VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

When the sparring rounds end and the ring is wiped down, the rest of the gym naturally transitions into conditioning. Mats are dragged into place. Medicine balls roll across the floor. Hiroshi’s whistle cuts through the air as he calls for planks and rotational work.

But Okabe doesn’t stay for the core training. His breathing is still heavy, but not from fatigue alone. The inside of his chest feels tight, like something unresolved keeps pressing against his ribs.

When Okabe stuffs his gloves into his bag, Hiroshi notices it immediately.

“Oi. You are leaving already?”

“Yeah…”

“At least cool down first.”

Okabe slings the strap over his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Hiroshi replies, stepping forward. “Your shoulders are still tight. Don’t walk out like that.”

But Okabe is already moving toward the exit. “I said I’m fine.”

He pushes through the door without looking back. The late-morning air meets him with a brightness that feels almost intrusive after the dim heat of the gym.

The sun is already high, but it does nothing to ease the tension in Okabe’s chest. His jaw stays tight as he walks, the sounds of traffic and distant conversation blending into the sparring replaying in his head, whether he wants it to or not.

The way Aramaki stepped in after the wide hook. The way Ryoma’s voice carried from ringside.

“Tch! They think they’re clever,” he mutters to himself.

But the more he walks, the less certain that sounds.

The rhythm of his steps slows. He shoves his hands into his pockets and exhales sharply, feeling how much he misses his best friend Ryohei.

Not because Ryohei would have defended him. But because Ryohei has always been the one person in the gym who could laugh at him without it feeling like mockery.

Before he realizes it fully, Okabe has already changed direction.

***

Ryohei’s house stands in a quiet residential neighborhood not far from the gym, tucked behind a row of similar two-story homes with narrow driveways and small front gardens.

It’s close enough that walking there doesn’t feel unusual. The house itself is modest and well-kept, the kind that has been lived in for years, nothing extravagant, but comfortable and steady.

When Okabe presses the doorbell, he can hear movement inside before the door slides open. Ryohei appears in house slippers and a loose T-shirt. He looks mildly surprised for a second before breaking into a grin.

“Well. Didn’t expect you.”

“I was nearby,” Okabe replies automatically.

Ryohei lifts a brow at the excuse but steps aside anyway. “Sure you were. Come in.”

“Your mom around?” Okabe asks casually as he removes his shoes at the entrance.

“Went grocery shopping,” Ryohei replies, leading him toward his room.

“Your dad?”

“At work. He’ll be back late.”

Ryohei turns down the hallway and nudges open the door to his own room.

“Come in,” he says casually.

The space is simple and familiar; bed against the wall, desk beneath the window, hand wraps and tape scattered neatly in practiced disorder. But what draws Okabe’s eyes immediately is the display shelf above the desk.

The new JBC Super Lightweight belt rests there, polished plate catching the light from the window.

Okabe stops in front of it without realizing he has slowed. For a moment, he just stands there, taking it in.

Ryohei notices and scratches the back of his head. “Don’t stare at it too long,” he says lightly. “It’s just metal.”

Okabe lets out a faint breath. “Man… We bleed for this. Now that you have it, don’t say it’s just metal.”

Ryohei shrugs, almost embarrassed. “It’s temporary. Someone’ll take it eventually.”

Even as he downplays it, the belt remains where it is, clean, impossible to ignore.

“Sit down,” Ryohei says, nudging the door wider with his foot. “I’ll grab something to drink. Mom bought too many snacks again.”

He leaves the room without waiting for a response. When he comes back with two glasses of cold barley tea and a small plate of crackers, he finds Okabe still standing in front of the shelf.

For a second, Ryohei thinks he might tease him. But before he can speak, Okabe finally exhales and tears his gaze away. He lowers himself onto the tatami floor and leans back against the wall.

Ryohei sets the tray down without comment and sits opposite him.

“Alright,” he says, his voice steady but probing. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You shouldn’t be here at this hour. You left the gym earlier. So don’t give me that. What’s going on?”

The silence stretches long enough that Okabe feels it pressing against him. He stares at the snacks for a while, and then the words come out before he can reconsider.

