VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By early afternoon, Nakahara’s team arrive at the Hamptons Apartments on Melbourne’s bayside, stepping into a setup that was never originally meant for them.

The apartment complex stretches along the coast in clean lines of glass and concrete, modern but restrained, close enough to the beach that salt hangs faintly in the air.

Patrick is already out of the vehicle. An apartment staff member joins him at the entrance, offering practiced smiles as the group unloads their bags.

“Welcome,” the staff says, leading them inside. “We’ve prepared the units in advance.”

Patrick takes over once they reach the corridor. “This was originally arranged for Sagawa’s camp. You’re inheriting the setup as agreed.”

He stops in front of an apartment door. “This unit is for the fighter and head coach. Two bedrooms.” Then he gestures to the next one. “That one’s three bedrooms, for the rest of the team.”

Doors open, and the group disperses naturally.

Aramaki doesn’t wait for further instruction. The moment he spots an open bedroom door, he veers off, dragging his suitcase behind him.

“I’m done,” he mutters, completely exhausted. “I’m actually done.”

His bag drops with a dull thump near the doorway. He collapses face-first onto the bed, arms spread, body sinking deep into the mattress.

“…Oh my god,” his voice comes muffled into the sheets. “This is dangerous. The bed is way too comfortable.”

The room smells faintly of clean linen and something citrusy. The bed cradles him without protest, soft but firm enough to remind him he’s not dreaming.

“I could just sleep here the entire day. Maybe two…”

From the living room, Sera glances down the hallway, taking in the sight with mild resignation.

“…Looks like he’s already claimed one,” he mutters.

Kenta, meanwhile, does a slow turn of the apartment, eyes skimming over the kitchenette, the balcony doors, the neat arrangement of furniture.

He spots the sofa, nods once, and drops his bag beside it. “This is my place then.” he says, before flopping backward.

A moment later, Hiroshi steps out of one of the other bedrooms, having checked the space with quiet efficiency. Then he stops when he sees Kenta sprawled across the sofa like a discarded jacket.

“Kenta, why don’t you just share with Aramaki?”

Kenta blinks.

“The bed’s a queen,” Hiroshi continues calmly. “Plenty of space. Unless you two have an issue sleeping together.”

Before Aramaki can protest, Kenta is already sitting up. Once inside, the bag drops, and Kenta leaps onto the bed beside Aramaki.

The mattress dips hard, and Aramaki yelps. “Hey, warn me before you do that!”

Kenta grins, already making himself comfortable. “Relax. You said it was comfy.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to… No, this is my side!”

“You didn’t say that.”

“I thought it was implied!”

Their voices overlap, half-complaint, half-laughter, the sound carrying back into the living room.

Sera exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

“…Children.”

For Aramaki and Kenta, this kind of comfort is unfamiliar territory. Whatever ease they grew up with was left behind the moment they walked out on home.

Since then, it’s been cheap lodgings, borrowed floors, places meant to be endured, not enjoyed. So now, faced with a room this generous, a bed this soft, neither of them is willing to let it go.

***

In the neighboring unit, Ryoma quietly takes the bedroom meant for him. He sets his bag down and sits on the edge of the bed, testing it once.

The mattress is firm, the room cool and still. It’s the first time he’s experienced this kind of comfort. Even in his previous life, rest was never this deliberate.

He stays there a moment longer than needed. This is exactly what his body needs now. Not indulgence, just space to recover, to reset.

Back in the living room, Patrick lingers with Nakahara, continuing through the arrangements with practiced ease. He gestures as he speaks, his English calm and professional.

Nakahara nods along at first, catching only fragments. But after a few seconds, the rhythm outruns his understanding.

“Waito, waito…” he says, chuckling awkwardly. “Oi, kid! Come here a sec.”

Ryoma appears a moment later, stepping out from his room with his eyes half-lidded, hair still slightly rumpled from travel.

“Please translate it for me,” Nakahara asks.

Ryoma exhales with a tired face, gesturing at Patrick to speak. Patrick nods and starts again, slower this time.

“The accommodation is covered from today until February twenty-eighth. That gives you a few days after the fight. Anything beyond that would be on your own budget.

“

He produces an envelope and passes it over the old man.

“This is allowance for six people. Meals, transport-related expenses not handled directly. If something comes up, let me know before you spend outside the scope.”

Nakahara nods, glances at the envelope, and sets it aside, telling himself it can wait.

“I’ll be staying at an inn, ten minutes from here. During the day, I’ll be downstairs with the minibus. Training, beach, gym, wherever you need.”

