VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, across the airport parking lot, Mark Holloway’s car pulls away from the terminal.

On the passenger seat, Jade is already watching something on his phone.

The volume isn’t loud, but the commentators’ voices, foreign but also familiar after being heard too many times, bleeds faintly into the space between them.

Mark keeps his eyes on the road. But he knows which video Jade currently watches.

“Ramos’ fight?” he says without looking.

Jade doesn’t respond. He taps the screen, rewinding a few seconds.

Mark exhales through his nose. “So you welcome the kid like an old mate, and the moment he leaves, you’re straight into his fights. What’s next? Looking for the best way to break his nose?”

Jade’s focus on the video doesn’t waver.

“Ah, that’s right,” Mark adds dryly. “No one’s done that yet. Heard his defense is a nightmare. You’ll have to work hard just to touch his face.”

But there’s still no response from Jade.

Mark finally glances sideways, and stops mid-sentence. Only then does he catch the champion’s expression, lit up with open amazement.

Then he looks away at once, eyes back on the road, muttering that it wouldn’t be funny to get into an accident now, not this close to fight day.

The thing is, Jade isn’t really studying Ryoma. He isn’t pausing frames or tracking patterns. He’s leaning forward, eyes bright, completely absorbed.

The clip ends, and he rewinds it again. “Man…” he murmurs, almost under his breath, a grin spreading across his face. “I’m already a huge fan.”

Mark turns to him again, frowns now, properly.

And Jade keeps talking, enthusiasm spilling out unchecked. “Look at how he moves. The confidence. The way he changes ideas mid-round like it’s nothing. All those little tricks. And he’s calm the whole time. Detached. Like the pressure doesn’t even reach him.”

Mark exhales, shakes his head as he returns his focus to the road again.

So that’s what this is. Not tactics, not mind games, not really a calculated show of friendliness.

His champion, Jade McConnel, is just taken by Ryoma’s brilliance way of boxing. And Mark hates that he understands why.

Ryoma Takeda is the kind of fighter trainers can only dream or talk in theory. Someone who learns faster than he should. Someone whose ring IQ outpaces his experience. Someone with composure that usually only comes after being broken once or twice.

Less than ten fights. And already carrying himself like a veteran. That kind of talent is dangerous, but also captivating in equal measure.

As Mark’s busy with his own thought, thinking about the risk and danger of fighting Ryoma, Jade is already moving on to another video.

It’s the viral one this time, the fight with Leonardo Serrano.

Rookie-level, yes, a fight no one serious should use as a measuring stick. But Jade leans closer anyway.

It’s the moment everyone clips, the sequence where Serrano throws everything he has, and Ryoma slips through it all. No counters, no panic, just inches of movement, clean timing, perfect calm.

This time, Jade’s eyes are even brighter, completely captivated.

“I really want to fight him so badly,” he says, finally turning to Mark, excitement sharp in his eyes.

Mark hears him, but doesn’t answer right away.

Jade locks his phone and leans back in the seat. “Let’s go straight to the gym, Coach.”

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t want me to drop you at home first?”

“Nah…” Jade shakes his head, flexing his hands before he realizes he’s doing it. “My hands are itchy. Need to hit something.”

Mark exhales through his nose, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. A block later, at the median break, he signals and eases the car into a U-turn, heading straight to the gym.

***

An hour later…

The car slows as it turns into the gym’s parking lot, the building already glowing faintly under its exterior lights.

The city keeps moving beyond the block, late afternoon traffic flowing unseen, while the gym’s parking lot sits apart from it, enclosed and self-contained.

Jade unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the door handle just as his phone vibrates. He glances down at the screen and breaks into a broad grin, the kind that comes easily to him.

“Oh, Emily…” he hums, amused.

Mark watches him answer as he steps out of the car.

“Hey babe…” Jade says, voice light, almost playful. “How you doing?”

There’s a sharp reply from the other end, fast and irritated. Jade slows his pace, rolling his shoulders as he listens.

“At the gym,” he answers casually. “Where else would I be?”

The complaining continues, the tone unmistakable even without hearing the words clearly. Jade keeps smiling, nodding along as if the conversation is perfectly reasonable.

“No, babe… I won’t be home for a while,” he says. “Probably not until dusk. Maybe later.”

There’s another pause as the girl on the phone starts rambling nonstop. Jade’s smile tightens, but doesn’t vanish.

“Then don’t wait around,” he adds. “Just head back to your mom’s place.”

Whatever comes next is longer, more emotional. Jade sighs softly through his nose, gaze drifting toward the gym doors.

“Two months isn’t that long,” he says. “And you know why. I’ve got a title fight coming up.”

The voice on the phone doesn’t soften. It keeps going, complaints piling into each other, grievances stretching back weeks, maybe longer. About time, about priorities, about how he’s always busy, always gone, always choosing boxing over her.

Even about accusation of cheating.

Jade’s steps slow, and then he stops walking. For a second, he just stands there, phone pressed to his ear, grin frozen in place.

His jaw shifts slightly, the muscle tightening as patience wears thin.

“Yeah,” he says. “I hear you.”

Then he lets out a short laugh and takes a step forward.

“Ah…”

His foot catches nothing, but still acts like he stumbles on something. Then he deliberately lets the phone slip from his hand.

“Ahk…” he fakes a groans. “My phone…”

The warmth drains from his eyes as he lifts his foot and brings it down.

Brack!

And again.

Crack!

The screen splinters completely, the call ending mid-sentence. Jade exhales, long and slow, then nudges the ruined phone aside with the toe of his shoe.

The grin is gone now. What replaces it is blank, distant, stripped of warmth.

“What a nuisance,” he says quietly.

From the car, Mark watches the entire exchange without comment. He doesn’t get out. He doesn’t call after him. He simply observes as Jade turns and heads into the gym, posture already resetting, focus narrowing.

“Thank God,” Mark exhales, “he’s still chasing the right thing.”

***

Inside, the gym is alive with the familiar rhythm of training. But that noise fades slightly as Jade moves through the space.

He’s already changed by the time he reaches the heavy bag. Gloves on, shirt off, a loose sleeveless training top hangs from his shoulders, cut wide at the armholes, exposing a frame that looks leaner than usual.

The muscle is still there, dense and defined, but there’s dryness to it now, a tightness that speaks of water weight already being stripped away.

Jade plants his feet and doesn’t bother easing into it.

BAM!!!

The first punch lands with a deep resonant thud that echoes through the gym. The bag swings hard, chains rattling above.

He keeps going.

BAM!!!

BAM!!! BAM!!! BAM!!!

Each strike is clean, measured, not wild and not rushed, but heavy enough to draw attention. The sound carries, deeper than the usual noise of training, enough that a few heads turn instinctively.

A pair of younger fighters near the ropes pause, watching him out of the corner of their eyes.

“Is he already cutting?” one of them murmurs.

“Yeah,” another answers quietly. “You can tell.”

The bag lurches again under a brutal combination. Jade’s breathing stays controlled, shoulders rolling fluidly as he resets and fires again. There’s no anger in his movement, no loss of form, just an intensity sharpened to a narrow point.

Someone farther back shakes his head. “Best give him space.”

“Yeah,” comes the reply. “He’s fine most days. Not like this.”

Jade keeps working, rhythm steady, eyes fixed ahead.

The world seems to narrow around him, everything else receding beneath the simple certainty of motion and impact.

He is usually nice and easy when he chooses to be.

But not now.

Not this close to the scale.