“Those two idiots are getting ahead of themselves.”

A faint smile touches Ryohei’s mouth. “Ryoma and Aramaki?”

“Who else?”

Once Okabe starts, the explanation spills out in uneven waves.

He describes the partner drills, the pointed comments during mittwork, the way Ryoma’s voice carried across the gym as if every sentence had been calculated.

He also recounts the sparring session in detail, how the infighting tricks felt rehearsed specifically to trap him.

Ryohei listens without interrupting, occasionally nodding, occasionally suppressing a chuckle.

“And they think it’s funny,” Okabe finishes, irritation resurfacing. “Like I’m some kind of project.”

Ryohei lets out a short laugh. And Okabe shoots him a glare.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” Ryohei answers honestly. “You’re actually bothered.”

“Of course I’m bothered.”

Ryohei tilts his head slightly. “You know Ryoma doesn’t do things randomly.”

Okabe clicks his tongue in annoyance. “He’s just being irritating.”

“No,” Ryohei says calmly. “He’s working on you. That kid always comes with strange ideas.”

Okabe looks away, unwilling to accept that interpretation.

“I didn’t like him either, you know,” Ryohei continues after a moment. “Before my title fight with Umemoto, everyone kept talking about him, ignoring me the whole time. When they finally did talk about me, it was always in his shadow.”

Okabe nods faintly, remembering the headlines clearly.

“Even after I won it,” Ryohei adds, “they said it was luck. That the real talent in the gym was only that kid. That someone like me wouldn’t be able to repeat that counter at will. That it was just luck it ever landed on the right spot.”

“And you actually accepted it,” Okabe scoffs.

Ryohei shrugs. “If they underestimate me, that’s better. If they keep misjudging me like that, it will make my future fights easier.”

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “And maybe you should change the way you view things too.”

Okabe frowns. “Change how?”

“Let them believe you’re still the same Okabe,” Ryohei says. “The one who swings wild when he gets angry. Let them expect stupid things from you. And then catch them off guard.”

Okabe exhales through his nose. “It only sounds good when you say it. But every time they poke at me, I react. I just can’t help it.”

Ryohei studies him for a moment, sensing there is still something unspoken.

Okabe hesitates, and then looks up. “You’ve always had good rhythm. Even when things get messy, you don’t rush. You don’t bite on feints. How do you keep your tempo like that?”

Ryohei blinks once, slightly surprised. Then he leans back against the wall and scratches his cheek thoughtfully.

“I don’t know if this will help you,” Ryohei admits. “But when I’m alone, I do something a little stubborn.”

He gestures around the small room. “I pick something that irritates me. A memory, a comment, someone’s face… something I know will distract me if I let it. Then I start shadowboxing. And I try to ignore it. If it creeps back into my head, I reset. From the beginning. Again and again.”

Okabe’s lips press thinly together. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” Ryohei says with a quiet laugh. “When my head’s messy, I end up shadowboxing for a long time because I keep restarting.”

He shifts his sitting position slightly and continues, more reflective now.

“Eventually I get tired,” he says. “And when you’re that exhausted, your brain doesn’t have the energy to keep shouting at you. It just wants air.”

Okabe also shifts his position, listens carefully now like some naïve kid listening to his older brother.

“After that, I slow everything down,” Ryohei says. “One punch per breath. I inhale, then throw. Exhale with the next movement. Slow enough that I can feel my ribs expand and contract.”

He demonstrates with a relaxed imaginary jab, the motion unhurried and controlled. “When your breathing settles, your rhythm settles. And when your rhythm settles, your head follows.”

Okabe looks down at his own hands, considering the simplicity of it. “So you’re just wearing your emotions out?”

“Something like that,” Ryohei replies. “You can’t fight chaos with more chaos. You have to outlast it.”

The room falls quiet after that. But the silence feels thoughtful rather than heavy as Okabe doesn’t argue anymore.

Maybe the suggestions land more gently this way. Or maybe it’s simply because they’re coming from Ryohei. Either way, he doesn’t push back.

He still remembers what Ryoma and Aramaki did at the gym, still hates it. But this time, he turns inward instead, acknowledging his flaws and his intention to work on them.