VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next morning arrives quietly. And just like the days before, while the rest of the team remains deep in sleep, Ryoma and Aramaki have already left their room before dawn.

The hallway is still. The elevator ride passes in silence. By the time they reach the gym floor, the world outside is still dim, the city not fully awake yet.

There’s no Tama River this time, no cold air brushing against skin, no open sky stretching endlessly above them. Right now, there’s only glass, steel, controlled lighting, and rows of treadmills.

Aramaki steps in first, rolling his shoulders once as he scans the room, and then pauses, blinking lightly.

“…Oh.”

Ryoma follows his line of sight, and sees one of the treadmills already occupied.

A tall African-American man runs at a steady pace, his form relaxed but efficient, each step landing with quiet consistency. Sweat already darkens his shirt, clinging to his back and shoulders. He’s been there for a while, but his breathing is still controlled and measured.

“Looks like someone beat us to it,” Aramaki says.

Ryoma watches for a brief second longer, then lets out a faint breath through his nose, something close to a smile touching his lips.

“And judging from that,” he says, nodding slightly toward the man, “he’s been here for a while.”

“Yeah… figures,” Aramaki says, stepping forward, already loosening his arms. “Well then… let’s try and catch up.”

Without waiting, he moves toward the empty treadmill beside the man and starts his warm-up, stretching his legs, rolling his neck.

Ryoma follows, taking the machine on the other side. As he begins his own stretches, his gaze drifts once more toward the foreign man.

Ryoma notices the precision in the man’s movement, but he doesn’t dwell on it. This is a place like this, one of the most high-end hotels in Manila, where people from all over the world come and go. Athletes, businessmen, tourists, there is nothing particularly unusual about it.

He finishes his stretch. But just as he is about to get on the treadmill, a shoulder bumps into him from the side, firm enough to disrupt his step. A man cuts in without so much as a glance and takes the machine for himself, as if Ryoma had never been there.

“Hey,” Ryoma snaps, his voice edged with irritation as his eyes lock onto the man.

The stranger, noneother than Douglas, turns to face Ryoma, carrying himself with a deliberate kind of arrogance. He leans slightly closer, closing the space between them in a way that feels intentional rather than careless.

“What?” he barks. “You got a problem, punk?”

Ryoma’s fists tighten at his sides. The impulse to strike comes fast and clean, but he holds it back. This is not the ring, and losing control here would only create problems he doesn’t need.

He exhales hard, steps away, and moves toward another treadmill without answering.

Douglas watches him go, a faint dissatisfaction flickering across his face. That was not the reaction he wanted, but he is not done yet.

“Typical,” he mutters, loud enough to be heard. “Japanese coward…”

Ryoma pauses before stepping onto the machine, his movement slowing as his gaze shifts back toward the man, sharpening slightly as a small detail begins to bother him.

The way the word Japanese was used, specific and deliberate, doesn’t feel like a random guess. It leaves him wondering how this stranger could have known he was Japanese at all.

And a quiet voice slips into his thoughts.

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Ryoma studies him more carefully now. The man’s movement on the treadmill is controlled, balanced, his frame solid, his reach longer, his build heavier. He runs like someone who understands his body.

Ryoma raises an eyebrow slightly as he studies the man from head to toe while he runs, observing the rhythm of his movement, the structure of his body, his overall build, and making a quick estimate of his height and weight, along with how well he would fare if things turned physical.

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Ryoma’s jaw tightens. And right at that moment, Douglas glances sideways and catches him looking.

“What the hell are you staring at, motherfucker?” he snaps. “You wanna fight me?”

Ryoma exhales, slower this time, his expression flattening as he steps onto his own treadmill and starts it. He chooses not to answer, deliberately showing his disinterest.

But Douglas suddenly steps off his machine and closes the distance in a few strides. His hand drives into Ryoma’s shoulder, pushing him back.

The moving treadmill belt almost throws Ryoma off balance, but he adjusts quickly, stepping down onto the floor without falling.

“The hell…” Ryoma snaps, irritation flashing across his face. “What’s your problem, dickhead?”

Douglas moves in again, bringing his face close, too close, pressing forward with open intimidation.

“What was that sigh?” he demands. “You looking down on me?”

Ryoma narrows his eyes. “What if I am?”

Without warning, he plants both palms against Douglas’s chest and shoves him back a step.

