VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next morning…

Paulo Ramos stares at the ceiling, counting the cracks he didn’t notice yesterday. Or the day before, he’s not so sure. His head is still throbbing, not sharp, just a reminder that he’s still here, still thinking.

There was a time he boasted about easy pay day. He even had a long list of places he would visit during his stay in Japan.

But now…

“Haaaiisssh,” he exhales. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

Virgil Santos sits in the chair by the window, arms folded, eyes hard on nothing. Reyes stands near the foot of the bed, phone untouched in his hand. Salem leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking bored and sleepy.

“You still got paid,” Reyes offers, too quickly. “Full purse.”

Ramos snorts, and then regrets it when the movement tugs at his jaw. “Yeah. Great. I got paid to sleep on a canvas and wake up here. What a terrible luck.”

Virgil finally speaks. “Stop.”

Ramos turns his head slightly. “What?”

“Stop talking like it was luck,” Virgil says. “You didn’t slip. You didn’t get caught once. You ran out of air.” He hesitates, jaw tightening. “And as much as I hate admitting it… they planned it. Every part. They beat us clean, inside the ring and out.”

The internet hasn’t let the fight rest. Some pushed darker theories, calling it staged, claiming Ramos took a fall for money. Explanations meant to make the loss easier to swallow.

But there are true analyses out there, frame-by-frame breakdowns trying to decode what Ryoma did, why his boxing worked so well, why it looked almost too clean.

Virgil has read most of them. As the man in the corner, he’d seen more than anyone. And uncomfortably, some of it makes sense.

It clears the fog around how they lost. But that clarity hurts him more than the defeat ever did.

“That pressure…” Virgil speaks again. “That constant mid-range pressure, that’s what made you undefeated. It minimizes risk of counters. It piles damage. It wins rounds. No one could break it because you could keep that pace for ten rounds like it was nothing.”

Reyes blinks, and then nods. Salem doesn’t argue. That rhythm had carried them through everything.

“But that kid recognized something,” Virgil says. “Not that it was weak. That it was complete. Too complete to fight head-on.”

Ramos doesn’t argue. He really has that much confident in his boxing. And yes, he believes it’s a perfect way to win boxing fights.

“So instead of meeting it,” Virgil goes on, “he pulled you into his own rhythm first. That lazy, Soviet tempo. Slow hands. Broken timing. No urgency. It stole your sense of pace. You couldn’t settle into your pressure cleanly.”

Ramos’ brows twitch slightly. He remembers the irritation more than the danger.

“And you did what you were supposed to do,” Virgil says. “You took the tempo back. You forced your rhythm early. High output. Tight sequences. And you dominated that phase.”

Ramos nods once. He had felt in control back then.

“But pressure like that costs oxygen,” Virgil says. “Not immediately. Quietly.”

He taps his own chest, once. “You didn’t crack because you were tired. You cracked because there was a moment, just one small opening, where your body needed air. And instead of backing off, Ryoma Takeda hunted that moment.”

“I remember that moment,” Ramos says. “No one’s ever done that to me before.”

Virgil nods, then adds the part that matters most. “And he didn’t just wear you down with body shots. He timed the punch to your inhale, took the breath right out of you.”

Ramos’s fingers tighten slightly. The silence afterward isn’t heavy. It’s just getting clear.

“We’ve been winning with that rhythm for years,” Virgil says finally. “But now we know… it isn’t perfect. It can be sunk.”

He looks directly at Ramos. “We can’t repeat the same mistake. Others might have learned that, and will use it against you.”

Ramos nods, feeling grounded, and humbled.

But before he can say a word, the door opens. The doctor steps in with a tablet tucked under one arm.

“Mr. Ramos,” he says. “How’s the headache?”

“Still there,” Ramos replies. “Guess that’s normal when you get knocked out on international television.”

The doctor doesn’t rise to it. “You lost consciousness, yes. But not primarily from head trauma.”

Reyes straightens. “Not… from the punches?”

“They contributed,” the doctor says evenly. “Facial trauma, swelling, stress response. But the main cause was cyanosis.”

Ramos doesn’t look too surprised anymore. “So I blacked out because I couldn’t breathe…”

“Because your body couldn’t get enough oxygen,” the doctor corrects. “You were operating in severe oxygen debt. When the referee stopped the fight, your lips were already blue. We identified it immediately.”

Salem shifts. “From the body shots?”

“Yes… but from prolonged exertion too,” the doctor says. “From continuing to push after your system should have shut down. Your brain protected itself by cutting the lights.”

“So… when can I leave?” Ramos asks, and then sighs. “We already booked the flight back. I had a whole list, you know… places I wanted to see before we left.”

The doctor looks at him for a moment before answering. “Your scans show no bleeding or swelling in the brain,” he says. “That’s the good news. But you lost consciousness. That means your brain was under severe stress. Partly from the blows, partly from the lack of oxygen. Those kinds of injuries don’t always show their effects right away.”

He meets Ramos’s eyes. “So we keep you here for a full week. Not because we see brain damage now. But because this is the window when delayed neurological problems can appear.”

A disappointed breath passes through the room, uneven and shared, as the reality of canceled plans settles in.

“Losing consciousness in a fight isn’t trivial,” the doctor continues. “But you were lucky. Really.”

He hesitates, then adds, “I heard your opponent pulled his last punch. You should be grateful for that. Otherwise, this could have ended much worse. It could just end your career, you know.”

Ramos lets the words sink, and then stares back up at the ceiling.

For a moment, something bitter tightens in his chest; anger, sharp and hot, at being beaten by a kid with six professional fights, someone he’d written off as green.

Then he lets the breath out slowly, and the edge dulls. What’s left is quiet clarity. A small peaceful smile touches his face as he accepts it, feeling grateful at Ryoma’s mercy.

“So,” he says softly, “no sightseeing.”

Reyes lets out a weak laugh. Salem doesn’t.

Virgil snorts. “So much for an easy payday.”

Ramos closes his eyes. “…Yeah.”

The doctor clears his throat and steps back. “Mr. Santos, I’ll need you for a moment. There are a few things we should go over.”

Virgil nods and follows him out, the door swinging shut behind them.

Silence settles in, but not for too long. After a moment, Ramos opens his eyes and looks around the room.

“Hey,” he says. “Where’s my phone?”

Reyes stands, fishing it out from the chair by the wall. “Here.”

Ramos takes it, rolling it in his hand. “Guess I’m not going anywhere,” he mutters. “Might as well continue my One Piece marathon.”

He unlocks the screen, thumb hovering over the streaming app.

Then he hesitates as curiosity prickles. He doesn’t really remember how the fight ended. Not a trace of memory he got down for the last time.

He opens the browser instead. And the first thing that loads stops him cold.

A photo; him folded on the canvas, limbs slack. Ryoma standing over him, eyes sharp, gaze cold, looking down not with mercy, but with something far more unsettling.

Ramos stares at it, long and quiet. That isn’t the gaze of someone who pulls a punch out of sympathy.