VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

A few days before the fight, London remains committed to looking exactly like London. The sky stays stubbornly gray, the streets remain wet, and drizzle appears far more interested in visiting than the sun.

For most Londoners, this is hardly worth noticing. Malik Adebayo is no different, walking comfortably along the pavement without an umbrella, wrapped in a heavy coat and a beanie that makes him look more prepared for winter than a world title fight.

The trouble begins when he passes through a quiet alley and notices a man walking several yards ahead, moving slowly while repeatedly wiping his nose.

Then the man suddenly stops, tilting his head upward, as though waiting for something to happen.

Malik barely gives him a second glance. But then, just as they pass each other…

”Hyaachooo!”

The man throws his head sharply to the left, and a fine spray of saliva and mucus lands across the right side of Malik’s coat.

Malik stops dead, caught off guard.

”Hey, watch out!”

A sharp, unpleasant smell reaches his nose almost immediately, the unmistakable scent of someone’s congested nose making itself known at close range.

”Eeuwwghh…”

”Ah, sorry, mate. Didn’t know you were there.”

Malik looks down at his coat with an expression of genuine disgust. He starts flicking at the spot with his fingertips, as though the offending particles might have signed a confession.

”Disgusting,” he mutters, continuing down the pavement while the man disappears behind him.

At first glance, it hardly seems like a disaster. But once Malik gets home and his wife takes his coat, even she catches the sharp smell lingering on it.

”Where were you, honey?”

”Why?”

Her face wrinkles as she looks at the coat. ”You smell bad.”

”Ah. Some bloke sneezed on me earlier,” Malik says casually.

Instead of hanging it up, his wife immediately carries the coat toward the laundry, holding it at arm’s length with the same expression people usually reserve for suspicious leftovers.

”Come on, it’s not that bad,” Malik says.

Shaking his head, Malik goes straight for the bedroom, leaves his beanie behind the door, then walks into the bathroom.

He takes out a brand-new razor and begins preparing his chin and upper lip, both covered in a few days’ worth of stubble.

Then his nose tingles, and suddenly…

”Hyachooo!”

It’s just once, nothing serious. Malik sniffs, barely acknowledges it, and goes straight back to shaving.

***

The following morning, Malik wakes with a slight irritation in his throat and one nostril mildly blocked. After his shower, a single sneeze clears the congestion, which seems helpful until his nose decides to replace it with a thin, persistent stream of mucus.

Malik deals with it the way any reasonable man deals with a minor inconvenience: he finds a tissue, blows his nose, and gets on with his morning roadwork.

The problem returns halfway through the run. He wipes it, keeps going, and eventually stops at the roadside to blow his nose again before carrying on. It is hardly a problem, he believes, just a cold trying to make itself relevant.

Unfortunately, tomorrow is weigh-in day, and this is the most punishing stretch of his camp, the part where every meal, every run, and every drop of water has become part of an increasingly unpleasant mathematical equation.

His body is already tired from the weight cut, his immune system is hardly operating with a full staff, and the stupid little stream from his nose refuses to resign.

By the time Malik steps onto the scale at the gym, he is already within striking distance of the lightweight limit.

”Less than a hundred grams to go,” the fitness coach says.

”Ah, easy,” Malik replies, a small, confident smile appearing on his face.

He steps off the scale and immediately wipes his nose again. The damn thing has apparently developed its own training schedule.

Malik picks up his clothes. He’s about to get dressed when suddenly…

”Hyachooo!”

The coach turns toward him. ”You good?”

”I’m fine,” Malik says, pulling his shirt on. ”Just got a bit of a runny nose.”

”Cold?”

”Yeah.”

”Fever?”

”Nope.” Malik shrugs. ”Just a little cold. It’ll go away on its own.”

The coach pauses. There is some concern there, although not quite enough to justify turning a runny nose into a medical emergency. Malik has no fever, no obvious weakness, and barely anything more than a persistent nuisance attached to his face.

