VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

His arm still throbs from the blow he caught. It was strong, too reckless. And Ryoma knows, with a sick certainty, that slap wasn’t meant for him. It was aimed at his mother.

Even now, he feels the tremor in his mother’s finger, not the stiffness of anger anymore, but the fragile shiver of fear.

“We… we should report this to the police,” Fumiko mutters.

Ryoma exhales slowly, as if his breath alone might steady her.

“Forget it. Let’s just go back to the shop. Look, your customers are waiting.”

That’s what he says, but inside, he’s already claimed it. This isn’t for the police, isn’t for anyone else to touch. The matter is personal now, his alone to carry.

He guides her back toward the shop. Two men wait outside, one with a half-trimmed head, the other with arms folded, impatience etched on his face.

The moment Fumiko reaches them, she bows low. “I’m so sorry! I left you halfway. Please forgive me.”

But before her words settle, the half-trimmed man leans forward, brow furrowed. “What happened just now?”

The other cuts in quickly, jabbing a thumb toward Ryoma. “Didn’t you see? Some foreigner made a scene. He hit him. Right there in the street.”

Ryoma says nothing. Fumiko ushers them back into the shop, her tone hushed, careful, as though words alone can sweep the ugliness away.

“Foreigners come here for our beauty, our quiet. That’s what they say. But look, what do they bring? Trouble. Disorder. They come and they ruin, as if their own country wasn’t enough.”

The men exchange glances, nodding, their voices growing heavier as they follow the thread. The conversation eventually leads to policy, government, visas, and rules.

One curses under his breath about politicians too soft on outsiders. Another mutters about crime statistics, foreign enclaves, how the city has changed.

Fumiko adds her voice in agreement, though her pitch is oddly bright, almost brittle. She laughs once, too sharp, and talks as though she believes every word.

But Ryoma watches her hands, and how the scissors tremble in her grip. The comb rattles against the blades. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, her skin still a bit pale, her lips pressed thin when she isn’t speaking.

It makes his stomach twist. He wants to tell her to stop, to sit down, to breathe. He wants to roar at these men, to shut their mouths before they can spit another word about Serrano or anyone else.

But he keeps it to himself. His fists tighten, jaw locks. A vein bulges at his temple, hot blood hammering against it. And he can’t forgive Serrano for that. Never.

The scissors keep trembling in Fumiko’s hand, and Ryoma can’t stand it anymore.

“I’ll take over,” he says suddenly. His voice is steady, even though his body isn’t.

Fumiko pauses mid-snip, eyes lifting to him in the mirror. For a second, it almost looks like she might agree, until her lips twitch, and a small wry smile breaks through.

“You?” she teases softly. “With that hoodie soaked in sweat? With your hair sticking like seaweed? You’d scare them off before you even touched the scissors.”

The half-trimmed man chuckles under his breath.

Color rises faintly in Ryoma’s face. “I’m serious.”

“And I am too,” Fumiko says.

She tilts her head at him, the motion gentle but firm, her eyes telling him to go.

“Take a shower. Change your clothes. Rest. You’ve got a match in three days, remember.”

Ryoma’s jaw tightens, the displeasure plain on his face. But, with a low exhale, he gives in. He turns and steps toward the door. The bell above the frame jingles faintly as he slips outside.

Inside, Fumiko’ scissors hum back to life, snipping hair as though nothing happened. But in the mirror, her eyes drift. She stops just a moment, watching her son’s figure retreat down the street through the glass.

Her expression softens with a mother’s gaze, tired, proud, and afraid all at once.

***

Ryoma walks home with slow dragging steps, the sweat still clinging to him like a second skin. He passes the narrow storefront of Shimizu’s Soba, the smell of broth and buckwheat drifting into the street.

It’s the place where he and his mother used to eat together. For a moment his chest tightens, but he keeps moving. Eating is impossible now. The fight is three days away, and every drop of water, every grain of rice matters.

But suddenly…

“Oi, Ryoma!”

The voice pulls him up short. Shimizu himself shuffles out from behind the counter, apron still tied, ladle clutched like a scepter.

“Don’t you dare just pass me by like a ghost. Come in!”

Ryoma lifts a hand, shaking his head politely. “I can’t, sir. I’m cutting weight. Fight’s in three days.”

“Of course I know that,” Shimizu barks, eyes bright. “And inside, we were just talking about you. Come on now, meet your new fans.”

Ryoma blinks. “Fans?”

Shimizu wastes no more breath. He grabs Ryoma’s arm with a surprisingly firm grip and drags him through the doorway.

The moment Ryoma steps inside, cheers burst from the tables. Cups lift, voices echo, a wave of laughter and applause crashes into him.

“There he is!”

“Our boy, the pride of the block!”

“You made it to the finals, Ryoma! Don’t you dare hold back now!”

Ryoma almost laughs. Fans? Yeah, sure.

These are just the same faces he’s grown up with. Neighbors, regulars, people who had seen him crying as a boy, running errands for his mother. To call them fans was too much. But their enthusiasm now looks so real.

At the center table, Ennosuke, an old taxi driver with a voice like gravel, leans forward, grinning. “Look at you now! Who would’ve guessed? I still remember when you were a snot-nosed brat bawling because you scraped your knee on my curb. And now? Standing in the finals!”

The room erupts in laughter, Ryoma rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed but warmed by their cheer.

Then Shinzo, the fisherman, squints at him, suspicion in his eyes. “Wait a second. Why do you look like you’re starving? Skin on bones! You haven’t eaten, have you? Boy, you can’t fight like that. Sit down and eat with us.”

“Idiot!” Shimizu snaps, waving his ladle like a weapon. “He’s cutting weight! Do you want him disqualified before the bell even rings?”

“Cutting weight?” Shinzo echoes, dumbfounded.

Shimizu throws up his hands. “You lot know nothing! To you it’s just fists flying. But for these kids? It’s control. Sacrifice. Strategy. There’s more to boxing than your fish-brained heads can grasp!”

The shop bursts into laughter again, men teasing, women shaking their heads, voices tripping over one another with energy.

Some argue about how many rounds Ryoma will last. Others swear he’ll crush his opponent in round two.

And Ryoma, standing in their circle of warmth, almost forgets the weight dragging him down. But almost.

He wants to stay here, to let their faith wash over him, to imagine a life where only this cheer mattered.

But his mother’s face won’t leave him, pale, lips trembling, hands that couldn’t keep steady. The memory punches through his chest, draining the warmth as fast as it came.