VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Arman’s restraint finally snaps. He grabs Yohannes by the collar and slams him against the wall, the thin plaster shaking under the impact.

“I trusted you,” Arman snarls, his face inches away. “And you conspired with that bastard Sugiarto to cheat me?”

Yohannes’ hands instinctively clutch Arman’s wrists, not to fight back but to steady himself. “Listen to me, listen…” he stammers, fear creeping into his voice. “I didn’t know about the three weeks. I swear I didn’t. And I was forced to accept the deal. It wasn’t my intention to scoundrel you.”

“You took a thousand dollars,” Arman shoots back. “And you call that being forced?”

“It’s not that simple,” Yohannes says, breath uneven. “This isn’t just about money. I admit it, I’m not a saint. I’ve done dirty things with Sugiarto before. When you’re already involved that deep, you don’t just walk away. You don’t get to suddenly grow a conscience. I’m trapped by my own past.”

Suddenly, Arman’s palm cracks against the left side of Yohannes’ head, right over the ear.

“Trapped my ass!”

Yohannes staggers sideways, losing balance and collapsing onto the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to his ringing ear.

The commotion draws Dedi and Wahyu to the doorway. They rush in just as Arman steps forward again, ready to continue. Immediately, they both grab him from behind.

“Enough, Arman…” Dedi says, locking his arms around Arman’s shoulders. “Calm down. We can talk about this.”

“Arman, think,” Wahyu adds urgently. “You lose control like this, you’ll be the one in trouble. Your license… your career.”

The words cut through the haze. Arman’s chest rises and falls heavily, but he forces himself to stop. The last thing he needs is a suspension for assaulting his own coach days before a fight.

“Where is Sugiarto?” he demands.

“I don’t know,” Yohannes replies, still rubbing his ear.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Arman snaps. “You have his number. Call him. Now. Tell him to get here.”

Yohannes hesitates, then dials. And Sugiarto answers, sounding mildly irritated.

[What is it?]

“Where are you?”

[I’m… in a taxi. Just coming back from Tokyo. Why?]

“Just get here,” Yohannes says flatly.

[Yeah, yeah. I’m on my way.]

As the call ends, Yohannes thinks he hears a faint woman’s sigh in the background. He blinks, unsure whether he imagined it.

“Where is he?” Arman asks sharply.

“On his way from Tokyo,” Yohannes replies. “He said he’s coming.”

So they wait. One hour passes, then another, but Sugiarto doesn’t appear.

Arman stands outside on the inn’s narrow terrace now, staring down the street. The return trip from Tokyo should not take this long. Every passing minute chips away at what little patience he has left.

When he finally turns to go back inside, Bima appears from the direction of the main road, walking casually. Arman scans behind him, but no taxi, no Sugiarto.

“Where were you?” Arman asks.

“Me… just… at a nearby café,” Bima replies. “Having coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“Y-yes… Why?”

“I thought you were with Sugiarto.”

“Oh. Sugiarto…? S… still at the café.”

As Bima moves past him, Arman catches a strange scent; sweet pandan, women’s perfume, and the unmistakable trace of sake. Annoyed, he grips Bima’s shoulder and yanks him back.

“I just called him,” Arman says coldly. “He told me he was in a taxi from Tokyo.”

“Ah… after Tokyo, we stopped by a café,” Bima answers quickly.

The explanation only fuels the fire. Arman grabs Bima by the collar and drags him toward the roadside.

“Take me there. Now.”

Bima panics, trying to calm him. “Just wait. He’ll be back soon.”

“I said now.”

Their raised voices draw Yohannes, Dedi, and Wahyu outside. Yohannes asks Bima directly where Sugiarto is, and under the mounting pressure, Bima finally nods and agrees to lead them.

Bima walks ahead, Arman beside him, shoulders rigid. The others follow a few steps behind.

“How could this happen?” Dedi mutters, lowering his voice. “Didn’t he read the contract before signing?”

“Maybe it was manipulated,” Wahyu suggests.

“It wasn’t manipulated,” Yohannes says quietly. “The document was real. He handed it to Arman as it was. Arman just signed without reading.”

“That’s reckless,” Dedi mutters.

“It’s not entirely his fault,” Yohannes replies. “You hire a manager so you don’t have to dissect every clause yourself.”

“Then why trust someone like Sugiarto?” Wahyu asks.

“Because four thousand dollars is a big number when you have nothing,” Yohannes says. “And because Sugiarto once pulled him out of a back alley in Jakarta when no one else would. That kind of debt buys loyalty.”

“Sounds like exploitation to me,” Wahyu counters.

“Maybe,” Yohannes admits. “But this is how business works. Fair or not, it’s the world we’re in.”

