VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

After wandering around the block wearing sunglasses beneath a cloudy winter sky while pretending not to monitor the parked vehicle every few seconds, Ryoma slowly begins realizing something unfortunate.

At this point, he probably looks far more suspicious than the actual suspicious people. So eventually, his eyes drift toward the convenience store across the street.

“Ah, that works…”

Just to stay looking normal, he crosses the street casually.

The store automatic doors slide open with a cheerful chime, and warm air immediately washes over him.

“Irasshaimase!” the store clerk calls out from behind the counter.

Ryoma nods and wanders deeper into the aisles, trying to look like someone who definitely entered with a purpose. Unfortunately, he quickly realizes he has absolutely no idea what he actually wants to buy.

His attention drifts lazily from shelf to shelf while his brain continues splitting itself between snack options and possible international espionage.

One moment he is staring at protein bars, the next he is wondering whether the foreigners outside are armed.

“…This is stupid.”

And yet he keeps walking around anyway, partly because leaving empty-handed would feel awkward, but mostly because his brain has already committed to the activity.

Then his eyes suddenly stop on a familiar red package near the front rack; Kaki no Tane, rice crackers mixed with peanuts.

Ryoma stares at it for a moment, and almost immediately, he pictures the kind of scene Denzel Washington always seems to do in movies; calmly walking toward dangerous people while casually eating peanuts like the most relaxed man in the world.

Slowly, he reaches for the snack pack.

“…Right. Time for aura farm.”

Several minutes later, he stands near the convenience store exit, still wearing sunglasses indoors like a divorced detective from a low-budget crime movie.

For starter, he tosses one peanut into his mouth, chews slowly, then clears his throat once before trying again with a slightly deeper voice.

“Check. Check sound… Yes, that’s good enough.”

Then he pushes the door open and steps back outside into the winter cold.

Another peanut disappears into his mouth as he begins walking toward the suspicious car with slow deliberate steps.

“Well, well…” he mutters quietly in English. “Hm. Brothers, brothers, brothers… see, the problem with modern society is that nobody talks anymore. Everybody just sits inside cars, watching people all mysterious-like…”

But the engine suddenly starts. Ryoma stops mid-sentence as the car pulls away from the curb smoothly without acknowledging his existence even slightly.

A second later, cold wind brushes past him as Ryoma stands there silently for several seconds, still holding the half-open peanut bag in one hand.

“…The hell?”

And naturally, the system chooses that exact moment to speak.

>

“Shut up!”

>

>

Ryoma clicks his tongue and ignores the system afterward, continuing down the sidewalk toward the gym while occasionally tossing more peanuts into his mouth.

>

“Shut up.”

***

Moments later, the gym entrance slowly comes back into view across the street. And just as Ryoma steps closer toward the crosswalk, something suddenly feels wrong.

His heartbeat slows. The surrounding noise dulls strangely beneath his ears while pedestrians nearby seem to drift past in sluggish motion.

Then comes the sensation he remembers most clearly; wet asphalt, rainwater, headlights, and the horrifying realization that his body could no longer move fast enough.

It’s the exact same feeling from that rainy Tuesday in his previous life, moments before the slow-moving truck broke his left leg and sent his entire world spiraling into darkness.

“Gulp…”

Ryoma swallows hard as his foot begins stepping toward the road. And suddenly, the same car enters his peripheral vision.

Instantly, Ryoma steps back, and the world immediately returns to normal. Sound sharpens again, pedestrians move naturally, and nothing crashes toward him at all.

The car simply rolls past on the opposite side of the street at an ordinary speed, nowhere near close enough to hit him.

Behind the wheel, the foreign driver turns slightly and glances toward Ryoma with a completely emotionless face before the vehicle continues down the road.

“What was that just now?”

Ryoma remains standing near the curb for another few seconds while the peanut bag crinkles softly inside his grip.

Nothing happened to him, and yet his body reacted like death itself had just brushed past his shoulder.

“…The hell is wrong with me?”

Ryoma slowly exhales before rubbing lightly against the side of his neck.

Then something else begins bothering him. The street suddenly feels too loud, not physically loud, but detailed. His Vision Grid shows too much information about objects unlike usual.