Douglas’s expression shifts, a flash of surprise replaced quickly by anger. He steps forward again, slower this time. And for some reason, he deliberately leaves himself open, his guard nonexistent, as if inviting something to happen.

“You want me to beat it out of you?” he growls.

He provokes Ryoma again. But inside, he is waiting for Ryoma to make a mistake.

“Go ahead, kid! Swing those knuckles at me.”

Right on cues, Ryoma’s stance shifts almost on its own. His weight lowers slightly, his left side preparing, the angle forming naturally for a clean hook.

For a brief second, he is ready to throw it. But before the punch lands, a hand grips his arm.

“Hey, Ryoma. What are you doing?”

Aramaki steps in, placing himself just enough between them to break the line of tension.

“This bastard…” Ryoma mutters in English, his glare fixed on Douglas. “Looking to pick a fight without even knowing who he’s dealing with.”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” Douglas replies immediately, a smirk forming as he tilts his head slightly. “That ’Chameleon’ guy, right? Stupid nickname. Easy to remember.”

His eyes narrow just a little. “So what? Just because you’re the OPBF champion, you think everyone’s supposed to be afraid of you?”

“You…” Ryoma steps forward, his jaw tightening as his teeth grind together.

Aramaki moves with him, stopping him, guiding him back with a firm grip.

“That’s enough,” he says quietly. “Not here. Just focus on our training.”

He keeps pulling him away, increasing the distance step by step. Ryoma exhales sharply, still irritated, but he allows it.

“Lucky for you,” he throws back over his shoulder, “my friend’s here. Otherwise I’d have already broken that arrogant nose of yours.”

Douglas lets out a short laugh. “Keep talking. That’s what cowards do when they walk away from a fight. Typical.”

Ryoma turns halfway again, anger flaring. “What did you say? Come here if you’ve got the guts!”

“Ryoma,” Aramaki repeats, firmer this time, continuing to lead him away. “That’s enough.”

The tension stretches for another second before finally snapping. Douglas clicks his tongue, annoyance clear on his face as he watches them put distance between them.

He turns back to his treadmill, stepping onto it again. But just before starting, he glances toward Archie and gives a small shrug, shaking his head slightly.

The plan A doesn’t work. It’s time for the plan B.

***

A few moments later, Archie steps off his treadmill and walks toward Ryoma, closing the distance without hurry. As he passes behind him, he reaches out and gives a light tap on his shoulder.

Ryoma shifts his footing to the sides of the treadmill belt and turns his head.

“Yes?”

Archie doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestures toward the ring across the gym.

Ryoma follows the direction. Douglas is already there, moving inside the ropes, gloves on, shoulders loose as he throws light punches into the air, testing his rhythm.

Ryoma watches him for a second before glancing back. “You’re his friend?”

Archie nods. “Yeah. And I apologize for his stupidity. But that’s just how he is. And he won’t settle unless you beat the shit out of him.”

He tilts his head slightly toward the ring. “I know a professional boxer like you can’t throw punches outside the ring. So he’s asking for a spar.”

A small shrug follows. “Why not teach him something? Might be good for him to get humbled for once. It’s just sparring. No trouble.”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow, interest flickering across his face. The irritation from earlier hasn’t faded, if anything, it’s still sitting there, waiting.

“Fine by me…” he says, stepping off the treadmill and walking toward the locker where he left his gear the day before.

Aramaki notices immediately and steps down from his own machine.

“Hey, Ryoma…”

“Relax, Aramaki,” Ryoma replies without looking back. “He’s asking for it. And this is sparring. There won’t be problem.”

He opens the locker and takes out his gloves and a mouthpiece, slipping it in before pulling the gloves on without bothering with tape.

By the time he turns, Douglas is already bouncing lightly in the ring. Ryoma picks up a headgear on his way over and approaches the ropes.

“What about you?” he asks, holding it up briefly. “No mouthpiece? No headgear?”

“Against a naive kid like you?” Douglas lets out a short scoff, raising an eyebrow with open confidence. “Don’t need it.”

Ryoma exhales through his nose, unimpressed. He lets the headgear drop aside and climbs onto the ring, settling into stance, gloves rising naturally.

“Yeah…” he says, eyes locking onto Douglas. “Let’s see who the naive one is.”