VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, dusk has settled over Akihabara in layers of neon and shadow. The sky has not gone fully dark yet, but the streetlights and signboards are already awake, their colors bleeding into the sidewalks and reflecting off glass storefronts.

Inside a cramped arcade tucked between an electronics shop and a ramen place, the noise is relentless. Game music overlaps with mechanical chimes. Buttons click, joysticks snap, coins rattle.

It is the kind of place where time blurs easily, where frustration can loop forever without consequence.

Okabe sits in front of an aging King of Fighters cabinet, shoulders tense, eyes locked on the screen. Joe Higashi moves exactly the way Okabe tells him to; forward pressure, aggressive footwork, sharp strikes.

Across from him, Chin Gentsai staggers. The old man sways drunkenly, gourd sloshing, posture loose and disrespectful. He looks like he should fall over at any second.

And yet…

“Tch!”

Okabe jerks the joystick, fingers slamming the buttons. “Stop slipping through like that, you damn drunk!”

The old Gentsai ducks under a high kick, stumbles sideways, then snaps back in with a palm strike that lands clean.

Joe reels.

“No… no, no, no…!”

Then the old drunken master spews out his liquor like flames.

Blarrr!!!

K.O.

The screen flashes bright. Chin Gentsai hiccups and sways. The machine chirps cheerfully, cruelly.

“…Bullshit.”

Okabe slams his palm against the side of the cabinet. “That’s not even real boxing. You’re just flailing around!”

He exhales sharply through his nose and digs into his pocket, feeding another coin into the slot.

The match restarts, same rhythm, same stupid sway, same ugly timing.

Joe Higashi rushes, and Chin Gentsai staggers backward like he’s about to collapse, then slips inside again and drops him.

“Ghh…!”

A raw grunt tears out of Okabe’s throat. “I said stop moving like that…!”

Another loss by another drunken bow.

His hand slips into his pocket again, but finds nothing. He checks the other one, then the back, but they are empty, no more coins left.

“…Damn it.”

He steps away from the machine, jaw clenched, eyes still burning at the screen like it personally mocked him.

Around him, laughter erupts, coins clatter, someone cheers at a different cabinet. The arcade keeps breathing, indifferent to his frustration.

Okabe turns toward the counter with the intention of exchanging more coins. But his steps slow as his irritation quietly shifts into something heavier.

Tonight, Higuchi Naoya is fighting for a title at Korakuen Hall, standing beneath the lights he himself once imagined would be his. The contrast settles deep in Okabe’s stomach, sour and unmoving, as images of a packed arena and a belt on the line surface uninvited.

While Higuchi prepares to step into the ring, Okabe finds himself lingering here, wasting time and money, getting humiliated by a drunken old man controlled by a machine.

The realization twists sharply, because the loss still does not feel like proof of inferiority to him.

***

The Class A final resurfaces in his mind, dragging with it the memory of a single hesitation, a fraction of timing lost, and a fight that slipped away before he could reclaim it.

His belief has not changed, even now, and that stubborn certainty only makes the present moment harder to swallow.

“…Damn it.”

Okabe no longer feels the urge to exchange anything at all, and the idea of staying inside the arcade suddenly feels suffocating.

He turns on his heel instead and heads for the exit, pushing through the automatic doors with a sharp breath as he mutters curses under his breath, most of them aimed squarely at himself.

“Damn it… damn it all!”

But his frustration spills outward at the worst possible moment as he nearly collides with someone. He jerks aside just in time, his shoulder brushing against fabric as his posture stiffens on instinct.

“Watch it,” he snaps. “You got a problem with me?”

His chin lifts automatically, the reflex of someone used to standing his ground, of someone who believes that being a boxer still means something.

The man in front of him blinks once, and then lets a casual smile. “Oh? Aren’t you Okabe from Nakahara’s gym?” the man says. “What are you doing here, old man?”

Okabe’s expression tightens. “Old man? Watch your mouth. I’m twenty-four.”

“Oh, sorry,” the man laughs. “I watched your Class A fight and thought you were some washed-up veteran.” He tilts his head. “It was ugly, but hey, you almost won.”

The words dig in deeper than Okabe expects, scraping directly against the wound he has been trying to ignore.

“…Excuse me?”

His hand shoots forward before reason can catch up, fingers gripping the front of the man’s jacket as he yanks him closer.

“Say that again,” he dares.

“Careful,” the man replies lightly, not resisting at all. “You might want to learn your place before embarrassing yourself in front of everyone.”

Recognition finally clicks into place, even as Okabe’s knuckles tighten despite himself.

