VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Morning comes gently to the Hamptons Apartments. Sunlight spills through the glass, pale and clean, the kind that makes the sea look calm even when it isn’t. One by one, the team stirs.

Aramaki stretching the stiffness from his shoulders, Kenta yawning his way through instant coffee, Hiroshi preparing today’s plan, Sera already dressed and checking his phone for errands to run.

Everyone looks fine. Everyone except Ryoma.

At six sharp, Aramaki slips out of his unit and knocks on the neighboring door, already dressed in the loose t-shirt he always wears for training

Nakahara opens it halfway, hair still uncombed, eyes sharper than his posture suggests.

“Where’s Ryoma?” Aramaki asks.

Nakahara glances down the hallway, toward the closed bedroom door. Then he shakes his head once. “Still in his room.”

Aramaki frowns. “Still jet lag?”

“Bad dream, it seemed,” Nakahara replies. “I checked on him last night. He was delirious in his sleep. Woke up looking worse than before.” He exhales. “Let him rest.”

Aramaki studies the old man for a second, then nods. “Alright.”

He abandons his idea of a beach roadwork and instead lays a mat near the window, where sunlight filters in softly.

He moves through light yoga alone, slow and controlled, eyes occasionally drifting toward Ryoma’s door.

Usually, by this hour, they’d already be running together, breathing in cold air along the Tama River, feet falling into rhythm before the city wakes. That routine has been theirs for months.

But today, even as the clock edges past seven, Ryoma doesn’t come out.

Curiosity finally outweighs patience. Aramaki approaches the door quietly and turns the handle just enough to peek inside.

It isn’t locked. And inside, Ryoma isn’t sleeping.

He’s seated by the window, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely around them. He looks toward the ocean without really seeing it.

When he turns his head, his eyes are open and alert, too alert, unlike the eyes of someone who just wakes up.

“Man…” Aramaki mutters. “I thought you were still sleeping.”

“I woke up around three,” Ryoma says.

Aramaki blinks. “What the hell?”

Ryoma turns back to the window. “Tried to sleep again. Couldn’t.”

That’s when Aramaki knows it isn’t jet lag anymore. He’d had it worse than Ryoma, crossing the same distance, wrecking his own body clock. And he feels fine now. Ryoma should have settled earlier than him, not later.

“Heard you got a nightmare,” Aramaki says.

Ryoma nods, voice even. “I lost the fight. Fourth round.”

Aramaki doesn’t respond right away. Then he lets out a short laugh, deliberately light. “You’re just overthinking. That’s all. Switch-hitters mess with your head even before you meet them.”

He steps closer, leaning against the wall. “And come on. If there’s anyone who adapts mid-fight, it’s you. You’ll figure him out. You always do.”

“I know,” Ryoma says.

Aramaki relaxes a little.

“I already made a plan,” Ryoma adds. “A clean one. I win before round nine. Round six, if everything works according to my plan.”

There it is, the Ryoma Aramaki knows. By this point in camp, Ryoma always has something mapped out. Never just one idea, but layers. Routes within routes. Adjustments prepared for failure.

Aramaki nods, relieved. “See? That’s more like…”

“But that fourth round,” Ryoma says quietly. “I can’t shake it off of my mind.”

Aramaki tilts his head. “You’re really hung up on a dream?”

Ryoma glances at him. “What if it wasn’t just a dream?”

Aramaki’s smile fades. “What now? You think you are seeing the future?”

“What if it’s a scenario I refused to consider?” Ryoma continues. “Or one I denied because I didn’t like it.”

He looks back out the window. “With my conditioning like this… four rounds might be my limit. By the third, my sharpness drops. My legs go first. Reaction slows. I keep thinking of ways to finish it early, but…”

His voice tightens, just slightly.

“I can’t find a way to knock Jade McConnel out within three rounds.”

The room feels heavier. Aramaki doesn’t say a word, trying to find a way to ease his worry, but no idea coming to his mind.

Behind them, Nakahara has appeared at the doorway without a sound. He doesn’t step in. He just listens.

“If it reaches the fourth,” Ryoma says, almost to himself, “he knocks me down. And I’d be too weak to beat the count.”

Nakahara lowers his gaze to the floor.

He wants to argue, to tell him this is defeatist thinking, to remind him of everything he’s overcome. To remind him that belief shapes reality. That champions don’t entertain loss.

But the truth sits uncomfortably in his chest. Because that same image had crossed his mind last night.

