VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The gym spits Ryoma out like chewed meat. His legs drag across the pavement, sweat still soaking his hoodie, the taste of iron and bile sticking in his mouth.

Every muscle feels so hollow now, as if someone scooped the strength out of him and left only the shell.

The Vision Grid pings again, its tone flat, merciless.

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Ryoma exhales hard, almost laughing. “Unstable? No shit.”

Even the air feels heavy as he leaves the gym. He takes slow uneven strides, one foot in front of the other like a drunk staggering home. His stomach claws at him, empty for hours, and the rationed sips of water only make his tongue stickier.

The city hums faintly around him, it all seems blurred, muffled, like sound underwater. Every step sends his vision dipping, spots flashing. His fists twitch at his sides out of habit, but trembling. Even a gust of wind nearly unbalances him.

By the time he nears the Y-junction leading to his mother’s shop, sweat has dried into salt patches on his sleeves, his hood pulled low to shield the hollowed face beneath.

He thinks only of his mother voice, maybe some warmth, anything that isn’t the echo of mitts slapping or Hiroshi’s commands in his skull.

But before he can reach it, his body jerks to a stop. Not by choice, but by someone’s waiting at the split in the road.

Standing in his way is Leonardo Serrano, a Pocari Sweat dangling casually in one hand, two friends behind him with cameras rolling from opposite angles.

“Well, well, well…” Serrano grins, voice dripping with mockery. “If it isn’t Ryoma Takeda. The so-called prodigy of the decade.”

Ryoma squints at him, then tilts his head toward the barbershop down the street. Serrano just came from that direction. This isn’t chance, he believes. The guy was looking for him.

“What do you want?” Ryoma asks, his tone flat.

“Nothing big,” Serrano shrugs. “Just checking in on the golden boy.”

He flicks his eyes at the cameraman, making sure the lens catches it all. Ryoma notices and steps forward, raising his hand to block the shot, but only for Serrano to shove him in the chest.

It’s not hard, but enough to make Ryoma stumble.

“You know why I entered the rookie tournament, right?” Serrano says, grin widening. “To build drama. To give the people a show. To keep my content alive. But look at you…”

He scans Ryoma up and down, theatrically disgusted.

“You’re not even worth a punch. You’re a zombie. A man who’s already dead.”

Ryoma’s brow twitches, but exhaustion mutes his anger. He just pulls his hood over his head and tries to walk past.

“What’s wrong?” Serrano sneers. “Is it the sun? Too hot for you?”

And then…

Splash!

The Pocari explodes across Ryoma’s face, sticky and cold.

Ryoma freezes, and slowly, his head turns back at him, eyes are narrowing into a razor’s edge. His fists clench, trembling as the rage coils up inside.

To him, twenty-nine years old inside, staring at this cocky teenager, the splash feels like spit, a humiliation meant to break him.

But Serrano only grins wider. “Why so mad? Want more?”

And there’s another splash, then another. He empties the bottle all at Ryoma’s face.

“You look like you’re dying already. Better hydrate, huh?”

That’s the last straw. Ryoma snaps, throwing a right hook at his jaw. But Serrano slips it, leaning back low, almost cocky in his grace.

Ryoma’s fist only cuts empty air. The momentum betrays him, and Ryoma stumbles forward before hitting the ground hard.

And Serrano is on him instantly, bowing down, both hands still in pockets, smiling into his broken face.

“What’s wrong, champ? Can’t even land a punch? And you call yourself a pro?”

He then straightens, turns to the nearest camera like an actor hitting his cue.

“Look at this, everyone. The prodigy they sold you on. Just hype, nothing more. They build him up, you buy the tickets, and that’s the business. But the truth?”

He jabs a thumb back at Ryoma behind him.

“The truth is lying right there. He’s nothing.”

Ryoma rises, and grabs his back, fistful of shirt, yanking Serrano hard against the wall. His teeth grind, his arm cocks back.

“Shut your fucking mouth, you motherf…”

But the words die with the sound of a fist.

Blug!

Serrano simply buries his knuckles deep into Ryoma’s gut.

Ryoma’s face twists blue as his lungs collapse, air ripped clean from him. The pain is total, white-hot, enough to crumple his body.

And slowly, his knees hit the pavement, his forehead brushing the ground, his arms too weak to lift him.

He’s gasping, broken, kneeling. And Serrano, towering over him, spreads his arms like a conquering king, head lifted up, his voice booming for the camera.

“Behold!” he roars, giddy. “The prodigy kneels before me. Kissing my shoes, just as I promised you he would.”

But suddenly…

Plak!

A sharp slap cracks across Serrano’s cheek. His head whips to the side, and he stumbles half a step, stunned not by the force but by the sheer audacity.

Rage floods his face as he jerks back around. He swings a right on instinct, but only to freeze when he sees who stands before him.

“Leave my son alone!”

It’s Fumiko, Ryoma’s mom. Her eyes are blazing, voice shaking with anger. Her expression isn’t just fury. It’s disgust, sharpened by the kind of hatred only years of prejudice can plant.

“You gaijin need to learn your place in this country!” she shouts. “If you can’t show respect, then go back to where you came from!”

Serrano’s face twisted with contempt. His hand rises to the red welt on his cheek, his jaw tightens.

“…Gaijin, huh?” he mutters, voice low.

The word cuts deeper than the slap. He’s actually a half-Japanese, born here, raised here. But that label has followed him his whole life, a reminder that his skin marks him different and unwanted.

Every time it’s thrown at him, it carves another scar. And now, with everyone watching, it shatters the leash on his temper.

His face twists. He rears back, and swings a slap toward her.

“Hey, Leo! Wait!” One of his friends calls.

Fumiko flinches, but Ryoma lurches up, staggering on weak legs. He raises his arm just in time to block it.

But the impact rattles through him, driving him sideways, crashing him shoulder-first into his mother.

Serrano’s hand curls into a fist, his rage demanding more. But before he can strike again, his friends rush in, grabbing him by the arms.

“Leo, stop!”

“Man, this wasn’t in the script! You’re blowing it!”

Serrano’s breathe heaves. Then his eyes flick left and right, catching the stares now fixed on him. A man and a girl have stepped out of the barbershop. Another three, older, emerges from a tavern across the street.

“Tch.”

Serrano clicks his tongue, glaring one last time at Ryoma before jerking his head at the cameramen.

“We’re done here. Let’s go.”

They retreat, slipping into the street.

And Ryoma can only watch their backs vanish, hatred burning like acid in his chest.