VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

He tells himself it was never about seeing her, not really. He didn’t come chasing closure, or nostalgia, or something soft he’d already cut away.

He just needed to know she hadn’t stayed behind for him, that she’d taken the promotion, and stepped into a life that didn’t have to orbit his.

>

>

Now the answer settled without argument. The system is right. She’s gone to Malaysia, a different skyline, a different future.

The worry loosens its grip, quiet and final. Ryoma exhales, turns, and brings the phone back up and dials again.

“Ennosuke-san. You still driving?”

[ What, you think I sleep in the back seat? Where are you? ]

“I’m still at Kaede’s apartment.”

He waits by the roadside, the city breathing around him. He isn’t really alone, the system keeps muttering, filling the quiet with fragments that don’t go anywhere.

Then a taxi slows and pulls over. The window rolls down.

“Get in,” Ennosuke says.

Ryoma opens the front passenger door and gets in. Ennosuke pulls away at once, the taxi easing back into traffic.

“That was quick,” Ennosuke says, glancing at him. “You meet Kaede?”

“Nope,” Ryoma answers casually. “She’s in Malaysia now.”

“Hah.” Ennosuke chuckles. “Too bad. I thought you’d be sleeping over.”

He tilts his head. “So what, long-distance now?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer, just keeping his eyes on the window.

The old man exhales. “Not really my business… But I’ve known you long enough. So hear my advice. If she really moved there… not just a visit, don’t drag it out. Long distance’s ugly. People get lonely. Someone slips. Then comes blame. Better to end it clean. I think she’d understand.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He made that choice a long time ago; he doesn’t need it explained back to him.

***

Minutes later, the taxi turns onto a familiar block. As they pass Nakahara Boxing Gym, Ryoma glances over. The lights are still on at this hour, bright against the dark street.

And the system doesn’t miss the opening.

>

Ryoma exhales and leans back deeper into the seat, eyes closing, letting the voice run without feeding it.

The taxi stops in front of his mother’s barbershop. Through the glass, Fumiko is mid-cut, scissors flashing under fluorescent light.

“You coming?” Ryoma asks, already pulling out cash.

Ennosuke waves it off. “Nah. Keep it.”

Ryoma drops the money on the dashboard anyway and steps out.

“Hey, kid. Your money.”

Ryoma doesn’t turn back. He opens the shop door and slips inside.

Fumiko notices his reflection in the mirror and greets him without lifting her eyes from the customer’s hair.

“Sorry, mom… I haven’t cooked anything.”

“Where were you?”

“Kaede’s place.”

Fumiko hums, smiling faintly, scissors moving again.

The silence stretches only a moment before she adds, casually, “It’s been more than two months since her last visit.”

Ryoma flicks his gaze to the mirror, then quickly looks away. But Fumiko doesn’t miss the shadow that crosses his face.

“Did you have a fight?” she asks.

He lets out a short laugh. “Why would you think that?”

She finishes the cut first, dusts the customer’s shoulders, and steps back. The woman studies herself, pleased, pays, and leaves.

Fumiko bows, straightens, and move to the counter.

“I told you to stop treating me like a child,” she says, placing the money in the drawer. “Yet you still let Kaede come sit here while you’re off getting punched in the face.”

Ryoma exhales. “She’s in Malaysia now.”

Fumiko turns. “She’s moving?”

“She got a promotion.”

Fumiko goes quiet, then smiles gently and comes to sit beside him.

“Love isn’t about what you keep,” she says. “It’s about what you give. If Malaysia gives her a better life…”

“She didn’t want to leave,” Ryoma cuts in. “She thought about declining it. For me. I couldn’t accept that, so I convinced her to take it.”

Fumiko nods, letting the matter rest.

“I don’t know if I did it for her,” he admits, voice lower now. “I tell myself it was love. But… what if I just didn’t want her anywhere near my boxing?”

She watches him for a long moment, this time, without any trace of smile. Ryoma can’t stand it and looks away.

“Did she agree?” Fumiko asks quietly.

“It wasn’t easy. But she agreed.”

“Then that’s enough. You’re both adults. You chose. She chose. No one is to blame. So stop punishing yourself.”

Ryoma looks back at her. She smiles again. And he nods.