Then he leaves, quiet as he arrived.

Nakahara closes the door behind Patrick and finally allows himself a moment. He opens the envelope, and begins counting without hurry.

“…20,000 AUD,” he mutters before turning to Ryoma. “How much that in yen?”

Ryoma’s brows lift slightly, genuinely surprise. “That’s a lot. More than two million yen.”

Nakahara smile with trembling lips.

That much, handed over without conditions. No breakdown, no receipts demanded in advance. Just an allowance, meant to be used as needed.

He leans back slightly, eyes drifting, thinking of Tokyo, of the last OPBF-ranked bout he hosted.

“More than five times what I gave Ramos’ camp,” Nakahara mutters, staring at the figure again. “Ah… maybe living costs here are higher than Tokyo.”

“They are,” Ryoma says with a nod. “Still, twenty thousand AUD for all of us, two weeks… that’s generous. Especially since I’m just a replacement.”

He turns and heads back to his room, lifting a hand casually. “It’s an OPBF title fight, old man.”

Just before the door closes, he adds with a boyish grin, “Better get ready. You might be organizing events like this soon.”

The door clicks shut. Nakahara remains there, expression vacant for a moment, an image of a belt slipping uninvited into his thoughts.

Then he exhales, shakes it off and grounds himself again.

They came into this fight with minimal preparation, little time to condition, with the most dangerous boxer in the pacific waiting ahead.

***

The night settles unevenly.

Hiroshi sits alone at the small desk, a notebook spread open beneath the lamp’s warm circle of light.

“Sixty-five kilos,” He writes it once, then draws a line beneath it. “Target, 61.2 kg. Nine days.”

Hiroshi taps the pen against the paper, jaw tightening. This isn’t a gradual cut. There’s no luxury of weeks, no slow taper.

It has to be controlled; water manipulation, diet restriction, light aerobic work layered carefully with skill training.

Push too hard and Ryoma’s sharpness dulls. Go too easy and the scale becomes an enemy.

“First day,” he mutters, sketching a rough plan. “Flush the travel out. Light roadwork. Sweat without stress. Beach runs at dawn. Shadowboxing to loosen the joints. Technical drills in the afternoon, no sparring yet. Calories trimmed, sodium gone.”

Every choice from here on carries a cost. Hiroshi leans back, eyes lifting to the glass. The lights outside blur slightly as fatigue creeps in.

This trip alone has already taken more than it should have.

And without noticing when it happens, sleep takes him in the chair, head tipped back toward the ceiling.

And morning comes too fast.

Sera wakes first, and for a moment he simply sits there, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of the apartment. Then he starts checking on the others.

Aramaki is sprawled across the bed, limbs heavy as if he’s been dropped there. Kenta isn’t much better, face pressed into the pillow, breathing deep and uneven. Neither reacts when Sera calls their names.

“This isn’t good…”

He goes to the next room and stops short. Hiroshi is slumped sideways in the chair, one leg hooked awkwardly around it, looking a second away from spilling onto the floor.

“Oi, Hiroshi…” Sera nudges him.

Hiroshi stirs slowly, blinking, eyes unfocused as he pushes himself upright. Then he holds his head, feeling dizzy.

Sera gestures toward the next bedroom. “Look at them.”

Hiroshi stands, peers inside, and his expression tightens as understanding settles in. He exhales quietly.

“Jet lag,” he whines. “Much worse than I expected.”

Sera folds his arms, worry creeping in. “If they’re like this, what about Ryoma?”

Hiroshi rubs his face, glancing toward the door that leads to the other unit. “None of us have ever traveled this far before,” he adds. “Not like this. Clearly not for a fight.”

Sera nods once, already moving. “Let’s check on him.”

They cross the hall to the other unit and knock. But there’s no response. Hiroshi knocks again, harder, but still nothing.

“That’s bad,” Sera says quietly.

They exchange a look, then Sera pounds on the door even harder.

Finally, a voice answers at last, muffled and rough. “Coming…”

The door cracks open. Ryoma stands there, hair a mess, one hand pressed to his temple, eyes dull with exhaustion.

“What time is it…?” he asks.

“It’s past nine,” Sera says.

Ryoma blinks, hard. For a moment, the shock cuts through the haze. Then it all comes back at once, written plainly across his face. His fatigue has layered too deep for a single night to fix.

Hiroshi watches him for a second, jaw tightening. “We might have to scrap today’s plan. Jet lag this bad will only ruin conditioning if we force it.”