VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Before dusk, the van rolls down the ramp into the underground parking of The Okura Tokyo.

The van’s headlights sweep across polished concrete pillars and rows of expensive cars before the engine finally shuts off.

For a moment, the space is quiet. Only the faint buzz of fluorescent lights fills the wide basement level.

Then one of the big men slides the door open.

“Out.”

Ryoma steps down from the van without resistance. The air inside the parking structure feels cooler than outside. He takes a brief look around, quietly studying the environment.

This is not some abandoned warehouse. Luxury sedans and sports cars occupy the parking spaces, their polished bodies reflecting the white ceiling lights.

It’s a high-end hotel building. There are security cameras mounted along the beams overhead, angled carefully toward the driving lanes and pedestrian paths.

The men escort him toward a private elevator lobby set between two marble walls. One of them presses the call button without a word.

The elevator arrives almost immediately. They step inside, and no one speaks during the ride.

Then the elevator begins its smooth ascent. Ryoma watches the numbers climb one by one without expression.

The mirrored walls reflect the small group clearly; Ryoma standing between two towering figures, while the other two remain near the door like silent sentries.

For a few seconds, the elevator moves in complete silence. Then Ryoma begins speaking to test their response.

“So… do you guys do this often?” he asks casually, glancing at the reflection of the man beside him. “Picking people up in vans and bringing them to luxury hotels. Seems like a lot of effort.”

But no one answers. Ryoma shifts his weight slightly, letting his back rest against the wall behind him.

“I was expecting something less comfortable,” he continues. “Usually this part happens in some abandoned warehouse.”

The four men keep staring straight ahead. Ryoma then looks at the rising floor numbers again.

“Not complaining, though,” he adds. “Nice hotel. Quiet place.”

And there’s still no response. Ryoma then glances toward the broad-shouldered man behind him.

“You guys Russian?” he asks. “Your accents sound like it.”

The men remain motionless. And Ryoma exhales with a tired face, finally gives in.

“Alright,” he says. “Strong silent type. I get it.”

When the doors finally open, a quiet corridor stretches ahead of them. The floor is covered in thick carpet, and the walls are lined with warm wooden panels illuminated by soft amber lighting.

Ryoma steps out with the others. Almost immediately, he notices the CCTV camera mounted above the hallway intersection.

He subtly adjusts his posture as he walks forward, making sure the camera catches his face clearly. If something happens tonight, at least there will be footage showing him here, entering this floor with these foreign men.

Yet the men around him pay the camera no attention at all. They pass beneath it without even glancing up.

That alone eases a small part of Ryoma’s tension. If they truly intended to kill him, they probably would not allow themselves to be recorded escorting him through a luxury hotel corridor.

***

The group continues down the hallway. And after a short walk, they stop in front of a large suite door near the corner of the floor.

One of the men knocks. Someone inside peers through the narrow gap first, studying the visitors outside.

Then the door swings open.

“Come in.”

Ryoma steps inside. The moment he crosses the threshold, the space opens into something far larger than a normal hotel room.

It looks more like a private condominium. A spacious living area stretches across polished wooden floors beneath warm recessed lighting.

A long sofa sits near the center of the room facing a low glass table, while a dining area and small kitchen occupy the far side of the suite.

Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate the outer wall, revealing the distant lights of Tokyo spreading across the night skyline.

But Ryoma’s attention quickly shifts to the people inside. A large man stands near the door behind him, arms folded across his chest. Another broad-shouldered figure waits near the windows, watching quietly.

And then there is the third man. He rises from the sofa as Ryoma enters.

Unlike the others, his build is closer to Ryoma’s own height. The man spreads his arms in an exaggerated gesture of welcome.

“Ah! At last!” His smile is wide, almost theatrical. “Ryoma Takeda! The Chameleon himself! What an honor to finally meet you.”

His voice carries the enthusiasm of someone greeting a long-admired celebrity.

But Ryoma remains silent. He simply walks forward across the room until he stops a few steps away from the man.

And his Vision Grid System is already running an identification scan.

***

[ Target Observation Report ]

Posture Analysis

Expressive hand movement frequency: High

Behavioral profile: Performative social introduction

Appearance Markers

Hair styled backward with controlled volume

Grooming precision: High

Clothing: Tailored suit, European cut

Speech Pattern Analysis

Language: English Accent deviation detected

Consonant softening detected

Vowel extension pattern detected

Accent Origin Probability

Western European cluster detected

Comparative Accent Match

Italian: 18%

Spanish: 11%

French: 72%

[ Conclusion ]

Target Profile: French Male

Confidence Level: High and Manipulative

***

The smile on the man’s face does not fade. Instead, he gestures toward the sofa.

“Please, sit,” he says warmly while lowering himself onto the couch first. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

Ryoma remains standing. And the silence lingers for a moment.

Then one of the men who brought him from the street steps forward. His large hand lands firmly on Ryoma’s shoulder. With a slight push, he directs him toward the sofa.

“Sit.”

The pressure increases, forcing Ryoma down until he finally sits.

Immediately, the Frenchman frowns. “Hey. Maksim! Watch your manners.”

The large man releases Ryoma’s shoulder at once. The Frenchman sighs lightly and shakes his head before turning back to Ryoma with an apologetic expression.

“My apologies,” he says. “These men grew up in rather… rough environments. Sometimes they struggle with proper etiquette when dealing with someone new.”

Then his smile returns. “But for me, you are hardly a stranger.”

Ryoma raises one eyebrow. His expression shows little interest. “Skip the pleasantries. You send men to force me into a van, threaten me with a silenced gun, and bring me here.”

His gaze meets the man’s directly. “And now you sit there pretending to be polite, hoping it will somehow buy my trust.”

He leans back slightly against the sofa. “But I’m not that naive.”

The Frenchman’s smile falters slightly, surprise flickering across his face at Ryoma’s boldness and unsettling composure.

“Just make this quick,” Ryoma says. “And send me back home. Honestly, I’m very tired today.”

The Frenchman studies him for a moment, one eyebrow rising slightly as interest replaces the earlier surprise. Then he snaps his fingers.

“Boris. Bring the case.”

The man near the window immediately moves. He walks into the adjacent room and returns a moment later carrying a heavy briefcase.

Without a word, he places it on the table in front of the Frenchman. And the Frenchman flips the latches. He opens it, then turns the case around so Ryoma can see inside.

Stacks of American hundred-dollar bills fill the interior, arranged in tight bundles. The green paper forms a neat grid, the amount clearly meant to impress.

The Frenchman leans back slightly, a confident grin forming on his face. He watches Ryoma carefully, clearly expecting some visible reaction.

But none comes. Ryoma’s expression remains flat, almost bored.

At the same time, faint data begins to flicker across the corner of his vision as the Vision Grid System starts estimating the contents of the case.

[ Estimated Bundle Count: 50 ]

[ Estimated Value per Bundle: $100,000 ]

[ Estimated Total: $5,000,000 ]