That’s Wakabayashi Yasuhide from Narisawa Boxing Gym, 22 years old, ranked 4th in the featherweight. He’s someone already standing several rungs above him on the ladder.

But the knowledge does nothing to cool Okabe’s blood. He simply pulls back one hand, ready to smack his face.

Then another voice cuts in, firm and cold. “Hey. What’s going on here?”

“Fuck off,” Okabe snaps, already turning, then his breath catches. “Ha, Ha… Hamakawa-san.”

Shoji Hamakawa stands there, his expression unreadable, and the weight of his presence presses down on Okabe as he recognizes him as the former super lightweight champion Umemoto once defeated.

He has climbed back to the top of the rankings, only to see his rematch delayed when Ryohei’s Class A victory forced Umemoto into a different mandatory defense.

“What are you doing?” Hamakawa asks flatly, his eyes shifting to Wakabayashi’s collar. “That’s my junior. Let him go.”

Okabe releases his grip immediately and forces a smile that feels stiff on his face. “It’s a misunderstanding. We almost bumped into each other.”

Wakabayashi straightens his jacket and smirks. “So this is how you vent after losing the Class A final?” he says. “Hanging out in arcades while Higuchi’s fighting at Korakuen?”

He then chuckles dismissively. “What a dork.”

“You…” Okabe snarls, his anger surging back to the surface.

But Hamakawa simply shoves him aside with one arm, not violently, but without hesitation, already clearing a path forward.

“Enough, Wakabayashi,” he says. “Don’t waste your time on someone like him.”

Wakabayashi throws Okabe one last look, dismissive and bored, before turning his back and following his senior without another word.

Okabe remains where he is, fists clenched and jaw locked, the heat in his chest having nowhere left to go.

The helplessness settles in fully now, heavier than any loss on record, and the awareness of how pathetic he looks burns deeper than the arcade humiliation ever did.

The anger does not disappear. It simply turns inward, sharper and harder to escape.

***

By the time Okabe reaches home, the sky already settled into a deep evening blue that mirrors the heaviness clinging to his shoulders.

Tonight is Higuchi Naoya’s title fight, and he is already late.

Okabe steps into the living room just as his sister sprawls across the sofa, legs tucked under her, eyes glued to a variety show filled with canned laughter.

He does not greet her. He reaches out and grabs the remote without warning, his thumb jabbing the channel button with urgency.

“Hey!” she protests, twisting toward him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m watching boxing,” Okabe says flatly, already focused on the screen.

The image switches, but the timing mocks him. Higuchi Naoya stands at the center of Korakuen Hall, sweat-soaked and grinning, a championship belt draped over his shoulder while his second raises his arm high.

Okabe stands frozen, his chest tightening as the reality crashes down without mercy. The man who took what he believed should have been his path now wears the belt, bathed in lights, framed as a victor.

But his sister simply snatches the remote back with an annoyed huff and changes the channel again. “It’s over already,” she says. “Now go take a shower. You stink.”

Okabe’s jaw tightens. He turns away without another word and heads back toward the door, his footsteps heavy as he slides his shoes on again.

“Okabe?” his mother calls from the kitchen. “Have you eaten yet?”

“I’m heading back to the gym,” Okabe answers without turning around.

***

The gym lights are still on when Okabe arrives. Kenta looks up from the floor, surprised to see him there so late.

“Oh, Okabe,” Kenta says. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Where’s the old man?” Okabe asks, his tone blunt and unpolished.

“He’s inside with Sera,” Hiroshi answers from nearby, pausing his cleanup.

Okabe strides down the hall and pushes open the managerial office door without knocking, the hinges creaking under the sudden intrusion.

Nakahara and Sera sit inside mid-conversation, papers spread across the desk, their discussion about Higuchi’s title fight cut short as they both look up.

“Coach,” Okabe says, bowing his head only slightly. “I want a rematch.”

Nakahara exhales, fatigue deepening the lines on his face. “You know that’s impossible,” he says calmly. “Higuchi earned that shot by winning the Class A tournament. Now that he has the belt, he’s obligated to defend it against the top contender within 120 days.”

Okabe does not hesitate. “Then I want Wakabayashi Yasuhide.”

Nakahara blinks once. “Wakabayashi from Narisawa Boxing Gym?”

Okabe steps forward and bows deeply, his forehead nearly aligned with the desk, pride stripped bare by desperation.

“Please, sir,” he says, his voice strained but steady. “Make it happen. If his purse is high, take it from mine. I don’t care. Just make it happen.”

The room falls silent, the weight of his resolve hanging thick in the air, as Okabe remains bowed, refusing to look up, unwilling to retreat any further.