VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Hiroshi peeks toward the entrance just as Ryoma walking slowly on the street. Only once the kid disappears around the corner does Hiroshi exhale and head straight for the office.

Nakahara is still seated behind the desk, pretending to read the same page of the newspaper he’s been on since morning.

“…Coach,” Hiroshi begins carefully.

“Save it,” Nakahara mutters without looking up. “I already know that face.”

Hiroshi steps closer. “You heard what Ryoma said.”

“I did.”

“And you just brushed him off.”

“I just told him to rest,” Nakahara snaps. “He’s three days out from a war. You want him to cough blood in the ring next week?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Hiroshi presses, voice tight but respectful. “But you promised him. We promised him a title shot within a year.”

Nakahara sets the newspaper down, expression suddenly older than usual.

“And tell me, Hiroshi… does sending a challenge today make sense?” His voice is low but controlled. “The kid just got ranked last night. Three days ago he couldn’t even lift his arms after the fight. And now I send a challenge to the JBC? What do you think they’ll say?”

Hiroshi opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

Nakahara continues, “They’ll say we’re desperate. They’ll say we’re trying to cash in on hype before the kid even heals. And it’ll make Ryoma look like a reckless rookie.”

Silence settles, heavy but reasonable.

“…So you’re still planning to send it?” Hiroshi asks quietly.

Nakahara snorts. “I’m not stupid. Of course I am. But at the right time. After I finish the A-Class tournament registration for Okabe and Ryohei.”

Hiroshi hesitates only a moment longer before nodding weakly.

“Gym’s barely open, Hiroshi,” Nakahara says, not harsh, but firm. “At least let the day breathe before you start shoving title shots at me.”

Hiroshi’s shoulders drop. The argument is lost.

“I get it,” he mutters. “But don’t make him wait too long.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer. He only picks up the registration forms, his way of ending the conversation.

“Give these to them later,” he says.

Hiroshi sighs, defeated but relieved. “Yes, sir.”

As he slips out the door, Nakahara leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

“The belt will come,” he mutters to no one. “Just not by rushing the boy into an early grave.”

***

The sky is already dim when Nakahara locks the gym and pushes his scouter electric into motion.

It’s rare for him to go home early, but the gym is quiet because Ryoma and Ryohei still recovering, while the others just training light.

He enjoys the stillness of the small streets as he rides. For once, he’s thinking about dinner rather than boxing.

But as soon as he reaches his apartment building, he hits the brakes. He sees a sleek sports car sits parked carelessly at the curb.

It’s not just a car. It’s trouble.

On the concrete step leading up from the road, someone leans against the wall. It’s Shimamura Suzuki, Nakahara’s former boxer.

Hair styled, shirt open at the collar, necklace catching the streetlight.

For a fleeting moment, Nakahara feels something twist in his chest. A strange, painful familiarity, like seeing a son who walked out a year ago and never returned.

But seeing a canned beer hangs from Shimamura’s fingers, Nakahara buries it immediately.

Shimamura grins. “Yo. Long time, old man.”

Nakahara gets off the scouter with a tired grunt. “You still dress like you’re auditioning for a host club.”

“You still dress like someone who lost a fight with his laundry basket,” Shimamura fires back, sipping his beer casually.

The old coach sighs. “Still drinking. Still ignoring discipline. Still acting like talent makes you immortal.”

“Relax… No fight scheduled,” Shimamura answers with a shrug. “What’s the point of making money if you don’t enjoy it? We live once.”

“That excuse again,” Nakahara mutters as he moves past him toward the steps. He climbs, one hand on the railing. “I heard you climbed to fourth in Super Featherweight. Thought maybe you’d grown up a little.”

He doesn’t mean to sound disappointed, but he does.

Shimamura’s expression flashes, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing just for a heartbeat. A sting he tries to bury.

But Nakahara already has his back turned, keys in hand. The lock clicks, and the door is open. Then suddenly, there are rapid footsteps behind him, and Nakahara glances back

Shimamura lunges up the steps, slamming a hand against the door, pushing it wide open. His other arm is on the other side of the door frame, stopping Nakara from entering.

Gone is the lazy arrogance. Shimamura’s face burns with emotion he’s held down for a year.

“That’s it?” he snarls. “A whole year, and this is how you treat me? Not even asking me inside for a cup of coffee? After everything I did to keep your good-for-nothing gym breathing?”

Nakahara stares at him, expression flattening. “What do you want, Shimamura? Don’t tell me you finally show up at my home… after a year… after moving up to Lightweight… just to drink coffee.”

Shimamura’s grip tightens on the door.

“This isn’t about coffee,” he growls.

Nakahara doesn’t flinch under Shimamura’s burning stare. “I know what you’re after. But I don’t have time for your childish game.”

Shimamura’s jaw clenches.

“I won’t give you Ryoma,” Nakahara continues. “We’re busy chasing our goal… not wasting time on swagger, ego, and whatever blind pride you’re drowning in your life.”

Shimamura’s breath trembles with anger. But Nakahara simply pushes his arm aside, steps into the apartment, and speaks without looking back:

“Go home.”

The door shuts. And a heartbeat later, click, the lock slides into place.

Shimamura tries the handle immediately, rattling it, but it’s sealed. The rejection hits him like a punch to the ribs.

And then…

BAM!

His palm slams against the door, the echo rolling across the quiet residential street.

“Coward!” he spits, voice cracking with real emotion. “You’re scared! That’s it, right?! You’re scared I’ll break your prodigy boy!”

Then another violent strike…

BAM!

“You think that kid’s better than me?!” he shouts. “You think he works harder? Has more talent? More guts?!”

He steps back, chest heaving, eyes burning toward the silent door.

“You never believed in me,” he growls. “Not really. But don’t worry…”

His voice turns sharp, venomous.

“I’ll make damn sure you never get that title shot you’re chasing.”

He points a finger at the door like it’s Nakahara’s face.

“I’ll take the belt first. Before you even get the chance. And you will have no choice but give him to me.”

Shimamura turns sharply, stomping down the steps, crushes the empty beer can in his hand, and throws it into the passenger seat of his car. The engine roars a second later, tires screeching as he peels away into the dusk.

Meanwhile, behind the closed door, Nakahara stands motionless. His face has dropped, the stern expression gone, leaving only something tired, old, and wounded.

His chest feels tight, like someone has reached in and twisted everything inside.

He once dreamed of taking Shimamura to a world title. He once believed the kid would grow up, straighten himself out, become a champion he could be proud of.

And all that hope, all those years, now curve back at him like a blade.

He presses a palm to his forehead, eyes shut.

“…Damn kid…”

But it doesn’t sound angry, just tired, and impossibly sad, the kind of sadness only a father feels for a son who walked too far in the wrong direction.