VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Fujimoto finishes the last bite in unhurried silence. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, folds the napkin once, and exhales like a man satisfied by something more than food.

“You’ve done more than you were asked to,” he says at last, tone easy but deliberate. “In two months, Aqualis has been mentioned in European outlets we never planned to enter. Not through campaigns. Through you.”

Ryoma looks up, attentive now.

“That wasn’t in the contract,” Fujimoto continues. “So this isn’t either. Think of it as appreciation. Goodwill deserves to be met with goodwill.”

Ryoma blinks. “Another bonus?”

Fujimoto gestures lightly toward Kaito. “Show him.”

Kaito pulls his tablet free, taps, scrolls, then turns the screen toward Ryoma.

Luxury cars fill the display. Sleek silhouettes. Familiar names. Numbers Ryoma doesn’t bother reading.

Ryoma stares, then looks up. “…You’re offering all of these?”

“Not all,” Fujimoto says, chuckling hilariously. “You choose one. We purchase it. When you move, Aqualis moves with you. Image matters.”

Ryoma grins, eyes dropping back to the tablet, thumb already hovering. But the system doesn’t like it.

>

>

>

He reins himself in almost visibly. Fujimoto notices, just a flicker of amusement passing his eyes. Then he nods once to Kaito.

“There’s more.”

Kaito reaches for a magazine resting on the empty chair beside him and slides it across the table.

Ryoma opens it, and pauses. Property listings. Condominiums. Detached homes. Tokyo. The outskirts. Prices that make his earlier ten million feel suddenly small.

“…Don’t tell me,” Ryoma mutters.

“You may choose a car,” Kaito explains, “purchased under your name. As for housing, the company would acquire the property. You live there. If you extend your contract later, ownership transfers to you.”

The system stirs again, sharper this time.

>

>

Ryoma closes the magazine halfway. “I’ve only been under contract for two months,” he says calmly. “And you’re already talking about extensions.”

Kaito shakes his head. “Not expectation. Intention. You’re free to decline later. Until then, the house remains ours, and you can live there for the duration of your current contract.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer immediately. But before the silence can sour, Fujimoto speaks, casual as ever.

“This doesn’t bind you,” he says. “There’s no clauses, no pressure. I’m simply being honest. You have potential, less as a boxer, more as a presence. I want that future near Aqualis.”

Ryoma studies him. “And you won’t start suggesting who I fight? Cause it sounded like you just did earlier, demanding a fight between me and Yanagimoto.”

Fujimoto smiles thinly. “We won’t. And even if we did, you’re not obligated to listen.”

It helps, in a way. But Ryoma still hesitates, not from doubt, but because his life right now leaves no room for moving houses or chasing glamour.

He exhales, then drops the magazine back onto the table. “My mom won’t move,” he says. “I’ve tried to persuade her before, buy a new house. But she likes being close to the shop. If she’s not going, I’m not either.”

Kaito starts to speak, maybe suggesting she retire, but Fujimoto lifts a hand, stopping him.

Ryoma continues, nodding at the tablet. “And these cars? I don’t go out much. They’d just distract me.”

He glances up, grin returning. “So… can I ask for something else?”

Fujimoto raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“A minivan,” Ryoma says. “For the gym. Logistics. Airport runs. Fight days. Something that can carry ten people, or many stuff. Put your logo all over it… I don’t mind. Much better than a luxury car that only attracts trouble.” He smirks. “Not that I need help there.”

Fujimoto chuckles. Then laughs, genuine and loud enough to turn a few heads.

“A minivan,” he repeats. “For the gym.”

They look at each other, and the deal settles without another word.

Trust, after all, doesn’t always arrive wrapped in luxury. Sometimes it comes on four practical wheels.

***

After that dinner, they insist on driving Ryoma back. The car glides through the thinning traffic, Ginza lights giving way to quieter streets.

Conversation tapers off naturally, not awkward, just settled. When they stop in front of Ryoma’s apartment building, he steps out, bowing once, easy and familiar.

“Thank you for tonight,” he says. “And… for understanding.”

Fujimoto waves it off from the back seat. “Get some rest. Stay warm.”

Ryoma nods, breath fogging faintly as he steps back, hands in his pockets. He watches the car pull away before turning toward the building, shoulders already slipping back into their usual set.

Inside the car, silence lingers for a few seconds. Then Fujimoto exhales, looking out the window as the city rolls past.

“You know,” he says quietly, “most people his age would’ve jumped at the house. The car too. Without a second thought.”

Kaito smiles to himself, eyes forward. He doesn’t interrupt.

