VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Back in the locker room, no one pays attention to Logan standing at the very back of the media crowd, half-shadowed behind the raised cameras.

Frank Donovan and Marcus Hale flank him, but unlike them, Logan isn’t watching the interview. He’s watching the boy.

His hands rest loosely in his pockets, posture relaxed, expression flat except for the faint curl of a fox’s smile tugging at one corner.

While reporters fire questions and Ryoma commands the room without even trying, Logan’s mind is already moving.

A plan is taking shape. A way to pull Ryoma out, away from Nakahara, away from Japan, away from all this noise and loyalty and manufactured chaos.

No one notices the calculation behind his eyes. No one sees the trap forming.

No one except Nakahara.

The old coach glances through the gaps between shoulders and camera rigs, just long enough to catch Logan’s quiet smile, sharp and sly in the shadows behind the media pack.

And Nakahara feels his stomach drop.

He leans toward Sera, lowering his voice. “You know that older man standing next to Logan?”

Sera doesn’t even need to squint. “Of course. That’s Frank Donovan. And the other one is Marcus Hale, the WBA Super Featherweight Champion. Once these reporters realize who’s behind them… they’ll forget Ryoma even exists.”

But before their presence can ignite the chaos Sera fears, Logan moves with quiet precision, guiding Frank Donovan and Marcus Hale toward the hallway.

The three slip out before any reporter even thinks to look back, disappearing from the locker room without a ripple.

“Set up a meeting with that kid,” Frank says.

Logan chuckles. “That fast, huh?”

Frank adjusts his glasses. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m taking him to America.”

***

The cheers for Ryoma might still be echoing somewhere far away in the city, but Kenta walks home in silence.

There are no cameras, no chanting crowds, no reporters swarming for comments. It’s just him, and the sound of his own footsteps, dragging slightly with fatigue.

He won tonight. Yet he feels like he’s walking home after a loss.

When he reaches his house, there’s no “welcome home” banner, no excited parents waiting at the door like those families in boxing documentaries.

The front light is on, but it feels dimmer than usual. Only Izumi rushes toward him the moment he steps inside.

“Welcome home, Nii-chan!”

“Yeah… I’m home,” Kenta answers, voice flat, barely lifting his eyes. His little brother doesn’t notice the heaviness trailing behind his words.

Izumi bounces on his toes. “So? Ryoma’s fight… did he win?”

Kenta forces a small smile. “Yeah, he won. Round two. He beat his guy pretty quick.”

“Whoa… that’s fast!” Izumi beams, eyes sparkling.

“In the most spectacular way you can imagine,” Kenta mutters, a mix of awe and resignation in his voice.

Izumi deflates instantly, shoulders slumping. “Aww man… I should’ve stayed longer. I can’t believe I missed it…”

Before Kenta can say anything else, their father’s voice cuts in sharply from the living room.

“Izumi. It’s late. Go to bed. Now.”

Izumi whines, “But I’m talking to Kenta-nii…”

Their mother appears behind him, hands already on his shoulders. “Tomorrow’s school.”

“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” Izumi protests.

“Then sleep earlier,” she replies, her tone gentle but firm as she guides him away.

Izumi shoots Kenta one last apologetic look before being ushered down the hallway.

Kenta stands alone in the entryway. Moriyama sits on the sofa, arms crossed, meeting his return with a cold stare and the bitterest greeting he can muster.

“So. You won,” the old man says without turning his head. “Though in the most humiliating way.”

Kenta freezes mid-step. His jaw clenches so tight he feels his molars grind.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “I won. By luck.”

His father scoffs loudly. “You’ll never make it big fighting like that. Quit already. The sooner the better. Before you wreck your useless body. At least you can take over the shop when I die.”

Kenta closes his eyes, breath shaking slightly.

He wants to snap back. To tell him the only reason he struggled tonight was because he was forced to do heavy labor on fight day.

He wants to shout back, that he trains, he works, he bleeds, and he still shows up. To say he’s not useless. That he loves boxing. That he believes he can go far.

But he says none of it.

Because even though he can fight grown men inside a ring, he can’t bring himself to hurt his father’s pride.

So he bows his head and walks past him, climbing the stairs silently.

***

The next morning, when any fighter should be recovering, Kenta is already on his feet at the shop, apron on, sweeping, lifting crates, sorting deliveries.

His father barks orders with the confidence of someone who believes the business guarantees the boy’s future.

And Kenta works without complaint, because complaining never earned him anything in this house.

Later in the afternoon, Moriyama calls out from the back of the shop without even looking at him.

“Kenta. Take this box to Momiji Kitchen.”

Without a word, Kenta wipes his hands, lifts the crate of fruit, and heads outside.

He swings his leg over the delivery bike. But the fuel gauge is sitting just above empty. One trip won’t make it.

He sighs, sets the crate down, and walks back into the shop.

“Dad,” he says quietly, “the bike’s almost out of gas. I need a little for fuel.”

Moriyama doesn’t even pause his work. He just scoffs. “Can’t you pay for it yourself?”

Kenta shakes his head. “I don’t have any money right now.”

His father clicks his tongue. “What about the money you bragged about the other day?”

Kenta freezes. A tight silence settles between them.

He considers mentioning the fight purse, the three hundred thousand yen he’d earned, the money his father always said he’d never be capable of making with his fists.

But he swallows it down. He hasn’t received the payout yet, and even if he had, it wouldn’t change anything. Not with his father.

He nods once and turns for the door without another word, deciding he’ll try asking his mother instead.

***

By evening, he’s slumped over the dinner table, eyelids heavy, body aching in places the ropes and fists never touched.

But his father still finds breath for another sermon.

“You’re wasting your life. Letting people punch you for money. You’re not Ryoma. Quit before you embarrass yourself again.”

Kenta doesn’t respond. He just stares at his bowl until the words fade into background noise.

But later, in the quiet of his room, he finally stops pretending everything is fine.

He pulls out a duffel bag, packs all his clothes into it.

Then he opens his closet, collecting his gloves, hand wraps, headgear, everything that belongs to his real dream, placing them carefully into another bag.

He moves quietly down the stairs. When he reaches the door, his father notices the bags and scoffs from the sofa.

“Good. Throw all that junk away. It’s time you stopped chasing stupid ambitions.”

Kenta doesn’t say a word back. And he isn’t going to throw them away either. He steps out of the house without a single word, closes the door softly behind him, more proper and respectful than his father deserves.

Outside, with the door already closed behind him, Kenta pauses. He turns back toward the wooden frame, not out of hesitation, but out of the last respect he can offer to the house that raised him.

He bows once, deeply, and then walks away without a goodbye.

And for the first time in months, the air outside feels lighter, even if he has no idea where he’s going next.