Not as a dream, but as a possibility he’d been afraid to voice. And he hasn’t seen a better alternative yet.

***

Despite the lack of sleep, the day doesn’t stop. By late morning, they’re back at the gym.

Nakahara had considered canceling it. But with the schedule already strangled by circumstance, there’s no room left to give up an entire day. The least he can do is soften the edges.

He pulls Hiroshi aside while Ryoma changes, voice kept low. “Go easy today. No pushing. No forcing anything.”

Hiroshi nods immediately. He doesn’t argue. He’s seen Ryoma’s eyes this morning, too sharp and too tired.

“Alright. We keep it light. Just movement. Sweat.”

Dr. Mizuno and Kagawa Jun are already there when Ryoma steps onto the gym floor. They don’t interfere, only observe. Mizuno stands with his arms loosely crossed, gaze clinical, following Ryoma’s breathing, posture, the slight stiffness in his shoulders.

Yesterday, Mizuno had suggested cutting Ryoma’s technical drills in half. But today, Nakahara cuts them entirely.

“No mitts,” he says. “No combinations.”

Hiroshi looks at him, surprised, but Nakahara shakes his head. “Not today. Today’s just about reminding his body how to move again.”

Ryoma hears it, but doesn’t protest. He knows part of this is because he couldn’t sleep due to his own anxiety.

And Ryom not arguing… that alone tells Hiroshi how deep the fatigue runs.

The session is stripped down to the basics. Light shadowboxing without intent. Footwork without speed.

Enough to warm his joints, enough to draw sweat out slowly, without asking his nervous system to make decisions.

Nothing that strains his mind. Nothing that adds burden to his cognitive load. Just letting the body work on its own. So maybe, tonight, sleep will come easier.

When Ryoma is having a break, Sera approaches Nakahara.

“Pendulum drills?”

Nakahara considers it, then looks at Ryoma again; how he shifts his weight, how his breathing evens when movement becomes rhythmic.

“…Yeah,” he says. “But keep it controlled. No tempo changes.”

Sera nods and brings Ryoma over.

The pendulum drills are simple, repetitive, almost meditative. No thinking, no reacting, only movement with one exact tempo.

Left, right. In, out. Back and forth.

Sweat begins to form along Ryoma’s temples, rolling down his jaw. It’s not training to sharpen him. It’s training to keep him from dulling further.

Mizuno watches closely and then turns to Kagawa, giving a small nod.

***

By late afternoon, they’re at the beach.

Not as a team, only Ryoma and Aramaki, jogging side by side along the sand, shoes in hand. The others linger farther back, sitting, laughing softly, finally letting the setting feel like something other than a holding pen for anxiety.

The sand makes every step heavier and slower. Aramaki keeps the pace modest, glancing sideways now and then, making sure Ryoma doesn’t push.

The ocean wind is cool and it helps.

Ryoma’s legs don’t feel good, but at least they move. And for now, that’s enough.

From farther back, Sera slows his steps, falling in beside Nakahara. His eyes stay on the two figures ahead, their silhouettes cutting shallow tracks through the sand.

“I just want him to come home in one piece,” Sera says quietly. “That’s it. I’m not thinking about winning anymore.” He pauses, then adds, almost apologetically, “And honestly… I don’t think that’s wrong.”

Nakahara hums under his breath, not in disagreement. He watches Ryoma’s stride, the way Aramaki subtly adjusts to match him.

“Yeah,” the old man says after a moment. “Maybe that’s not such a bad way to look at it.”

He rubs his gray hair lightly. “At the very least, this fight gives us something we couldn’t buy otherwise. An experience fighting a real switch-hitter. A champion-level one.”

His voice firms slightly, searching for something solid to hold onto. “That experience will stay with him. Next time he meets a southpaw, or someone who switches freely, he won’t be guessing.”

“And for us…” Sera exhales, long and weary. “We’ll know how to prepare better next time we go overseas.”

Nakahara nods, though his gaze never leaves Ryoma.

Behind them, Hiroshi and Kenta exchange a brief look. Neither of them says anything, but the discomfort is obvious.

The way the conversation has shifted, away from tactics, away from confidence, sounds too much like resignation. Like the adults in the room have already begun bracing for impact.

They don’t like it. But standing there, watching Ryoma run with a body that clearly hasn’t caught up with his will, neither of them can offer a better answer.

For now, this is the only choice left: keep him moving, keep him intact, and hope that what remains is enough when the bell finally rings.