VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The stretcher rattles across the floor, its wheels clattering against the boards as medics rush Serrano out of the ring. His head tilts to one side, face half-covered by a towel, the faint smear of blood still dripping from his nose.

The ring announcer’s voice breaks through the noise, steady but trembling at the edges.

“Ladies and gentlemen… the referee has stopped the contest at one minute, thirteen seconds of round four. The winner, by technical knockout…. Ryoma… ’the Chameleon’… Takedaaa!”

The crowd erupts, but not only in celebration. It’s a confused storm of awe, disbelief, and raw noise that shakes the hall.

From the commentary desk, a voice rises, cutting through the chaos:

“That’s Ryoma Takeda, the Cruel Rookie King! No mercy shown tonight, none at all!”

The camera finds Ryoma again. He raises one glove in acknowledgment, but not showing pride. His face stays composed, eyes half-lidded, jaw relaxed, breathing calm. There’s no smile, no sign of triumph, only cold satisfaction.

Behind him, Nakahara, Hiroshi, and Kenta watch in silence. Pride lingers in their eyes, but it’s restrained, almost wary.

Even they can’t quite believe what they’ve seen, a nineteen-year-old finishing a fight like that, then standing there as if it costs him nothing.

The crowd’s roar begins to shift. Someone starts chanting his name, and then another, until it rolls through the arena like thunder on steel.

“RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA!”

The chant swells, rhythmic and relentless. Ryoma steps down from the ring, sweat tracing thin lines down his arms as he walks toward the aisle. Every camera follows him. Every voice chases him.

Fans lean over the barricades, phones raised high, hands reaching out just to touch the air near him.

In the crowd, Shimizu feels his throat tighten. He’s been following Ryoma’s growth before, not this Ryoma, but the kid version, the one who came home from school with a torn sleeve and swollen eyes. The kind of kid life chews on just to see what he’s made of.

Now that same boy stands under the lights, fists low, face calm, his name echoing from thousands of strangers.

Shimizu can’t help it. He cries, not a dignified tear rolling down the cheek, but the kind of crying that makes people look away and pretend they don’t know him.

“Ennosukeee,” he wails sideways, “has Ryoma always been like this? I didn’t know he was this great!”

The others in their little group nod along, equally emotional but trying not to look it.

Old man Ennosuke, however, does his best impression of a rock with opinions. He’s been around too many fights, seen too many “next great hopes.” He is not easily impressed, which of course means he is extremely impressed right now.

“Yes,” he says with a tiny nod, the universal gesture of a man pretending to be wise. “That kid’s always won in strange ways. Always evolving. I think that’s what draws people to him. It’s like… you’re watching yourself evolve with him.”

He chuckles softly, eyes glinting. “Didn’t you hear it earlier? They even call him The Chameleon.”

Shimizu blinks. “The… Chameleon?”

“Yes. The animal that changes its color. They named him that because he keeps switching styles, adapting to his opponent. But to me,” Ennosuke pauses, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “he’s not just copying them. He’s… growing. Never stop learning.”

Shinzo, the skeptic of the group, snorts. “At this level? You think he can still get better?”

“Who knows?” Ennosuke shrugs. “I thought that every time. And every time, I’m wrong. The next time I see him, he’s already evolved into something new. Maybe… we’re not watching a boxer anymore. We’re watching evolution in real time, with gloves on.”

Shimizu stares at Ennosuke with wide eyes, as if listening to a philosopher disguised as an old man with a bad back.

But before he can say anything, his phone starts ringing, the shrill tone slicing through the chanting crowd.

He blinks, pulls it out, and checks the screen.

“Oh, it’s Fumiko…”

That name alone is enough to catch everyone’s attention. The group leans closer as Shimizu swipes to answer.

“Yo, Fumiko!” he greets casually. “What is it? Still worried about your kid, eh?”

[No, no… I… So, how is Ryoma doing?]

There’s a faint tremor in her voice, enough to make Shimizu frown slightly. She sounds nervous, fragile even.

“Ryoma…? Well, he’s doing great. Why don’t you hear this chant?”

He grins, lifts the phone high above his head, letting the microphone catch the thunderous crowd.

“RYOMA! RYOMA! RYOMA! RYOMA!”

The sound is overwhelming, proud and alive.

Then he brings the phone back to his ear.

“It’s your loss, you know. You should’ve come with us and seen him yourself. He’s amazing tonight.”

But there’s no answer, only silence.

“Oi, Fumiko? Can you hear me? Hello?”

He squints, tapping the phone. “Hm? Fumiko?”

He checks the screen, but it’s black. The phone’s dead.

“Ah, man…” he groans. “I forgot to charge it before leaving.”

The group chuckles lightly, shaking their heads. Shimizu shrugs and pockets the phone again. The moment passes, swallowed back into the rhythm of the arena.

***

But elsewhere, miles away in Takeda’s Barbershop, the phone in Fumiko’s trembling hand is anything but quiet.

She tries calling again. Then again. And again. But each time, there’s only the same dull click of failure. The line never connects.

And the thing is, the previous conversation had cut off right when Shimizu said, “Ryoma?”, and that alone is enough to send her mind spiraling.

The barbershop is empty right now, no customers coming for a while, no sound except the faint hum of the ceiling fan.

She sits behind the counter, staring at the phone, her thumb shaking over the call button. She tries dialing Nakahara, but no answer. Hiroshi, nothing. Ryoma’s number, redirected to voicemail.

Her heart pounds without rest, heavy with worry for her only son. Sure, she’s seen the changes in him lately, the way he carries himself, the quiet confidence that wasn’t there before. But a mother’s fear never really fades.

In her mind, she still sees Ryoma as the boy who used to stumble home in his school uniform, shoulders slumped, muttering curses through tears, furious at his weakness, furious that his legs would shake every time he got angry.

And she understands that kind of weakness. She’s lived it herself, the trembling that starts in the stomach and spreads everywhere, until even speaking feels like drowning.

Now, the image of Serrano flashes in her thoughts; that dark-skinned gaijin, muscular, strong, dangerous man who once stood over Ryoma like a nightmare.

Her voice breaks into the stillness. “No, Shimizu… why can’t I reach your phone?”

She tries again, over and over, her finger jabbing the same button. But the screen stays cold, the call never goes through.

She exhales, exhausted, sinking back into her chair. She takes a drink, but it doesn’t help.

Then, slowly, she reaches into her small purse. Her hand comes out holding a little brown bottle, the antidepressants.

She stares at it for a long moment. She already took two earlier before dusk. But her fingers twist the cap open again.

Two more pills fall into her palm, and she swallows them. But the tremor isn’t gone. So she drops another two pills, and then three more.

Now five little white circles glimmer under the dim light. Her hand trembles, weak and unsteady, as if her body itself is pleading for her to stop.

The fan hums. The city outside is silent. And in that small, suffocating room, Fumiko braces herself to consume five more pills.