VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

On the way home, Ryoma starts second-guessing himself. Refusing Kirizume’s gym is easy. Refusing the food? That still stings.

It’s a trap, he knows. But really, would it have hurt to let his stomach enjoy the manipulation?

By the time he reaches his apartment, it’s nearly nine. His mom will be back from the barber shop any minute, and the kitchen is untouched.

He pauses at the door, hand on the knob, and exhales.

“Better apologize first.”

Instead of going inside, he turns away and heads for the shop.

Lights at the barber shop are dimmed when Ryoma sees her mother still sweeping the floor inside.

Fumiko looks up, and instantly, her eyes narrow with that motherly sixth sense, the one that can spot a son who has not, in fact, cooked dinner.

“I know, I know…” she sighs, broom swishing. “This is what I hate about Sundays. Dead quiet all day, then suddenly every man in town needs a haircut right before closing.”

Ryoma scratches his cheek. “…Uh, mom?”

“What?”

His smile tilts crooked, the kind of smile that aims for charm but drips guilt.

“Wanna eat soba outside?”

Fumiko frowns, and then lets out a tired laugh.

“Your treat?”

“…Ah. Yes. My treat.”

She locks the barber shop door with a tired click, umbrella tucked under her arm like a soldier setting down a weapon.

“Past nine already… I just hope the soba place hasn’t shut its doors.”

Ryoma shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. “They’ll still be open. Last time we went, it was nearly ten.”

Fumiko sighs again, shaking her head with a weary smile. “I know what it feels like, customers strolling in right when you’re about to close. Worst kind of trouble. And tonight… that’s us.”

***

The little soba shop’s paper lantern still glows faintly when they arrive, though the sliding door is already half-shut.

Inside, the clatter of dishes is gone, replaced only by the soft rasp of a broom.

“Ah, Shimizu-san,” Fumiko calls, her voice tinged with disappointment. “Don’t tell me you’re closing already?”

Behind the counter, Shimizu Haruto, broad-shouldered, late forties, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looks up mid-sweep. For a moment he’s caught in the act of packing up. Then his expression flips into a grin, wide and practiced in the way only small shopkeepers manage.

“Closing? No, no. Just cleaning to pass the time. Haven’t had a soul in here for two hours.” He sets the broom aside with a flourish and waves them in. “Please, please… come in!”

Fumiko smiles wearily as she and Ryoma slip inside. Shimizu is already bustling behind the counter, reaching for pots and bowls.

“The usual tonight?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yes, please,” Fumiko answers, sinking onto the tatami mat with a sigh.

Ryoma joins her, and she lets out a small, guilty laugh. “You’ve been too kind to us, Shimizu-san. I hope we’re not troubling you, barging in this late.”

Shimizu waves a hand as if brushing the idea away. “Trouble? Nonsense. I can’t afford to turn away a customer. Say no once, and a little place like this dies.”

Ryoma leans on the table, grinning. “That’s true. But honestly, your soba’s already great. If more people tried it, they’d be hooked.”

Shimizu glances over his shoulder with a sly smirk. “Oh? Then maybe you should help me, Ryoma. You’ve got the shoulders for promotion. One good punch in the ring, and you tell everyone you power it with my noodles.”

Ryoma chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “Me? Promote your soba? I’m just a rookie with one fight on record. Not exactly billboard material.”

Shimizu laughs, waving a ladle like it’s a baton. “Every champion starts as a nobody. Remember that when you’re slurping my noodles in the big leagues.”

***

The banter fades as Shimizu retreats to the kitchen, humming as he works. Ryoma and Fumiko sit waiting, their hunger silent but palpable.

Later, Shimizu comes to them balancing two steaming bowls. But these aren’t the usual servings. The bowls are larger, the broth darker, the toppings piled high: egg, nori, tempura, scallions.

He sets them down with a grin that says everything.

“Enjoy your meal…”

Fumiko blinks. “Shimizu-san? This looks…”

“Generous?” he cuts in. “Call it chef’s privilege.”

Ryoma stares at the bowl, brows creasing. The smell is heavenly, but the size… nowhere near his strict diet.

For a moment he just sits, torn between discipline and the guilt of refusing a kindness. But Fumiko nudges him gently.

“Eat. It won’t kill you.”

Ryoma gives in. And the first bite is enough to dissolve his restraint completely.

Halfway through, Shimizu reappears with his own bowl, plopping down across from them. He slurps loudly once, and then leans in with a grin.

“Say, Ryoma! How about we make it official? Shimizu’s Soba as your first sponsor. I feed you noodles, you feed me customers.”

Ryoma nearly chokes. Fumiko stifles a laugh.

The offer is absurd, naive even. But there’s something endearing in the way Shimizu pitches it, a small-time businessman daring to dream a little bigger.

At least, unlike the deal with Kirizume earlier, Ryoma feels Shimizu’s sincerity. In fact, for a no-name rookie like him, there’s almost nothing to gain from sponsoring him.

The proposal lands somewhere between a joke and a dream. He isn’t sure whether to laugh it off or treat it seriously, so he chooses the middle ground.

“It’s too soon to expect anything from me, Shimizu-san,” Ryoma says with a faint smile. “But I don’t mind plugging your shop in my next fight. You’ve always been kind to us. I’d be happy to do it for free.”

Shimizu shakes his head instantly. “No. You’re a professional, I’m a businessman. We should do it properly.”

Ryoma squints at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve drawn up contract papers too.”

“Contract papers?” Shimizu blinks. “Do I need them?”

“Please, Shimizu-san!” Ryoma waves him off, laughing. “I’m just a kid. But I’ll make you a promise: next interview I get, I’ll slip your shop into the story. And in return…”

“In return…?” Shimizu leans forward, bracing for a demand.

“…you give us a discount for these bowls.”

Shimizu collapses in mock despair. “Discount? Bah! Fifty percent off for life! And tonight, as a mark of our great collaboration, these bowls are free. Totally free.”

Fumiko hides her laugh behind her hand. Ryoma doesn’t bother. He laughs outright.

But Shimizu isn’t done. “And you’d better win a title,” he adds firmly, wagging his chopsticks like a pen signing a contract. “Otherwise this whole deal’s a bust.”

“Shimizu-san…” Fumiko teases, her tone playful but sharp. “If Ryoma actually becomes a champion, won’t this deal cost you a lot more? Are you ready for that?”

Shimizu puffs his chest like a man declaring war. “Of course! By the time Ryoma’s Japanese Champion, I’ll have soba branches across the country. Nationwide!”

Ryoma shakes his head, laughing into his broth. Absurd, endearing, and for the first time all day, he actually feels light.