vital.

The pain in his body has dulled, but the absence feels worse. Staring into the dark, he realizes sleep will not come back so easily, not with that moment waiting for him every time he closes his eyes.

So he drags himself downstairs, bare feet heavy against the steps. By habit more than thought, he opens the cabinet, fingers closing around a half-finished bottle of whiskey.

He turns toward the sofa, already imagining the burn in his throat.

Then he stops, and gazes back to the bottle. In that stillness, voices crawl up from his memory.

Tadayuki’s first; trying to sound calm. “You were done, Shimamura. Your legs were gone.”

Then Shoyo, sharper and louder. “You were smiling while getting hit. That isn’t normal.”

The memory snaps fully into place.

“I’ve warned you not to throw the damn towel,” Shimamura had said, voice raw, still hoarse from the fight. “I had him. You saw his legs give out.”

Tadayuki hadn’t raised his voice. “I saw you swaying like a drunk. I saw you laughing while eating punches. That’s not a fighter in control.”

“So what?” Shimamura shot back. “That’s how I’ve always fought. You knew that when you kept me.”

“That wasn’t fighting,” Ozaki snapped. “That was you losing yourself.”

Shimamura laughed then, bitter and loud. “Losing myself? I finally found it in there. For once, my body listened.”

“And if it hadn’t?” Tadayuki cut in. “If you took one more shot and didn’t get back up, what then?”

Silence had stretched between them, thick and hostile. That was when Shimamura knew.

He hadn’t yelled after that. He hadn’t begged, or argued, or thrown anything. He’d just stared at them, chest tight, understanding settling in colder than anger.

Back in the quiet house, Shimamura lowers the bottle slightly, his grip loosening as the echo of that argument fades.

The whiskey feels heavier than it should, like an answer he’s already tired of giving.

He sits down on the sofa, but the whiskey bottle never reaches his lips. Instead, he reaches for the remote and turns on the television, letting noise spill into the room to drown out the echoes still circling his head.

Nothing holds his interest. Images blur past, variety shows, reruns, late-night chatter. But he keeps staring anyway, face empty, eyes unfocused, as if waiting for something to hit him back.

Then a familiar blue floods the screen.

SURGE BLUE.

For the moment you don’t slow down.

Ryoma appears, framed clean and sharp, his voice low and steady in a way that feels unfairly composed.

“A fight isn’t just twelve rounds. It’s every morning you choose not to stop.”

Shimamura glances at the whiskey bottle on the table, and a small ache stirs in his chest. He has seen this commercial too many times, but the contempt never dulls.

***

The ad passes, the night drags on, and more than an hour slips away without him noticing.

Eventually, the screen settles on a boxing program, a panel breaking down Ryoma’s recent OPBF title fight with clinical excitement.

One of the pundits leans forward, tapping the screen with his pen. “Look at his feet here. He doesn’t run, doesn’t panic. Sixteen punches slip by him, and he never once leaves the corner.”

Another chuckles, settling back in his chair, eyes bright with recognition. “It reminds me of Ali. Twenty-one punches against Cleveland Williams, same idea. Different style, different era. But the same audacity, standing there and making grown men miss.”

A third voice cuts in, half-amused, half-awed. “That takes more than reflex. That’s composure under fire. That’s someone seeing the fight slower than everyone else.”

It looks ridiculous. It looks beautiful.

Shimamura snorts softly and looks away, dismissing the comparison with practiced ease. He has known for a long time that Ryoma has it too, that same ability to step deep into the zone and see punches with brutal clarity.

But then the discussion turns darker.

They replay the sequence slowly, detailing how Ryoma broke Jade McConnel’s nose, then his ribs, then finally his jaw. Words like career-ending and retirement get thrown around, and one voice wonders aloud if McConnel will ever return to the ring.

Shimamura stops listening to the commentary. His thoughts race ahead, faster and sharper, replaying the fight from a different angle entirely.

