VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The arena now buzzes with restless cheer; people shuffling down as latecomers slip into newly emptied seats. It’s the peculiar joy of a sold-out night: those who made it inside celebrating for beating the door without tickets.

They’re the opportunists who failed with the secondary markets outside the arena, and waited on hope alone for this final chance, the moment when someone else’s disappointment makes room.

Amongst them are Kaede and Aemi, moving with the current. They edge sideways between knees and bags as Aemi scans for space like a hawk.

“See?” Aemi whispers brightly. “I told you. There are always seats. Sometimes the supporters of losing camp leaves early, nerves can’t take it.”

She grins like this was strategy all along.

But Kaede barely hears her.

Her gaze is still fixed on the ring, on Ryoma standing beneath the lights, gloves raised, acknowledging the crowd with slow authority.

Every movement feels familiar, and impossibly distant at the same time. The way he turns, the way he pauses before lowering his hands.

Things she used to recognize as Ryoma now feel like habits she no longer has access to.

When Ryoma turns toward their side of the arena, Kaede reacts before thinking. Her fingers lift the edge of her mask, tugging it up toward her nose. It’s a reflexive shield, an instinct to hide from the possibility of being seen.

Aemi, meanwhile, is still searching. “Two seats… two seats…” she mutters, craning over shoulders.

Applause lingers, longer this time, then slowly settles as people begin sitting back down. But near Ryoma’s corner, two figures remain standing longer than the rest; Logan Rhodes and his daughter, Reika Takamori.

Logan’s voice carries easily as he calls out, pleased and unbothered.

“Good luck, Coach Nakahara. We’ve made it this far… another sold-out night.”

Nakahara looks over and gives a brief nod. “Thank you.”

Logan finally takes his seat, but Reika doesn’t. She remains standing, posture straight, eyes bright, waiting.

“Ryoma,” she calls. Once.

But there’s no response. Ryoma hears it, but there is hesitation in him to look behind. It’s small yet unmistakable.

She lifts her voice, just enough to draw attention.

“Ryoma!”

A few heads turn.

Reika’s smile tightens. And Ryoma finally turns, feeling not right to ignore the people who’ve really participated for this even.

“Ganbatte,” Reika says, gentle but deliberate.

Ryoma smiles back. He nods once, polite, careful, unmistakably public.

And the whispers start almost immediately, soft at first, then spreading in ripples through the nearby rows.

“Did you see that?”

“They look good together.”

“Of course she’s with him… who else would be?”

“Big company girl and the superstar… makes sense.”

A few girls glance between Ryoma and Reika, eyes sharp, measuring. Phones tilt, discreet but eager, already framing a story that doesn’t exist yet.

Kaede watches everything unfolds.

Now she feels something inside her click into place, not dramatically, but with quiet finality. The kind that doesn’t hurt all at once, but spreads slowly, convincing.

Of course, she thinks. Why wouldn’t he move on? When there’s someone like her around.

“Kaede!” Aemi suddenly grabs her arm, nearly bouncing. “Seats. Right there. Come on… before someone else takes them!”

She’s already pulling her along.

Kaede no longer feels the interest to stay and watch the fight. But she can’t fight Aemi now, and just lets herself be moved.

Her eyes have left the ring at last, the cheer of the arena washing over her like noise from another world.

***

Behind the red corner door, the mood couldn’t be more different. Ramos’ team sprawls around him, already looking bored, energy idling with nowhere to go.

Reyes checks his watch again and clicks his tongue. “What’s taking them so long?” he mutters. “This is ridiculous.”

Virgil steps closer to the door and leans to a staffer hovering nearby.

“Hey,” he says in English. “How much longer?”

The staffer blinks, smile snapping on too fast. He nods, then hesitates, searching for words in his limited English vocabulary.

“Ah… pleasu… waito, waito…” he says, hands lifting in a small, helpless gesture. “Soon. Soon.”

Virgil exhales through his nose and steps back. But Ramos just chuckles softly, completely unbothered.

“Relax,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “You hear that?” He jerks his chin toward the roar outside. “He’s the hometown hero. Let him have his moment.”

He grins, easy and confident. “It could be the last time they cheer like that… because tonight, I’m putting the first black mark on his career.”

Virgil doesn’t smile back. He studies Ramos for a moment, measuring that looseness, then steps closer, voice dropping.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he says. “That guy isn’t straightforward. They call him the Chameleon for a reason. He likes stealing weapons. Turning other people’s strengths into his own.”

Ramos hums in acknowledgment, attention only half there.

Virgil keeps going. “You saw Aramaki’s fight. You saw Kenta Moriyama too. Both of them showed things we hadn’t seen before. Adjustments. New looks. New weapons. New tricks.”

Ramos rolls his neck, still relaxed. “Yeah, yeah.”

Virgil taps his own temple. “There’s a good chance he’s picked those tricks up too… and he’ll use them on you.”

Ramos finally glances at him, that lazy grin creeping back.

“I know, I know… that’s the third time you’ve mentioned it already.”

Virgil exhales, not reassured in the slightest.

Moments later, the staffer finally receives the cue. He presses a finger to his earpiece, nods once, and then turns to Ramos’s group.

“It’s time,” he says, one hand already holding the door handle.

Ramos straightens, adjusting his shoulders. The laziness doesn’t leave him entirely, but it settles into something more professional; loose confidence, the posture of a national champion who doesn’t need to rush for anyone.

The door swings wide. Virgil steps out first. Ramos follows close behind, breaking into a light jog, feet tapping the floor in short easy steps.

The crowd reacts almost instantly. A pocket of voices rises from the stands, foreign accents cutting through the noise.

“Ramos!”

“Paulo Ramos!”

He lifts one hand in acknowledgment without slowing, the jog never breaking rhythm, expression calm, almost amused.

As he enters the arena proper, the contrast becomes clear. This isn’t his home. The cheers aren’t overwhelming, but they’re steady, earned and loyal.

A small group near the aisle waves flags, faces lit with pride. Some have flown in just to see him. Most are Filipino expatriates, drawn by the rare chance to watch their champion fight live.

Paulo glances their way and nods once more.

He moves toward the ring like someone used to hostile territory; aware of it, unbothered by it. A guest in enemy land, respected enough to be welcomed, dangerous enough to be taken seriously.

The smiles from his corner fade as the ring draws closer. Now it’s time for business.

With both fighters already in the ring, the arena settles into a tight, electric wait. The noise doesn’t fade. It sharpens, compressing into expectation.

Cameras circle. Officials move with practiced urgency. This is the moment just before names become consequences.

“And here we go,” one commentator says smoothly. “The fighters are set, the crowd is on its feet. This is the main event everyone’s been waiting for.”

“You can feel it,” the other adds. “Two undefeated paths about to collide. Different countries. Different styles. Only one leaves clean.”

“You framed it perfectly for this one,” the first says. Two undefeated. But one record must break tonight.”