His eyes drift unconsciously toward a bicycle parked near the sidewalk, catching the loose front brake cable.

Then toward a delivery scooter farther down the road, approaching intersection slightly above safe speed for wet pavement conditions.

A pedestrian nearby keeps staring at his phone while walking, hinting potential shoulder collision trajectory.

An old restaurant sign creaks softly against the wind, rust accumulation around upper bolt joints.

Ryoma’s brows slowly tighten.

“…Oi. Stop it.”

But more details continue surfacing automatically; uneven curb height, cracked asphalt near drainage cover, a taxi turning too sharply two streets away, a child running while holding scissors inside a cafetaria visible behind the glass window.

Ryoma closes his eyes shut, because none of this is normal. Usually, the Vision Grid processes surrounding information naturally in the background without overwhelming him.

But now it keeps dragging his attention toward every tiny possibility around him with abnormal intensity, as if his brain suddenly lost the ability to filter irrelevant information anymore.

It’s like he suddenly gains a broken spider-sense that keeps predicting endless sequences of tiny events leading into another Final Destination scenario.

Small risks keep branching into other small risks until the entire street starts feeling like one massive chain reaction quietly waiting for permission to happen.

“…Why is it doing this?”

But even with eyes tight closed, the interface remains there, the glowing lines of text only becoming sharper and more vivid against the darkness behind his eyelids.

The amount of information flooding through his Vision Grid starts becoming genuinely overwhelming now, enough that his chest almost feels tight from trying to process everything at once.

“Hey, buddy. Are you okay?” a passerby asks.

“I’m fine,” Ryoma says. “S-some snow just got into my eyes.”

Ryoma presses one hand lightly against his sternum before forcing himself to take several slow deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm both his mind and the chaotic stream of environmental analysis pouring across his vision.

“You sure you are okay?” the same man asks.

Ryoma simply gives him a few light nods. And gradually, the overload begins settling down.

Then he opens his eyes again. Almost immediately, new text quietly appears across his Vision Grid.

***

[SYSTEM ASSESSMENT]

Current psychological condition indicates elevated environmental threat sensitivity.

[POSSIBLE CONTRIBUTING FACTORS]

Residual trauma association connected to previous-life fatal vehicular accident.

Temporary overstimulation of predictive pattern-recognition functions.

Elevated subconscious stress response caused by recent surveillance awareness.

Increased cognitive fixation toward low-probability environmental danger sequences.

[ADDITIONAL ASSESSMENT]

Continuous exposure to predictive environmental analysis may gradually amplify anticipatory anxiety responses within host cognition.

Current condition may produce excessive perception of chain-reaction risk scenarios from otherwise ordinary environmental stimuli.

***

Ryoma stares at the report silently while the winter wind brushes past him again.

“…That sounds seriously unhealthy.”

Even so, he cannot simply dismiss the situation as paranoia either, because people do not repeatedly monitor a boxing gym for no reason.

And more importantly, this would not even be the first time somebody tried to eliminate him quietly. Back in Manila, he had already come dangerously close to getting killed once. The memory still lingers unpleasantly beneath his skin whenever he thinks about it too long.

The world surrounding professional boxing is nowhere near as clean as ordinary fans imagine. At the lower levels, boxing is just about rankings, money, and pride. At the higher levels, it becomes politics, influence, broadcast rights, and promotional wars.

Ryoma finally crosses the street. As he pushes the door of the gym entrance, he pulls out his phone, and makes a call.

“Matsuda-san,” he says without wasting time, “I need your help. I think I really need to hire a few bodyguards. Problem is… I have no idea where people even find bodyguards.”

Several heads instinctively turn toward him, mostly because he looks terrible.

Ryoma’s face still appears slightly pale beneath the fluorescent gym lights, faint sweat visible along his jaw despite the winter cold outside.

Combined with the sunglasses indoors and the serious tone of the phone call, the entire scene looks deeply suspicious.

“…What’s wrong with him?” Okabe mutters before glancing toward Aramaki. “Did he just say something about bodyguards?”

Aramaki shrugs lightly. “Well, he does need them. Don’t forget he almost got killed in Manila.”