He’s learned that Ryoma came in compromised; short notice, long flight, jet lag, conditioning that started to unravel by round three.

He knows Ryoma also failed his counter in round five, took a brutal shot to the face, the same kind of mistake Shimamura himself just made.

And yet, Ryoma still threw punches that shattered bone.

“This brat… how could he still hit that hard?”

Shimamura’s fingers curl slowly against his thigh as the question tightens in his chest.

For a moment, he lets himself admit it. Ryoma has passed him somewhere along the way, no longer the wiry kid he once dismissed with a laugh and a shake of the head.

“Damn kid… you really did it, huh?”

But then, the pundits’ tone shifts, lighter now, almost playful, as one of them gestures at the paused footage.

“Funny thing is, if you line this up with Shimamura’s fight earlier, the shape of it isn’t that different; same fifth round, same risk, same kind of counter.”

Another laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah, except one of them gets the win, and the other gets a towel flying in like fate itself wanted to crack a joke.”

The table breaks into chuckles, the kind that sting without meaning to.

“Boxing’s cruel like that,” someone adds. “Two mirrors, one outcome flipped upside down.”

Then a pundit glances at his notes and raises an eyebrow. “You know what makes it even stranger? Ryoma comes from the same place. Nakahara Boxing Gym. Same roof Shimamura started under.”

The laughter fades, replaced by interest, and the conversation turns sharper.

“That gym’s been on fire lately,” one of them says. “Contenders popping up everywhere, and one guy already locking a super lightweight title shot.”

Another nods, thoughtful. “Feels like everything changed after Ryoma won the Tokyo block rookie tournament. Since then, it’s been momentum after momentum.”

Shimamura’s jaw tightens as the words pile up, each one pressing into him like a slow body shot. The room feels smaller, the television louder, and he suddenly hates how easily they say the gym’s name now.

Jealousy crawls up from somewhere ugly and familiar, twisting into something heavier than anger. He leans back, eyes unfocused, wondering when admiration turned into being left behind.

He remembers why he started boxing at all. And it was never about belts or applause, only about helping his grandfather keep the gym standing, so no one would laugh at Nakahara again.

But that reason is gone now, quietly taken over by someone else.

Tell me, old man…

What should I do now?

As Shimamura’s gaze drops to the dark floor, the thought settles in with cruel clarity: if that purpose is gone, then what’s there left for him in the ring?

As his thoughts drive away, he eventually fall asleep right there on the couch, the television’s glow washing over his face as exhaustion quietly claims him.

***

In the morning, the sharp ring of the doorbell rips him back to consciousness.

Shimamura groans, every bruise and strain returning at once, soreness blooming as if his body remembers the fight before his mind does.

“Wait… damn it,” he mutters as the bell rings again.

Looking annoyed, he drags himself to his feet. When he opens the door, his eyes narrow in surprise.

“You…? What are you doing here?”

The man outside tilts his head slightly. “It seems you know me.”

“Not really,” Shimamura replies, voice rough. “But I’ve seen your face enough. You own that American company, don’t you?”

“Yes. Logan Rhodes,” the man says easily. “Owner of NSN.”

“…Ah. NSN,” Shimamura mutters. “So what do you want from me?”

Logan’s smile is gentle, almost kind. “It’s not about what I want from you. It’s about what you want from your career after losing that title fight with Yanagimoto.”

Shimamura’s face tightens, irritation flashing before he can stop it.

“I know you need time,” Logan continues calmly. “Time to be alone. Time to think.” He shrugs lightly. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much. I’ll be returning to America soon.”

“And?” Shimamura asks curtly.

Logan slips a card into Shimamura’s hand. “I’m inviting you to come with me.”

Shimamura frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“To rule the world, of course.” Logan says.

He turns away as if the answer is obvious, already walking down the hall.

“You have until Monday. Call me once you’ve made up your mind.”