VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For several seconds after the door closes behind Ryoma, no one in the room moves. The silence that follows his departure feels strangely heavy, as if the air itself has not yet caught up with what just happened.

The men remain standing where they are, staring at the door as though expecting it to open again. Confusion slowly replaces the earlier tension, and quiet murmurs begin to spread through the room.

“What the hell was that?”

“I swear he moved before the shot.”

“No one moves that fast.”

“I had a clear line of sight,” Iuliano mutters defensively, shaking his head as if trying to erase the memory. “He was right there.”

Another man scoffs quietly. “Yeah, and somehow he still walked out.”

Their voices stay low, uncertain, each of them trying to piece together the impossible moment they had just witnessed. None of them seem to notice that the wounded giant is still lying on the floor.

Then Dmytro suddenly snaps. “Are you idiots just going to stand there?” he growls through clenched teeth. His voice trembles with pain as he clutches both his leg and his injured hand. “Help me up, damn it!”

The outburst finally pulls the others out of their stunned silence. Two of the men hurry over and kneel beside him, carefully lifting his massive frame from the floor. One supports his shoulders while the other presses a hand against the bleeding wound in his thigh.

“Easy, easy,” one of them mutters.

“Fuck your easy,” Dmytro groans, his face twisted in agony. “My hand’s ruined… and my leg… AND MY FUCKING ASS! Damn it, that kid shot me twice…”

Across the room, the Frenchman slowly lowers himself onto the sofa. The movement looks less like a deliberate decision and more like someone whose legs have finally given up holding the weight of the evening.

He leans back against the cushions and exhales deeply, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as he stares at the ceiling.

“Damn it,” he murmurs under his breath. “How did this turn into such a disaster?”

The image of the young boxer calmly dismantling their weapons replays in his mind, and the absurdity of it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

A single young fighter had walked into the room unarmed and walked out again while making seven grown men look like amateurs.

Boris eventually steps forward, his heavy footsteps breaking the quiet again.

“What do we do now, Fabien?” he asks.

Fabien does not answer immediately. His gaze drifts toward the door Ryoma had used, his mind still replaying the sequence of events in an attempt to understand where everything had gone wrong.

After a long moment, he finally reaches into his coat and pulls out his phone. The screen lights up as he selects a contact and brings the device to his ear.

The call connects after only two rings. Then a deep voice answers from the other side, thick with a Russian accent.

[ Fabien. How did it go? ]

Fabien exhales slowly. “We failed.”

There is a brief pause on the line.

[ Did you show him the money? ]

“I handed it to him personally,” Fabien replies. “All five million. I even offered another five after the fight. The kid still turned it down.”

The line remains silent for a moment.

[ Just like they said. The kid won’t bend for money. ]

Fabien’s eyes drift toward Iuliano across the room. “And you never mentioned the kid could dodge bullets too.”

There is a brief shift in the tone on the other end.

[ What is this? Dodging bullets? Fabien, did you do something with that kid? ]

Fabien’s jaw tightens as he glances toward the gunman. “Well, this motherfucker shot him,” he says flatly, pointing at Iuliano. “And the kid actually dodged it.”

Iuliano shifts uncomfortably under the accusation but says nothing.

Fabien continues, his voice still edged with disbelief. “He knocked Dmytro down, used him as a hostage, and walked out of the room like he owned the place.”

Another silence fills the line.

[ Fabien… how…? ]

Fabien exhales again, rubbing his forehead. “Sorry… That part is my mistake. I know you didn’t send me here to kill him.”

His eyes drift back toward the door one more time. “But damn… that kid is a lot more dangerous than we thought.”

The line falls silent for a moment after Fabien’s last words, stretching into an uneasy pause between the two ends of the call.

Fabien rubs his temple and exhales quietly. “So what should I do now?” he asks at last.

Another brief pause follows before the voice on the other end answers, the Russian accent steady and unreadable as before.

[ Just keep watching him. A man like that will reveal his true value sooner or later. ]

Fabien glances once more toward the closed door Ryoma used to leave, the memory of the young boxer’s composure still lingering in his mind.

“Understood,” he replies quietly.

The call ends a moment later.

***

Meanwhile, several floors below, Ryoma stands alone inside the lift.

The composure he had maintained throughout the entire confrontation finally cracks now. His shoulders loosen slightly, and he exhales a long breath he did not realize he had been holding.

His hand briefly presses against the wall of the elevator as his pulse slowly settles. The color gradually drains from his face, and a thin layer of cold sweat begins to form along his skin.

For the first time since leaving the room, the tension drains from his posture. The quiet space around him feels strangely unreal after the chaos he just walked through.

Then a familiar voice slips into his mind, calm, smooth, and quietly amused.

>

Ryoma’s eyes narrow slightly.

>

The tone carries a faint hint of admiration, but beneath it lies something far more unsettling.

>

Ryoma says nothing. But the voice continues, sounding almost thoughtful now.

>

A faint chuckle follows.

>

The elevator continues descending in silence. The reflection in the metal wall shows Ryoma standing perfectly still, his face slowly regaining its usual calm.

Inside his head, the voice speaks one last time.

>

Ryoma’s gaze drifts toward the polished metal wall of the elevator, where his reflection stares back at him under the pale ceiling light. For a moment he studies his own face as if looking at a stranger.

Then, slowly, a faint grin begins to form. It is small at first, almost imperceptible. But it spreads gradually across his lips as the events in the suite replay inside his mind.

The gunshots. The panic. The way the room had frozen when he turned the situation around.

Again, a quiet thrill runs through his chest. The earlier exhaustion vanishes as a familiar rush of adrenaline begins to flow through his bloodstream.

His heartbeat steadies, but his eyes grow colder, sharper, carrying the same ruthless calm that had unsettled every man in that room upstairs.

For a brief moment, the expression staring back from the metal wall looks nothing like a professional boxer.

Inside his head, the voice returns with a low, amused chuckle.

>

The sound lingers for a moment, dripping with quiet satisfaction.

>

Ryoma’s eyes remain fixed on his own reflection.

>

Before the elevator reaches the lobby, Ryoma lowers his gaze to the pistol still resting in his hand. He opens the zipper of his bag and pulls out a training towel.

He wipes the surface of the weapon clean, carefully removing every trace of his fingerprints. The motion is calm and methodical, as though he has done it many times before.

Moments later, the doors slide open to reveal the quiet lobby of the hotel.

Ryoma steps out without hesitation. As he passes a trash bin near the elevator hallway, his hand flicks casually to the side. The pistol disappears into the bin without drawing the attention of anyone nearby.

He never breaks stride. Within seconds he is already crossing the marble floor toward the exit, his posture relaxed, his expression once again calm and unreadable.

To anyone watching, he is just another guest leaving the building after a long night.