VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Elsewhere, at the WBO’s Tokyo office, Kanemura lowers his phone and places it face down on his desk.

For a moment, he remains seated, staring at the darkened screen. The conversation with Ryoma has given him one more reason to push the matter further, but he knows that suspicion alone is not enough to move an organization as large as the WBO.

If he wants the disciplinary process to begin while Cabello is still in Tokyo, he needs authorization from headquarters. Without wasting any more time, he reaches for the desk telephone and dials the number of the WBO’s headquarters in Puerto Rico.

Kanemura briefs a senior disciplinary official on the positive hospital finding, the missing medical officer presumed dead after a Washington accident, the missed post-fight test, and the growing questions surrounding the Tokyo event.

After that, he simply listens most of the time. When the conversation finally turns to what can be done before Cabello leaves Japan, his expression becomes more focused.

”Yes. I understand.”

He listens again before adding, ”Then I’ll proceed here.”

After ending the call, Kanemura gathers the documents from his desk and slips them into a folder.

Kanemura leaves his office and walks quickly down the corridor toward Yoshida’s office. He finds Yoshida at his desk, reviewing documents on his computer.

”Yoshida.”

Yoshida looks up. ”Kanemura-san. How did it go?”

”They gave us authorization to move forward. We’re going to start the disciplinary process while Cabello is still in Tokyo.”

Yoshida straightens in his chair. ”Do you want me to start preparing the notices?”

”Yes. Get the hearing organized as quickly as possible. I want the formal invitations sent out today.”

”Who should be included?”

”Cabello and a representative of his management. Ronin as the promoter, along with anyone else whose presence is required. Make sure the notices go through the proper channels and send the electronic copies as soon as they’re ready.”

Yoshida nods while making notes on the tablet.

”I’ll take care of it.”

Kanemura turns toward the door, then pauses before leaving.

”And keep the circulation limited. Until we know exactly what we’re dealing with, there’s no reason for this to move around the organization more than necessary.”

”Understood.”

Kanemura gives him a brief nod before leaving the office. Yoshida turns back to his computer and begins preparing the notices.

***

The following day, at St. Luke’s International Hospital, Cabello is in considerably better now. He is awake, responsive, and able to sit upright without assistance.

The monitors that had surrounded his bed are no longer necessary, although the bruising and swelling across his face remain clearly visible. His jaw is still stiff, and every movement of his mouth seems to remind him of what happened in the ring.

His physical condition has improved enough for him to be left without constant attention, but his appetite has not returned with it.

A hospital meal sits on the tray in front of him, barely touched. The rice has gone cold, and the soup beside it has been left untouched. Cabello sits against the raised portion of the bed, staring at the food as though someone has placed an unpleasant joke in front of him.

An assistant trainer sits in the chair beside the bed and watches him for a while before reaching for the tray.

”You need to eat something.”

Cabello does not look at him. ”I know.”

”Then eat.”

”I said I know.”

The assistant trainer looks at the untouched food and then back at him. ”You’ve been staring at that tray for ten minutes.”

”It hurts, damn it…”

”Your stomach?”

”My mouth.”

He finally picks up the spoon, scoops a small amount of rice, and puts it into his mouth. He barely begins chewing before his expression tightens.

He lowers the spoon again and presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

The assistant trainer leans forward. ”What hurts?”

”Everything in there. My gums, my cheek, my jaw. I don’t even know what the hell hurts anymore.”

”You got hit in the face pretty bad.”

Cabello shoots him an irritated look. ”I was there. You don’t need to remind me.”

The assistant trainer gives him a tired look. ”Then stop acting surprised that your mouth hurts.”

Cabello lets out a quiet breath through his nose, but there is no real amusement in it. He picks up the spoon again and forces himself to take another small bite.

His mouth, however, is hardly the only reason he has no appetite. There is also the small matter of his pride, which has taken considerably more damage than anything the hospital’s scans are likely to show.

He has barely had time to enjoy becoming a world champion before his first title defense turns into a disaster, and the man taking the belt from him has left him sitting in a hospital bed, unable to eat without wincing.

For a man as arrogant and self-assured as Cabello, who has spent years chasing that moment, losing the title this quickly is humiliating enough.

At least there is still the purse. More than ten million dollars is not a bad consolation prize for losing a world title, and for a moment, Cabello tries to focus on that instead.

He looks around the room, searching for something that might give him a reason to feel slightly less miserable.

”Where’s my phone?”

The assistant trainer gets up and walks over to Cabello’s sports bag. After searching through it, he finds the smartphone and brings it back to the bed.

”You want to call your girlfriend?”

Cabello does not answer. He unlocks the screen, opens his internet banking application, and checks his account balance.

His eyebrows slowly draw together when he sees the figure. The number has barely changed.

”What’s going on here…?”

He checks the transaction history, scrolling through the most recent entries and then refreshing the page to make sure he has not missed anything.

But there is no notification, no pending transfer, and no record of the more than ten million dollars he expects to have received after the fight.

His jaw tightens as he looks at the assistant trainer.

”Where’s Rivera?”

Before the assistant trainer gives him an answer, the door opens, drawing both men’s attention toward it.

Rivera steps into the room carrying a letter and its already-opened envelope in one hand, but Cabello pays little attention to either of them.

”What happened to my fight purse?” Cabello asks. ”Why haven’t I received any of it?”

”The purse is the last thing you need to worry about right now.”

Rivera walks over and places the letter on the small table attached to the side of the bed.

Cabello looks at him, clearly irritated by the answer. ”What does that mean?”

Rivera gestures toward the letter. ”The WBO knows about the drugs in your system.”

Cabello stares at him for several seconds, the irritation still visible in his expression before another reaction begins to take its place.

His eyes widen slightly as the meaning of Rivera’s words settles in, and the color slowly drains from his face.

”They received the result from the hospital,” Rivera adds.

Cabello’s grip tightens around his phone. His mind seems to move through several possibilities at once, none of them particularly comforting.

”And because of that,” Rivera continues, ”Ronin is holding your purse.”

Cabello’s expression changes again. The anger returns almost immediately, but now it is mixed with disbelief and panic.

”They can’t do that.”

”Apparently, they can.”

”That’s bullshit.” Cabello shifts forward despite the pain in his jaw. ”He already took my fucking title. The fight is over. He won, he gets the belt, fine. But the purse is mine. I fought the whole damn fight. I showed up. I made the weight. I got into that ring and fought him for eight rounds. They don’t get to decide afterward that I’m not getting paid.”

”Cabello…”

”Ten million dollars, Rivera. That’s my money. They owe me that money.”

His voice grows louder as the anger begins to overwhelm the uncertainty underneath it.

”What the hell he is trying to pull now? He takes my title and then he fucking decides he can just keep my fucking money too?”