VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the time Reika gets home, it’s already past eleven. The streets of Den-en-chōfu are silent, lined with ginkgo trees and soft yellow streetlights. Her family’s house sits behind a low stone wall, western-style with wide windows and a small front garden.

Once she gets inside, she’s greeted by air that smells faintly of jasmine and cedar polish. But from the living room, her mother’s voice calls out with disapproval.

“Reika? You’re home late again!”

Reika kicks off her shoes by the door, too tired to defend herself. “It’s not that late, Mom.”

“Not late? Where were you?”

“I just went to Kobe with Aki for an interview. I’m exhausted.”

“Kobe?” Her mother appears briefly in the hallway, her face wrinkled. “And you didn’t tell me beforehand?! You should’ve called!”

“I know, I know,” Reika says with a groan. “I’m going to bed.”

She starts up the stairs, dragging her steps a little.

“Ah, Reika,” her mother calls again. “Your father was asking about his car earlier.”

Reika stops mid-step. “He’s back from the States? Where is he now?”

Her mother shrugs lightly, feigning ignorance. “He didn’t say. You know how he is. Always busy.”

Reika sighs and turns again, muttering as she climbs. “Unbelievable. Just got back and already out somewhere.”

Her room on the second floor overlooks the dark curve of the street. A soft light spills across her desk, minimalist but tasteful, with a wide monitor, a neat stack of books, and a bonsai in the corner.

Reika drops her bag on the chair, exhales, and stretches both arms high over her head until her shoulders pop.

“God, that drive felt endless,” she mutters, half a groan, half a sigh.

For a moment, she just stands there, staring at the quiet street beyond her window.

She tells herself to sleep, but Aki’s words about Ryoma keep circling in her head, stubborn and sharp. With a soft sigh, she pulls the chair closer to her desk.

Maybe just one more look wouldn’t hurt. And so, she opens her laptop, plugs in the memory stick given by Aki, and clicks on a folder named “Ryoma – Reference.”

The folder opens, revealing a long list of files, fight clips, press footage, even grainy amateur recordings.

Reika lets out a quiet laugh. “Seriously, Aki… you’re too obsessed,” she mutters, scrolling through the endless filenames.

Out of curiosity, she clicks one of the older clips, Ryoma in his high school days, thinner, hair a little longer, expression sharper but oddly innocent.

She catches herself leaning forward, eyes lingering too long on the screen. Blinking, she sits back and exhales.

“Get a grip, girl,” she mumbles, shaking her head.

With a few clicks, she scrolls back to the top and opens the two fights Aki mentioned, Ryoma’s debut against Kazuya Tōjō, and his latest bout with Serrano.

She starts with the debut, and the footage plays in the glow of her monitor. Ryoma’s movements are calm, precise, no wasted motion, and no panic in his defense.

Curious, Reika switches to the Serrano fight, skipping to round three like Aki suggested. The rhythm is eerily familiar. Ryoma moves the same way he did against Tōjō, quiet, detached, slipping through Serrano’s barrage with effortless precision.

Then she frowns, leaning closer, feels something off. On impulse, she rewinds to see the second round.

“He does look… different,” she mutters.

Then she skips forward again, back to round three. Suddenly, it’s like watching another person. The tension in Ryoma’s face disappears. Even when Serrano throws a powerful right, Ryoma’s head only shifts just enough, eyes sharp, expression unchanged.

Reika sits back slowly, squinting at the screen. She can’t explain it yet, but something about him changes, something deep, something impossible to fake.

That’s when she starts to wonder: “Is this still reflex? Or something else?”

Then she opens a browser, starts typing names she half-remembers from Aki’s notes and her own curiosity. James Toney, Sugar Ray Robinson, Muhammad Ali, boxers with slick defense.

Soon, her tabs multiply, clips, documentaries, slow-motion breakdowns of classic defensive masters. Each one shows the same rhythm of motion: slipping, rolling, anticipating punches just before they come. But the difference hits her the more she rewatches.

Toney rolls on instinct, shoulders relaxed, head always moving, like a rhythm he can’t turn off. Robinson’s eyes flicker with reaction, his lips tighten as each glove flashes near. Even Ali, graceful and unpredictable, flinches when the glove grazes close, his body alive with reflex and rhythm.

Then she rewinds Serrano’s third round again. Here Ryoma’s eyes steady, expression calm, his head barely shifting, just enough to make each punch miss by inches. His gaze never breaks, like he’s watching the punches rather than avoiding them.

There’s no hint of guesswork, there’s no wince in his face. It’s pure observation, so pure with unnerving calm.

“Is he… really seeing it?” she murmurs.

The question lingers in the room like static.

She doesn’t know anything about the “zone,” doesn’t know about the so-called “gift” Aki once mentioned, about the sharp eyes that see too much.

But as the last frame freezes on Ryoma’s face, eyes fixed forward and utterly composed, Reika can’t shake the thought:

Maybe what makes him different isn’t how fast he moves, but how deeply he sees.

***

Who knows how long she’s been staring at that frame. The screen goes still, Ryoma frozen mid-slip, eyes calm beneath the harsh light of the ring.

There’s something magnetic in that face, the quiet poise that feels older than his age. The more she looks, the more it draws her in. It’s not the victory, not the skill, but the stillness of someone who seems untouched by chaos.

Then her gaze drifts to the desk beside her laptop, to a glossy magazine she bought after the Tokyo Block final. Ryoma stands on the cover, eyes half-shadowed, that same composure frozen by the camera.

She traces the edge of the magazine with her fingertip, feeling something between admiration and ache, a kind of distance she can’t explain.

But then, from outside, the faint growl of an engine rolls into the front yard, followed by the soft thud of car doors.

Reika blinks, pulled back to reality.

“…Dad?” she whispers.

She rushes to get changed, kicking off her slippers, grabs a hoodie from the chair and slips into it, half scrambling to look casual.

Downstairs, her father’s voice carries faintly through the hall. “So… she’s home?”

“She’s upstairs,” her mother answers. “Probably changing now.”

Reika freezes halfway between desk and bed. Then, still holding the magazine, she slips under the blanket, pulling it over her head just as footsteps climb the stairs.

The door opens with a gentle creak.

“Reika?” her father calls, low and deep, slightly accented. “Where have you been? Did you use my car again?”

He steps inside when there’s no answer. His gaze drifts to Reika’s laptop, then to the frozen image still faintly glowing on the screen.

His brow furrows slightly. “This boy…” he murmurs under his breath. “…Ryoma Takeda, the Chameleon.”

Under the blanket, Reika’s pulse spikes. Her body stays perfectly still, her eyes wide open in the dark.

She never expected it. Her father, Logan Rhodes, actually knows who Ryoma is.