***

Bima does not lead them toward any café. Instead, he turns into a narrower street lit by red paper lanterns and muted neon signs.

The air smells of smoke and cheap perfume, and the laughter drifting from open doorways is thick with lust and suggestion.

Arman slows for half a second, taking in the surroundings, and the suspicion that has been simmering inside him hardens into certainty.

They were never in Tokyo. They have been here, in this brothel.

Bima’s back is stiff, his steps uneven, like a man walking toward his own sentencing. He does not hesitate at the entrance of one particular building. He goes straight up the stairs, down a dim hallway, and stops in front of a door without asking anyone for directions.

He knows exactly which room. And Arman feels something cold settle in his chest.

Bima knocks. “Sugiarto! Open the door.”

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Bima.”

The door opens a crack, and Sugiarto appears, bare-chested, irritation written plainly across his face. He barely registers anyone beyond Bima.

“What is it again, Bima?” he mutters. “You want a second round?”

Before he can finish, Arman slams his palm against the door and shoves it wide open. Only then does Sugiarto realize Arman’s present. His expression shifts from annoyance to panic in an instant.

“You… Arman… What are you…?”

Arman does not ask questions. He does not demand clarification. He steps forward and drives his fist into Sugiarto’s cheek, sending him stumbling backward into the room.

The woman on the bed gasps, scrambling for the blanket and retreating toward the corner, eyes wide with shock.

Bima rushes in, trying to pull Arman back, but Arman lands another blow before Yohannes, Dedi, and Wahyu arrive moments later. Together they restrain him, dragging him away before the noise escalates further.

“Enough, Arman!” Yohannes hisses. “They’ll call the police!”

Breathing heavily, Arman jerks free just long enough to grab Sugiarto’s clothes from the floor and hurl them at him.

“Get dressed. Now.”

A middle-aged manager appears in the hallway, alarmed by the commotion. Yohannes steps forward quickly and explains in broken English that they are simply retrieving their friend before he misses a flight. But the man frowns, clearly not understanding much.

With no time to negotiate properly, Yohannes empties the yen from his wallet into the manager’s hand. The man glances at Bima, and recognition dawning. These two are regulars in the recent few days. With a reluctant grumble, he waves them off.

***

Back at the inn, the confrontation resumes.

“Now tell me the truth,” Arman demands.

Sugiarto, now dressed but shaken, still tries to steady himself. “It was six thousand. Yes. And five days accommodation. That’s all.”

Dedi steps forward, anger simmering. “Drop the lie, Sugiarto. We can go to Takeda’s camp right now and ask them to open the contract.”

Sugiarto’s eyes flicker. “It was six,” he insists.

Yohannes, realizing there is no safe ground left, decides to be on Arman’s side. “Search his bag. He must have the documents.”

The threat breaks something. “Fine,” Sugiarto snaps. “They approved three weeks for preparation and acclimatization. Yes, I adjusted it. But it wasn’t much, only $15.000 total for six people. I shortened it to five days so you could still get decent facilities.”

“Decent?” Arman roars. “You call this decent?”

“I had to think ahead!” Sugiarto fires back. “What if you got injured and needed extended care? I’m the manager. I manage risks.”

“Bullshit!” Arman spits. “You manage brothels while I suffer in this room.”

Wahyu steps in. “This isn’t only about money, Sugiarto. You gambled with his career. Five days isn’t enough preparation.”

“Gambled?” Sugiarto scoffs. “Without me, none of you would be here. I secured this opportunity. You got a job only because of me. You too, Arman. If it weren’t me, you’d have die a dog dead on the…”

The sentence does not finish.

Dhuack!

Arman’s fist crashes into the base of Sugiarto’s jaw.

Sugiarto collapses to the floor, conscious but writhing in pain.

Arman moves to straddle him, rage still blazing. But the others pull him off again and force him back toward his room.

After a moment, Yohannes tells Bima to check on Sugiarto. When Bima leaves, Yohannes locks the door and turns to Arman.

“It’s already past midnight,” he says quietly. “You fight tomorrow. What he did damaged your preparation, yes. But if you don’t rest now, you’ll damage yourself even more.”

Arman turns his face away, jaw tight, not arguing anymore. He sits on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, forcing his body to cool.

Eventually, Yohannes, Dedi, and Wahyu step out, leaving him alone.

However, sleep does not come easily for Arman. His thoughts churn long into the night, replaying numbers, lies, and the ugly image of Sugiarto naked in that brothel.

Only after finishing his Fajr Prayer does a fragile calm settle over him. Exhaustion finally overtakes anger, and he falls into deep sleep as morning light begins to fill the room.

And he stays asleep until the noon.