VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

They step out of the hospital into the early afternoon light, the hours of tests and waiting finally behind them. The breeze is cooler now, shadows stretching longer across the pavement as they stand beneath the pickup canopy, waiting for a taxi to pull in.

Nakahara rubs his neck, exhaustion etched into every line of his face, then turns to Sera. “Take him home. Make sure he actually rests.”

But before Sera can respond, Ryoma lifts a hand in protest. “I’m fine. I’ll rest, I get it. But I don’t need to be chaperoned like a kid.”

His voice is steady, almost annoyingly normal. “You two should head back to Mt. Takao. Okabe and Ryohei are in good momentum. Don’t mess that up because of me. And Kenta… he’s the one standing on the edge of his career right now. You should worry about him more than me.”

Nakahara’s jaw tightens, as if he’s gearing up to argue, but the words don’t quite form. Ryoma’s reasoning is solid, annoyingly solid, and Nakahara knows it. The camp does need them. Kenta does need them. And Ryoma, standing there looking steady on his feet, gives him nothing concrete to push back against.

A taxi rolls up to the curb with a soft chime. Before Nakahara can muster a proper objection, Ryoma is already moving, opening the door, sliding into the back seat with practiced ease.

“Hey, kid…” Nakahara starts.

Ryoma gives a short tired grin. “I’ll rest. Promise.”

The door closes before any counterargument can land. The taxi pulls away, leaving Nakahara standing there with his hand half-raised, the protest still stuck somewhere in his throat.

Sera exhales a long breath that softens into a faint crooked smile as he watches the taxi shrink into the traffic.

“I can’t tell if he actually cares that much about the others,” he murmurs, hands in his pockets, “or if he just really didn’t want us hovering over him.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer immediately. He steps forward, raises a hand, and flags down the next approaching taxi with a sharp practiced motion.

“Either way,” he says, watching the empty road where Ryoma’s taxi vanished, “that kid cares about his own career. More than he admits. He’ll take this seriously now.”

He opens the door and jerks his chin toward the back seat.

“Come on!”

Sera slips in beside him. The door closes. The taxi pulls away from the hospital curb, heading in the opposite direction from where Ryoma disappeared.

Back toward Mt. Takao, back toward the camp, the work, and everything Ryoma insisted they return to.

***

Less than half an hour later…

Ryoma’s taxi drops him off in front of his mother’s barbershop just past early afternoon. The familiar jingling bell sounds as he pushes open the door.

Inside, the place is lively in its quiet everyday way, three customers seated, one in the chair with Fumiko carefully shaping his hair, the other two waiting with newspapers distracting them from boredom.

Ryoma steps in without a word. He doesn’t want to disrupt his mother’s concentration. She always gets this sharp, focused look when she’s in the middle of a cut. So he simply slumps onto the long bench by the wall and pulls out his phone.

Paulo Ramos’ fight footage loads instantly, the same files he downloaded weeks ago and must’ve rewatched a hundred times. Still, he presses play.

“Need to come up with a new plan…” he thinks, eyes narrowing at the screen.

>

“Not really,” Ryoma answers silently. “It might still work. But I should prepare another option. Just in case.”

>

Ryoma nods silently for that last bit. “That’s the kind of plan I’m looking for.”

Through the large front mirror, his mother’s eyes glancing at him between snips. Even while trimming hair with absolute precision, she still notices everything.

“Didn’t you say the training camp was supposed to last six weeks?” she asks.

Ryoma looks up, startled. “Huh? What?”

Fumiko pauses her scissors mid-air, and then turns her head slightly to look at him directly. “Did something happen?”

“Well… yeah.” Ryoma smiles calmly. “Had a tough spar with Kenta last week. Coach told me to rest for three days. Nothing serious.”

Fumiko hums knowingly and returns to shaping the customer’s hair. “I thought you were already missing your mother. That’s the first time you’ve been away from home that long.”

Ryoma snorts. “Is that so?”

“It is,” she teases lightly.

Before he can respond, the bell above the door jingles again. Kaori walks in, holding little Nanako’s hand.

“Eh? Ryoma…” Kaori blinks when she spots him. “You’re back already?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “Coach told me to take a rest.”

“What about Aramaki?” she asks, settling Nanako onto a seat.

“He’s doing fine. Way better than me,” Ryoma chuckles, eyes drifting back to the video. “He’s still up on the mountain, continuing the trial. You haven’t called him? If you leave him alone long enough, he might actually turn into a monk.”

Kaori giggles, waving a hand dismissively. “Yeah, right… as if he could ever forget about me or his daughter.”

Ryoma finally glances up, just long enough to add, “Well, I did hear him calling Nanako’s name in his sleep once, while making this face…”

He lifts one hand, pinching the air between his fingers, the other fanning in front of his nose, reenacting Aramaki’s dramatic panic while cleaning baby poop.

Kaori bursts into laughter immediately, and little Nanako giggles too, recognizing the gesture with delighted certainty.

Ryoma is back watching the footage, and soon a new idea sparks, sharp and sudden, urging to be tested. He stretches, pockets his phone, and stands.

But looking at the waiting customers, he postpones the plan. One of the waiting customers looks up, surprised, as Ryoma gestures to the empty chair before the mirror.

“Sir,” Ryoma says politely, “you can take that seat if you want.”

Fumiko stops mid-motion again. “Ryoma, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” he replies, already picking up a comb and scissors with practiced ease. “More than fine if it’s just holding these.”

Fumiko watches him for a heartbeat longer, half worried, half impressed, before returning to her client.

And Ryoma breathes in, steadying himself. If he can hold scissors steady, he can hold a plan together.

“So, how should I cut it?” he asks, smile gentle and perfectly placed.

He slips into this calm friendly persona with such ease, it’s hard not to wonder how many versions of him exist beneath the surface.

***

The haircut finishes cleanly, neatly, of course it does. Ryoma never messes up with his hands. When the last customer leaves, Ryoma exhales softly.

“Mom,” he says, slipping off the apron, “I’m heading back. If Coach finds out I’m not resting like he told me to, he’ll shave my head as punishment.”

Fumiko laughs at that, flicking hair off her wrists. “Go on, then. Sleep properly.”

“I will,” he lies with a smile.

He steps out into the cool corridor, walks the short path home, nods to neighbors who greet him cheerfully. His body moves lightly, casually, exactly how a kid on doctor-mandated rest should move.

But the second he slides into his room and closes the door behind him, something inside him switches off, or perhaps… switches on.

The easy smile drops, his eyes narrow, his breathing steadies into something sharper.

He kneels beside his cabinet and pulls open the bottom drawer, revealing a pair of worn-out gloves and a roll of hand tape, still faintly smelling of old leather and sweat from another lifetime.

He wraps with practiced speed, no hesitation, no wasted motion, and then stands in the center of the room.

“System,” Ryoma murmurs, voice low, the command almost ritualistic, “Activate Phantom Mode. Paulo Ramos figure.”

The room flickers, and then stabilizes.

A shape forms in front of him, wrapped in an aura of calm menace. Not the real Ramos, not even close, but the system’s manufactured projection wearing his face like a perfect empty mask.

But Ryoma’s posture hardens anyway. He knows it isn’t Ramos, he knows it’s simulated, nothing but data taking human form.

And yet, he still looks at the figure as if bracing for a real enemy. Or maybe as if bracing for something far worse: something inside himself he can’t trust.