VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next morning, Ryoma actually wakes long before the others. His eyes open slowly, the room still dim, morning light slipping through the curtains in thin gray lines.

He breathes in, then out, and waits for that horrible spinning sensation to hit. But nothing comes, no dizziness, no pressure, no stabbing headache.

There’s only a dull ache in his muscles from overtraining and the faint exhaustion that always comes after pushing too far.

He lifts his head experimentally, and the ceiling doesn’t sway this time. The walls don’t breathe. Everything stays still, steady, and normal.

A quiet sigh leaves him, half relief, half frustration. “So I really just passed out like an idiot…”

When he turns his head, he finds Hiroshi sitting beside the futon, asleep, slumped against the wall, arms crossed, chin resting on his chest. The guy must’ve stayed up half the night.

Ryoma shifts slightly, and Hiroshi’s eyes snap open.

“You awake?” he asks, gently rubbing his eyes.

Ryoma nods. “Yeah. Sorry for the scare.”

Hiroshi doesn’t smile. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me the truth… how do you feel? Anything hurting? Vision blurry? You dizzy? Nauseous?”

“No,” Ryoma says, and to prove it, he gets up, stretching his arms. “Honestly, I feel fine.”

“You didn’t look fine last night,” Hiroshi mutters, rubbing his face. “You scared the hell out of us.”

The door slides open before Ryoma can answer. Nakahara steps in first, followed by Sera, both looking like they slept maybe two hours, maybe less.

“How’s your head?” Nakahara asks immediately.

“It’s okay,” Ryoma replies. “Seriously.”

“Still… we’re taking you to the hospital,” Nakahara says.

Ryoma blinks. “Come on. Isn’t that a bit much?”

Sera crosses his arms. “You collapsed out of nowhere and complained about your head. That’s not a bit much. That’s a possible serious issue.”

“It was overexertion,” Ryoma insists. “I was training too long, that’s all.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” Hiroshi mutters. “We’re not risking a hidden concussion or internal issue. You’re going.”

Ryoma opens his mouth to argue again. But then, the system talks in his head, calm and casual.

>

Ryoma grits his teeth. “You’re not helping,” he mutters.

Hiroshi looks at him sharply. “What?”

Ryoma waves him off. “Nothing. I’m just talking to myself.”

The others exchange uneasy glances, but no one pushes it. Then Nakahara sighs tiredly and moves toward the door.

“Get dressed. We’re leaving in ten.”

Ryoma stretches again with a quiet yawn, pushing the lingering fog out of his mind. He tries to school his breathing, tries to focus. He has to look normal. Well, he is normal now, just looks tired.

Before seven, they’re already leaving Mt. Takao in a taxi. Ryoma sits in the back seat between Nakahara and Sera, both of them watching him with the quiet suffocating intensity of people afraid he might collapse again if they blink too long.

As for Hiroshi, he remains behind to supervise the others’ training camp, though Ryoma can almost feel his reluctance lingering like a weight in the back of his mind.

“I shouldn’t have let you spar Kenta without headgear,” Nakahara mutters, eyes fixed on the road, guilt threading through every word.

Sera turns sharply. “You what…?”

“It’s nothing,” Nakahara cuts in with a long, tired exhale, shutting the subject down.

Ryoma only tightens his fists in his lap, knuckles whitening. He hopes, maybe even prays, that his mind is just trying to make sense of last night’s chaos. That it’s nothing serious, just exhaustion reshaping memories into something scarier than they are.

***

At the hospital, after getting all the detail from Nakahara, the doctor starts examining him with sharp eyes and a gentle voice.

“Alright, Ryoma-kun. Let’s run through everything. You collapsed last night?”

Ryoma nods. “Yeah, but I’m fine now. I was just tired.”

The doctor smiles knowingly. “We’ll decide that after we check.”

He begins with a neurological exam first; flashlight in the eyes, follow the finger, balance tests, resistance checks, coordination movements. And somehow, Ryoma passes every test with ease.

“Your neuro responses are normal,” the doctor says. “But collapsing and experiencing sudden head pain is enough to warrant imaging. We’ll run a CT scan to make sure there’s no bleeding or swelling.”

Ryoma sighs. “Is that really necessary?”

Nakahara answers before the doctor can. “Yes.”

“You’re not walking out until we see the result,” Sera adds.

Ryoma wants to argue, but the system inside his head gives him a lazy sigh, already showing real personality like a real person.

