VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Fujimoto rises first. He reaches into his jacket and produces a simple name card, holding it out with both hands. No flourish, no expectation layered into the gesture.

“If you decide you’d like to continue the conversation,” he says, “you know how to reach me.”

Ryoma accepts the card with a nod. “Thank you.”

Fujimoto turns slightly, already calling toward the doorway. “Yamanami. It’s time.”

“Coming,” his grandson’s voice answers faintly from outside.

As Fujimoto prepares to leave, Ryoma’s Vision Grid nudges him, not sharply, not urgently, but with a quiet internal alignment.

>

>

>

Ryoma exhales once, slow and controlled. Even without the system’s prompt, the feeling remains unchanged, and already decided somewhere beneath conscious thought.

“Fujimoto-san,” he says.

The old man pauses and turns back.

Ryoma’s expression hasn’t changed. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no urgency in his stance.

“If possible,” Ryoma says, showing a polite smile, “could you send the contract draft to me today?”

Nakahara’s eyes flick toward him, surprised, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I’d like to read it carefully,” Ryoma continues. “If everything is in order, I can give you my answer by tonight. Then we won’t need to drag things out tomorrow.”

The room goes quiet.

Fujimoto doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze shifts, not suspiciously, but observantly. He glances at the two staff members waiting near the door, and then back to Ryoma.

That’s fast. Has his greed already taken over?

This isn’t what I expected from him.

He watches Ryoma closely now, measuring the space between eagerness and appetite, between ambition and greed.

But no, what he finds instead is composure; just a young man already comfortable with deciding for himself.

Ryoma’s casual smile doesn’t waver. And so Fujimoto’s lips curve faintly.

“I see,” he says and nods once. “Very well.”

He turns to one of his staff. “Send the draft when we return.”

Kaito and Mika exchange a brief look, excitement carefully kept in check, before turning back to their boss.

“We’ll send it immediately,” Mika says.

Then Fujimoto turns back to Ryoma. “Take your time reading it,” he adds. “Tonight or tomorrow makes no difference to me.”

Ryoma inclines his head. “Thank you.”

As Fujimoto steps toward the door again, he doesn’t look back this time. But his pace is just a little lighter than when he arrived.

***

By late afternoon, the gym begins to thin. One by one, the youngsters excuse themselves, bows quick and polite, voices carrying tired satisfaction. Shoes scrape against the floor near the entrance. The door opens and closes repeatedly until the noise fades into distance.

Ryoma stays, sitting behind Nakahara’s desk, posture relaxed but alert, one leg hooked around the stool’s rung.

The computer screen glows in front of him, inbox open. He refreshes it repeatedly, waiting for a new message to appear.

>

Ryoma stops, but not too long, and he presses that F5 key again.

The gym is fully empty by the time Nakahara steps inside the office. A moment later, Sera follows, then Hiroshi, carrying a small stack of paperwork he hadn’t bothered to put away yet.

All three of them glance toward the desk without saying anything.

Ryoma fully notices their present, all of them waiting. But he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen.

“Coach,” Ryoma says, still refreshing the page, “can we use the same lawyer you’ve been working with for the events?”

Nakahara blinks. “Ogawa? Sure. I can call him later.”

“Let’s call him now,” he says, eyes are still on the monitor. “Lawyers are usually busy. I’d rather secure his time immediately. I want this wrapped tonight. Tomorrow should just be signatures.”

Sera lifts up his brows, and then lets out a short uncertain chuckle. “You want this sponsor that badly, huh? First big one, I get it. But you’d better be careful before deciding.”

For the first time, Ryoma stops refreshing the page. He lifts his gaze and looks at Sera properly.

“I’ve got a strong feeling about this one,” Ryoma says, his voice calm but carrying weight. “That old man… he’s not just a partner.”

Nakahara’s brow tightens as he listens, phone paused in his hand. Sera’s uncertain smile fades, replaced by something more measured. Even Hiroshi, quiet until now, shifts his stance, attention fully drawn in.

“He’s going to be one of us,” Ryoma says. “One of the missing pieces for this gym to move forward.”

Sera studies his face, searching for exaggeration, for excitement. But he doesn’t find either.

“I’m not looking at him only as a business connection,” Ryoma adds. “He’s fighting something of his own. Different battlefield. But the same war.”

The words hang there, settling into the room slowly, heavy enough to quiet everyone without demanding a response.

Then Nakahara exhales slowly, and then reaches for his phone. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll call Ogawa.”

Ryoma turns back to the screen. The inbox refreshes again, and after another seven presses of the F5 key, the subject line finally changes.

“There it is,” he says quietly. “They’ve sent it.”

Nakahara pauses, phone pressed to his ear. After a brief murmur of acknowledgment, he nods once and steps out of the office, already moving as if the next piece is in motion.

Hiroshi and Sera drift closer, stopping behind Ryoma’s chair. The document opens on the screen, page after page of dense text.

“Why don’t you print it so we can read it too?” Sera suggests.

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He reaches for the printer settings, sends the file through, and turns back to the screen. Two copies slide out moments later, but he keeps reading the digital one on the monitor.

As he reads, Vision Grid layers its analysis quietly; clauses tagged, risks noted, language parsed for intent.

Ryoma doesn’t engage with it yet. He doesn’t need to. For now, he reads straight through, focused on the document itself, trusting the system to compile its conclusions in the background.

Sera and Hiroshi are still working through the first half of the document when Ryoma leans back in his chair. He closes his eyes, shoulders settling, breath steady.

Normally, this is when he’d call up the system’s analysis directly. But this time, he doesn’t. Even with his eyes closed, the structure of the contract resurfaces in his mind; clauses, conditions, exceptions, assembling themselves as fast as his thoughts move through them.

When he opens his eyes again, the decision is already there.

Sera and Hiroshi pause mid-read. They exchange a glance, the same unspoken question passing between them: Did he really go through all of it already?

“Looks clean,” Ryoma says quietly. “Except one thing.”

His expression shifts, just slightly, into something almost amused. “There’s a funny clause,” he adds. “I’m not allowed to personally promote betting companies, adult entertainment, or a few other industries they consider unhealthy.”

He exhales through his nose. “Not competitors. Just things the old man doesn’t like.”

Sera frowns and flips back through the pages, scanning more carefully until he finds it. “Oh, here it is…”

Hiroshi reads as well, but stops short, eyes lifting from the paper to Ryoma. “Wait… If you can’t promote betting businesses… doesn’t that mean you can’t make any deals with Logan Rhodes anymore?”