Still, tomorrow is the final day of the weight cut, followed by the fight itself. The coach hesitates over whether to involve the medical team or leave Malik alone.

Giving him some random cold medicine hardly seems wise either, especially while Malik is cutting weight and training hard enough to make his body question its career choices.

So for now, it’s better to keep an eye on it and let the medical staff decide if it becomes anything more than a nuisance.

***

After another punishing day of weight cutting, Malik steps onto the scale once more and finally hits the target. All that remains now is keeping his weight there until tomorrow’s late-morning weigh-in, which should be considerably easier than getting there in the first place.

He leaves the gym in his heavy coat and beanie, only to find London waiting for him with the same miserable gray sky and another steady drizzle.

The rain keeps falling in thin persistent drops, almost as irritating as the mucus still clinging stubbornly to the end of his nose.

Malik looks up at the sky, and for the first time, he is genuinely annoyed by London’s weather.

”Give me a break already…”

He walks home anyway, keeping his hands buried in his coat pockets as the drizzle gradually soaks through his beanie. By the time he reaches the house, the hat is damp and his head feels heavier than it did when he left the gym.

A hot shower seems like the obvious solution, and for a while, Malik believes it is exactly what he needs. Instead, an hour later, he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed with a thermometer in his hand, staring at the number on the display.

”Oh, God…”

His temperature has gone up. Not by much, and certainly not enough to make the situation alarming, but enough to tell him that whatever started with a runny nose has decided to become slightly more ambitious.

Malik stares at the thermometer again, and the number bothers him more than he wants to admit. The weight is finally where it needs to be. All he has to do now is get through the night, wake up, make the official weigh-in tomorrow, and then fight the following day.

Instead, his temperature has decided to introduce another variable. With the concern becoming harder to ignore, Malik finally picks up his phone and makes the call.

”Barry, I think I’ve got a fever.”

[How high?]

”Thirty-eight point one.”

[Thirty-eight point one?]

”Yeah.”

[That’s a fever, mate.]

”I know.”

[Any other symptoms?]

”Runny nose. Bit of a sore throat. My head feels a little heavy.”

[…Damn it. You need to tell the medical team.]

Malik immediately shakes his head. ”No.”

[Malik…]

”The weigh-in is tomorrow. I’ve got tonight. That’s it. If I tell them now that I’ve got a fever, they’re going to start examining me, running tests, asking whether I’m fit to compete.”

[They should be asking those questions.]

”And what happens if they decide I’m not?”

Barry goes quiet for a moment. Even he finds it hard to argue.

”I’m not letting a bloody cold ruin this,” Malik adds.

[Get some rest tonight. Keep yourself hydrated, and if you’re uncomfortable, take something for the fever. Paracetamol, if that’s normally okay for you. Keep the room cool, and put a cool compress on your forehead if it helps. And if the fever gets worse or anything else changes, we call the medical team. No arguing.]

Barry hangs up before Malik can negotiate himself into another argument.

But at least, his advice is followed to the letter. Malik keeps himself hydrated, takes the recommended medication, and spends the rest of the evening trying to do the one thing his body has been asking for all week: absolutely nothing.

By morning, the fever is gone. His temperature is back within the normal range, but Malik wakes feeling as though his body has technically recovered without bothering to inform the rest of him. His throat is still irritated, his nose is still running, and there is a dull heaviness behind his eyes that makes getting out of bed feel unnecessarily offensive.

Leaving the bed, Malik reaches for the scale and steps onto it, waiting for the number to settle.

60.6 kg.

He stares at it for several seconds, as though the scale has personally betrayed him after all that work.

Behind him, his wife stirs beneath the blanket and opens her eyes.

”Honey… how’s your fever?”

Malik does not even turn around. ”What a joke…” he groans, his voice slightly hoarse. ”I spent all week trying to get to 61.2, and now my body has decided to become ambitious.”