“So,” she says, standing, “Shimizu’s soba for dinner?”

Ryoma just watches her clean the shop, thinking.

She agreed, he said. But the guilt doesn’t leave him.

He knows he didn’t just persuade her. He maneuvered her, played psychological tricks on her.

And that knowledge settles heavy in his chest: that he played with the heart of someone he was supposed to protect.

***

While the city is still arguing about Ryoma Takeda, Nakahara Boxing Gym is awake for a different reason entirely.

It’s money.

By every visible measure, the event at Ōta Gymnasium was a success. The venue hit maximum capacity, twice the attendance of their previous show at the same place.

The noise, the buzz, the headlines afterward; all of it suggested momentum. And Nakahara had expected the numbers to reflect that.

But they don’t.

Sera clears his throat and taps the figure written at the bottom of the ledger.

“Twenty-seven million, five hundred eighty-one thousand, one hundred forty-five yen.”

Silence hangs in the room. Nakahara scratches his head seeing that number, and exhales slowly.

“Did we miscalculate something?” he murmurs.

Sera doesn’t answer right away. He studies the papers pinned to the wall, ticket breakdowns, expenses, margins, then shakes his head.

“On the counting side? I don’t think so,” he says. “But we didn’t maximize the upside either. Ticket sales doubled from the last event, yes. But we didn’t generate much beyond that.”

“It’s on me,” Nakahara admits.

Sera shrugs lightly. “Maybe. But that’s not a mistake. You focused on the fighters. And good thing they all came through.”

Hiroshi offers a thin smile, trying to salvage the mood. “If we’re being fair, we also didn’t pay anything to organize the event. NSN handled the venue, promotion, logistics… all of it. Our biggest expense was the fighters’ purses.”

He glances at the numbers again. “Even so, the profit is still higher than last time.”

Nakahara nods and lowers himself into a chair. The disappointment fades, replaced by something steadier.

He presses his palms to his knees, willing the last traces of greed out of his chest. Higher than before is still progress. Just not the leap he’d imagined.

Nakahara folds his arms, thinking it over.

“The venue sold out again,” he says at last. “Next time, we should consider sharing ticket revenue with the fighters. Especially the headliner.”

Sera and Hiroshi exchange a glance, then smile. No argument there.

Before either can speak, the phone on the desk rings.

Nakahara picks it up. “Nakahara speaking.”

He listens for a moment. Then his eyes narrow. He lowers his voice and covers the receiver with his hand.

“Masahiro Nishiyama,” he whispers.

Sera straightens. Hiroshi leans closer. Nakahara places the phone on the desk and switches on the speaker.

[Nakahara-san. You must have followed the recent news.]

“I have,” Nakahara replies calmly. “Is that why you’re calling?”

[Yes!]

“I came to your gym in person when I wanted a fight,” Nakahara says. “Courtesy matters. Couldn’t you do the same instead of sending requests through intermediaries?”

[Maybe that’s how you do business. But why waste time and money traveling when we can talk through this?]

There’s a brief pause.

[I’m offering the same numbers you offered me. One million for Tatsuki Aramaki. Three million for Kenta Moriyama.]

Nakahara smiles faintly. “Nishiyama-san, I don’t believe that’s accurate.”

[What are you talking about? That’s exactly what you paid my fighters.]

“Yes,” Nakahara says evenly. “Because they lost. Or are you still denying that?”

He lets the words settle. “If you want a rematch, I’ll accept, under the same condition. One million for Aramaki. Three million for Moriyama. But if they win…”

[Stop dreaming, old man. You just got lucky.]

“Then you shouldn’t mind my terms,” Nakahara cuts in. “If Aramaki wins, you pay him two million. If Moriyama wins, five.”

[You…]

“And one more thing,” Nakahara continues, unhurried. “We signed an agreement. If I won, you would issue a public apology for how you treated me when I visited your gym. For the humiliation.”

His voice hardens. “And I haven’t seen it yet.”

[Don’t get ahead of yourself. You should be grateful I worked with you at all. No other gym in this country will touch you now. Learn that while you still can.]

Nakahara doesn’t raise his voice.

“My conditions aren’t negotiable,” he says. “Meet them… or don’t call me again.”