Fujimoto continues, more to himself now. “But he didn’t. He chose routine over comfort. Discipline over display.” He lets out a small satisfied laugh. “That only makes him more interesting.”

He turns his head slightly, looking toward the front seat where Kaito sits beside the driver. “My interest in him just keeps growing.”

Kaito finally meets his gaze, expression calm and assured. “Told you,” he says simply. “He’s a good person.”

Fujimoto nods once, as if confirming something he’d already decided.

***

Two days later, the quiet of early afternoon at Nakahara Boxing Gym is broken by an unfamiliar engine idling outside.

At a little past two, a silver minivan rolls to a stop in front of the building. Clean. New. The Aqualis logo stretches boldly along its side, flanked by images of recovery products and sleek typography that looks almost out of place on this narrow street.

A second car pulls in behind it. Kaito Morishima steps out first, adjusting his coat, followed by Mika Aoyama. They don’t make it three steps before attention gathers.

Nakahara emerges from the gym, wiping his hands on a towel, brows already drawn together. “What’s this?” he asks bluntly. “You could’ve at least called ahead.”

Kaito blinks. “Ah… did Ryoma not tell you?”

Nakahara pauses, then glances back instinctively.

Ryoma is leaning against the gym doorway, arms crossed, a small guilty smile on his face. “They wanted to sponsor the gym,” he says lightly. “With a van.”

Nakahara turns slowly toward the vehicle again. The logo, the size, the practicality of it hits all at once.

From inside the gym, Ryohei is the first out. “No way,” he says, eyes wide. “Is that ours, old man?”

Okabe circles the van immediately, grinning. “So this is the gym car? Can I drive it to the beach?”

Aramaki smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s gym property.”

“Exactly,” Okabe fires back without missing a beat. “Beach training. Sun, sand, great conditioning.”

They dissolve into laughter, already imagining it, not really the training, but summer and chicks in bikinis.

Ryoma watches them, quietly satisfied. Then a low rumble draws his attention again. A delivery truck pulls up behind the minivan. He straightens, genuinely surprised this time.

The delivery truck’s rear door rolls up with a hollow clang, and the driver jumps down, already unhooking the first pallet.

Long reinforced crates slide out, each stamped with customs markings and brand seals that make a few of the senior boxers pause.

Okabe leans closer. “Wait… isn’t that…”

The lid comes off.

Imported professional heavy bags, pristine leather still smelling new, Cleto Reyes, the kind you only see in elite gyms or on televised fight weeks. Thick, dense, and unforgiving.

“These aren’t decoration,” Kenta mutters. “These are the real ones.”

Another crate follows; hydraulic bag mounts, solid steel, adjustable height and tension.

Then rolls of fresh canvas mats, still wrapped tight. Deep blue, non-slip, stitched clean.

Then a slimmer case opens to reveal compact high-speed cameras, lenses protected in foam, cables neatly bundled.

“For review,” Mika explains quietly. “Frame-by-frame breakdown. Foot placement, punch trajectory, defensive reactions.”

Next comes the reaction-light system; small hexagonal nodes, each capable of flashing independently.

Sera freezes for a moment. His eyes light up, already mapping drills in his head; angle exits under random cues, late-round reaction decay, defensive responses layered over movement.

The heavier crates come last; a fold-out ice bath unit, professional-grade. Cryotherapy sleeves with digital temperature controls. Compression boots, multiple sets, coiled neatly like something borrowed from a national team facility.

Hiroshi crouches without realizing it. “This is new for us. Now recovery can be planned, not guessed.”

Ryohei lifts one of the compression boots. “Old man… this is championship-level recovery.”

And then, a second truck pulls up. This one doesn’t stop at the curb. It backs straight toward the gym entrance.

Men step out wearing work jackets, measuring tape already in hand. One of them glances inside, nods once.

“Ring replacement team,” he says. “We’ll need the space cleared.”

The chatter dies instantly, not out of tension but excitement. Grins flash, shoulders bump, and the youngsters file out one by one, clearing the gym with barely contained buzz.

Nakahara straightens slowly. “Replacement… ring?”

Kaito answers before Ryoma can asks. “Full-size. New posts, new ropes, fresh canvas. Same dimensions, safer padding. Installation today, if you’ll allow it.”

Ryohei breaks into a grin. “So this really is our gym now, huh?”

Okabe laughs, slinging an arm around Aramaki. “Guess we can’t complain anymore. We’ll have to actually work.”

Ryoma watches from the doorway as the gym fills with voices and new weight, the future arriving without asking permission.

He says nothing at first. Then, quietly:

“That old man’s crazy.”

But there’s respect in it. And something close to trust.