VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The hospital staff move with quiet efficiency the moment Ryoma is brought in, the earlier first-aid treatment quickly replaced with something far more thorough. The bandage along his ribs is removed and redone properly, the wound cleaned again under better lighting, this time with careful attention to depth and trajectory.

What looked manageable in the gym is reassessed with clinical precision, confirming that the bullet only grazed along the surface beneath his arm without penetrating deeper.

After that, Ryoma is guided through imaging. The process takes time, moving from one room to another, the sterile brightness of the hospital replacing the tension of the gym with something colder, more procedural.

After that, Ryoma and Kurogane are eventually led into a consultation room. The doctor enters with a tablet in hand, eyes already scanning through the results before looking up at Ryoma.

“So I heard you repositioned the dislocated shoulder yourself?” she asks.

Ryoma nods. “Yes.”

There’s a brief pause as she studies him, something between surprise and disbelief crossing her expression. But it doesn’t linger long.

“…You’re lucky,” she says plainly. “There’s no tear in the major muscle groups, and no structural damage to the joint itself. No fracture either.”

She taps lightly against the screen. “But I wouldn’t recommend you ever do that again. One wrong angle, one miscalculation, and you could have made it significantly worse.”

Kurogane steps in then, his tone more direct. “He has a fight in three weeks. Can he still compete?”

The doctor exhales softly, setting the tablet down. “I’m not a sports physician,” she says. “I don’t specialize in athletic conditioning. What I can tell you is this: the joint has taken trauma. There will be bruising, and swelling is likely to increase over the next day.”

She moves closer, gesturing lightly toward his shoulder. “I’m going to fit you with a stabilizing support to keep the joint from shifting as inflammation sets in. If things go well, the acute phase may settle within forty-eight hours.”

Kurogane’s eyes narrow slightly. “And after that?”

The doctor meets his gaze evenly. “He should avoid any heavy use of that arm for at least ten days. Right now, the joint is vulnerable. It would be very easy for it to slip out again.”

A brief silence follows before she continues. “Whether he competes or not is a decision for your team to make. Even by then, there’s no guarantee the joint will be fully stable under stress. There will still be a risk of re-dislocation during impact.”

Ryoma sits there quietly, his expression unchanged, but his eyes steady as he absorbs every word. Kurogane doesn’t answer immediately either, his jaw tightening just slightly as the weight of that uncertainty settles between them.

***

After the examination, the doctor steps back slightly, giving a final look at the stabilizer now fitted around Ryoma’s shoulder.

“I’ll have the medication prepared,”

she says. “Pain management, anti-inflammatory. You’ll need to wait outside for a bit while we process everything.”

A nurse gestures for them to follow, leading them out of the consultation room and into a quieter waiting area just down the corridor. The space is calmer, removed from the busier sections of the hospital, with only a few occupied seats scattered around.

Ryoma sits down slowly, adjusting his posture to keep his shoulder steady. Kurogane remains standing at first, arms crossed, scanning the area out of habit before finally taking the seat beside him.

For a moment, neither of them speaks, the quiet stretching just long enough to settle before the sound of approaching footsteps cuts through it. The pace is steady, unhurried.

A man stops a few steps in front of them. “Ryoma Takeda?”

Ryoma looks up, studying the man before him.

The man appears to be in his early forties, dressed in plain clothes, yet there is nothing casual about him. His posture is straight, his gaze sharp, carrying the kind of presence that observes first and speaks second.

He reaches into his coat and briefly flashes an ID. “Detective Adrian Velasco,” he says. “Attached to an Interpol task force currently coordinating with local authorities. I was on-site when local police started reviewing the footage.”

Kurogane’s eyes narrow slightly at that. “Interpol?” he repeats.

Velasco gives a small nod. “Given the nature of what happened this morning, your case escalated faster than usual.”

Ryoma watches him in silence for a moment before speaking. “So you’ve already looked into them.”

“We have,” Velasco replies, pulling out a tablet and tapping the screen. Two still images from the hotel’s CCTV appear, showing Archie and Douglas clearly under the lobby lighting. “These are the men you encountered.”

Ryoma glances at the screen and nods once. “Yeah. That’s them.”

“They checked in using passports,” Velasco continues. “The names matched legitimate identities. Unfortunately, the faces didn’t. Both passports are confirmed forgeries. High quality, but not perfect.”

Ryoma exhales lightly. “Interpol getting involved… that means you already know who they really are.”

Velasco meets his gaze. “We do.”

He taps the screen again, and a new profile appears.