>

Ryoma scowls. “Stop talking,” he mutters again.

The doctor pauses. “Did you say something?”

“Just… psyching myself up,” Ryoma says quickly.

The doctor gives a polite but clearly unconvinced nod, and then gestures to the nurse.

“Alright. Let’s get some imaging done first.”

Ryoma is led down a short hallway. The air feels cooler there, quieter, the kind of quiet meant for machines rather than people.

The scanner waits in the middle of the room, its circular chamber cold and impersonal, like it’s already annoyed to see him.

Ryoma settles onto the table, and stares up at the blank ceiling as the machine begins to move, gliding around him with flickering lights.

And there a thought creeps in.

What if they see something?

What if they find something wrong with my brain?

What if they notice the anomaly, and I’d be forced to tell them about the fucking system in my head?

***

Back to the waiting room, his team is waiting; Sera scrolling on his phone but not reading anything, Nakahara pretending to read a magazine but turning no pages at all.

Ryoma comes to them, and sits down. “I told you, I’m fine,” he says.

“You fainted,” Sera says evenly, still scrolling through his phone as if trying to hide the worry threading his voice. “Hiroshi said you grabbed your head like something was splitting inside.”

“You were out for nearly a minute,” Nakahara adds, unable to keep the edge from his tone. “We’re already here. So stop complaining and wait for the results like an adult.”

Ryoma opens his mouth to argue, frustration prickling under his skin. But the door opens, and the doctor appears holding a printout.

“Good news,” he announces with a calm smile. “Your CT scan is completely normal.”

Sera exhales quietly in relief. Nakahara slumps forward, hands covering his face as tension drains out of him, his shoulders lower by a fraction.

Ryoma releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Told you,” he says.

“No signs of bleeding,” the doctor continues. “No swelling, concussion, or structural abnormalities. Your neurological exam was excellent. Reflexes, balance, coordination, all intact.”

He turns to Ryoma with a gentler expression. “We’ve also reviewed your blood tests. You’re slightly dehydrated, your electrolytes are a bit low, nothing unusual for an athlete. And you’re showing markers of mild systemic fatigue.”

He taps the paper lightly. “All of this lines up with what we call acute syncope. Essentially, your body shut down from a combined overload of physical strain and mental overexertion.”

“Mental… overexertion?” Ryoma murmurs.

>

Ryoma keeps his face neutral, ignoring the voice threading through his skull.

“Is he allowed to train?” Nakahara asks, voice steady but tight. “The thing is, we’re in the middle of a special conditioning camp. His next fight is scheduled for December twentieth.”

The doctor flips to another page in Ryoma’s chart, eyes scanning thoughtfully. “With what I’m seeing here, light exercise will be fine… but only after three full days of proper rest.”

Nakahara’s brows knit. “And the training camp?”

“For anything intense?” The doctor shakes his head. “Cancel it. At least for now.”

A quiet tension ripples through the room. Nakahara and Sera exchange a brief heavy glance, one that already speaks of schedules being rewritten, drills being scrapped, and an entire training plan shifting to accommodate this unexpected setback.

“You still have nearly two months until the fight,” the doctor says. “That’s more than enough time, as long as he recovers properly. Pushing him right now risks another collapse, and the next one might not be so harmless.”

“I see…” Nakahara murmurs.

“We’ll re-evaluate his condition in two weeks,” he adds. “If everything looks stable then, he can gradually return to full training. Until that point, he needs rest, hydration, real sleep, and only light exercise if absolutely necessary.”

He gives Nakahara a firm look. “Please take this seriously. His body hit a limit last night. Ignoring that would be dangerous.”

Nakahara exhales slowly, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders.

“…Understood.”

Ryoma opens his mouth, ready to argue, ready to insist he’s fine, that one stupid collapse shouldn’t rewrite his entire training camp.

“I’m telling you guys…”

But the words barely form before a low steady pulse presses through his mind.

>

>

The protest dies in Ryoma’s throat. He exhales slowly, shoulders sinking as he lets the silence swallow whatever argument he was about to make.

“Stop arguing already,” Nakahara mutters, though the edge in his voice softens now that Ryoma isn’t pushing back. “Just for once, stop acting like an adult and be a good kid.”

Ryoma lifts a hand in surrender and forces a crooked smile.

“Alright, alright… full rest it is. I’ll be a good kid.”