“Alias: ’Douglas.’ Real name:Douglas Grant. American national. Previously arrested in the United States for illegal arms trafficking. Served time, got out, and since then he’s been operating off the grid, mostly working as hired muscle.”

Kurogane glances at the screen briefly, then back at Velasco, saying nothing.

Velasco taps the tablet once more, switching to the next profile.

“Alias: ’Archie.’ Real name: Archer Knox. American national. His name appears across multiple investigations in the United States and parts of Southeast Asia. Human trafficking, narcotics distribution, suspected involvement in several homicides. But never convicted.”

Kurogane’s expression hardens. “Never convicted?”

Velasco gives a faint, humorless smile. “Never with enough evidence to hold him. Every time he gets close, something collapses. Witnesses disappear, records get buried. He has backing. Strong backing.”

Ryoma leans back slightly, taking it in. “So I got targeted by a trafficker with connections… and his guard dog.”

Velasco doesn’t deny it. “That would be one way to put it. Which means this wasn’t random.”

Velasco studies him for a moment before continuing. “Which is why I need to ask you… do you have any idea who would want you hurt, or removed?”

Kurogane shifts slightly beside him. He says nothing, leaving the space open. The weight of the room shifts, and all eyes settle on Ryoma now, waiting.

Ryoma doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifts slightly, not unfocused, but turning inward as he begins to piece things together. This isn’t the first time. The attack in Tokyo surfaces in his mind, different men, different approach, but the intent had been the same.

“I have my suspicions,” he says at last. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been targeted. Something similar happened back in Tokyo, but by different people. I don’t know if they’re connected to these two… or if it’s something else entirely.”

“That said,” Velasco says after a brief pause, “you being targeted now, at this point in your career, isn’t exactly surprising. You’re an OPBF champion, and from what I’ve seen, you’re on track for something bigger.”

Ryoma gives a small nod. “Yeah. I thought about that too. I’m confident in my chances of unifying the belts. Someone being afraid of that outcome wouldn’t be strange.”

Before Velasco can respond, another officer nearby lets out a quiet scoff, his tone edged with irritation.

“You’re telling me what, exactly?” he says. “That they were sent by Dante Vilanueva’s camp to sabotage your training?”

He shakes his head slightly. “Kid, you better be careful with assumptions like that.”

Velasco lifts a hand without looking at him. “That’s enough, Hernandez.”

Ryoma doesn’t react to the jab. His eyes remain steady. “I never mentioned Dante Vilanueva. I’m thinking about someone else.”

That catches Velasco’s attention. One eyebrow lifts slightly. “A name?”

Ryoma shakes his head. “Not a name. A group.”

He pauses for a moment, choosing his words.

“And I’m not accusing anyone. But if you’re asking who might want me hurt… I can’t stop thinking about them.”

Velasco leans in slightly. “Who?”

“Anyone connected to the top five in the WBC and WBA contender list,” Ryoma says. “Could be one of them. Could even be the champions themselves.”

Hernandez lets out a short laugh, disbelief clear on his face. “Listen to this guy. You really think the biggest names in boxing are so scared of you that they’re sending people to kill you?”

“I said I’m not accusing anyone,” Ryoma replies, his tone still even. “But if you want to investigate this seriously, that’s where I’d start.”

He leans back slightly, his expression no longer defensive, but steady with conviction. “I can’t give you anything more specific than that. But one thing I’m sure about… they’ve been keeping me contained within the WBA and WBC lanes for a while. And now they’re trying to block my path into the WBO. They don’t want me unifying the OPBF and WBO Asia Pacific. Because once I do, the system they’ve been building and controlling for years starts to fall apart.”

Velasco doesn’t respond immediately. He watches Ryoma for a moment, weighing the words instead of dismissing them. There’s no visible skepticism this time, only quiet consideration.

He has seen enough cases to recognize patterns, and the boxing world is no stranger to money moving beneath the surface.

“…I see,” Velasco says at last. “That’s a possibility. This sport runs on money, and systems like that don’t stay in place for decades without people protecting them.”

He straightens slightly, the conversation reaching its natural end. “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll take your statement into consideration.”

Velasco turns, signaling to Hernandez as they begin to walk away, already shifting back into their work.

“Detective, wait!” Ryoma calls.

Velasco stops mid-step and looks back.

“Please keep this quiet,” Ryoma says. “The incident. The footage from the gym. I’d rather it doesn’t get out.”

There’s a brief pause before he adds, more quietly, “My mom… she has anxiety issues. I don’t want her finding out about this.”

Velasco studies him for a second, then gives an understanding nod.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

With that, he turns again and walks off, leaving the weight of the conversation behind as the investigation moves forward.