VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, the press conference for Malik Adebayo has already taken place in a smaller room on the opposite side of the venue.

The mood here is considerably lighter. Malik sits behind the table with a bottle of water in front of him, still wearing his team jacket, while several British journalists take turns throwing questions his way.

Most of them are local reporters who have followed him throughout his career, and their questions carry the familiar warmth reserved for one of their own.

”Malik, looking back at the fight, do you feel the referee stepped in a little too early?”

And Malik seems perfectly comfortable with it. He leans toward the microphone, considering the question with exaggerated seriousness.

”Too early? Brother, that man was in such a hurry, I thought he had somewhere else to be.”

A few journalists laugh at the light joke.

Malik grins and spreads his hands. ”I mean, come on. Give a man a chance to embarrass himself properly. That’s what twelve rounds are for.”

The laughter grows louder before another journalist adds another question with a smile.

”But you were clearly hurt.”

”Of course I was hurt,” Malik shrugs. ”It’s boxing. If I wanted everyone to leave without seeing me get punched, I’d have taken up chess.”

More laughter follows, and Malik settles comfortably into the rhythm, answering questions with the loose timing of someone who seems to enjoy having an audience almost as much as he enjoys fighting.

Eventually, one reporter asks about the reaction from British fans. ”Don’t you think your supporters would be disappointed with this result?”

Malik shakes his head with a theatrical sigh. ”Look, I know some of the fans back home won’t be happy. The referee stopped it, so don’t blame me if half of England starts sending him angry letters tomorrow.”

The room breaks into laughter again before Aki finally speaks, her voice calm enough that it takes a moment for the room to realize the mood has shifted.

”The fight was broadcast around the world, though. So forgive me if I say the criticism outside England may not be quite as friendly as it is in this room.”

Malik’s smile fades slightly. Aki notices the shift, but she continues with her sharp commentary, though still wrapping it with polite tone.

”You can blame the referee for stopping the fight early, but I imagine many people will still agree on one thing: Malik Adebayo could not beat the count. Even after the referee stopped it, you were still staggering around the ring. Is there a stronger argument you can give us for why the result should be viewed differently?”

Malik stares at her for a moment, his jaw tightening. The question leaves him with little room to attack without making himself look defensive, and whatever anger rises inside him is quickly restrained by the embarrassment of knowing exactly how it sounds.

Then he finally exhales. ”Well… maybe that’s what it looked like.”

He pauses, rubbing his nose. ”But I know I could’ve kept fighting. And if we’re talking about how I looked physically, I wasn’t exactly in perfect shape before the fight either. I had a fever before the weigh-in, and I’ve been dealing with the flu since then.”

As if to make his argument sound stronger, he even gives a small sniff at the end of the sentence.

Aki tilts her head. ”Oh. So it was the terrible London weather that finally defeated you.”

A few journalists shift uncomfortably, but Aki keeps her smile.

”Well, at least it wasn’t enough to kill you,” she adds.

A few people can’t help but accidentally let out restrained chuckle. But not for long before Malik’s palm suddenly slams against the table.

BANG!

And the room jerks in surprised, complete silence following soon after.

”Are you insulting this country now?” Malik snaps.

Aki blinks, apparently startled by the reaction. ”No, no.” She quickly raises both hands. ”I was only trying to follow your mood and make a little joke. But…”

She gives an awkward little bow, rubbing the back of her head. ”I suppose I’m not very good at it.”

Malik stares at her in silence, breathing through his nose as he forces himself to settle down.

After a moment, he leans back in his chair. ”Yeah. Your joke was fucking terrible. And your accent too.”

”Well, I can only apologize.”

***

Elsewhere in the building, another wounded pride has set a different kind of fury ablaze.

By the time Caleb Mercer reaches his locker room, his anger has nowhere left to go. He kicks a discarded water bottle across the floor, then grabs a folding chair and sends it crashing against the wall.

”They fucking robbed me! Twelve rounds in their fucking house, and they hand him the fight? What the hell was that?”

Another plastic bucket goes flying when he turns and kicks it across the room. Nobody tries to stop him. The members of his corner team simply watch in silence, their faces carefully avoiding his.

They have all seen the same twelve rounds, and none of them can honestly claim Mercer deserved the decision. They know that Mercer was clearly outboxed, outworked, and nearly stopped, but saying that now would accomplish nothing.

This is Caleb Mercer, after all, the former world champion once praised as the strongest fighter pound for pound. None of them wants to be the man who tells him otherwise.

Travis eventually steps forward, keeping his voice measured as he approaches the furious fighter.

”Caleb, listen to me,” he begins. ”This doesn’t change what you are.”

Mercer turns toward him, still breathing heavily. ”They fucking stole it from me. You saw it.”

”I know. I know exactly what you’re saying,” Travis says, keeping his expression sympathetic. ”You fought your fight, and everybody saw what you can still do. We’ll get this fixed. You’ll get the rematch. And next time, we take this thing to Vegas. Our venue, our crowd, and nobody gets to decide your fate for you.”

Mercer finally falls silent. Then he immediately searches through his bag, pulls out his phone, and dials Dominic Bowman while the rest of the corner team quietly watches.

After several rings, Bowman replies.

[Caleb.]

”They fucking cheated me.”

[I saw the result.]

”Then make sure I get the rematch. And make sure it’s in Vegas.”

Bowman doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches for a few seconds, and Mercer’s expression hardens as he waits for an answer.

”Why are you going quiet on me? Hold on. What happened with that WBO investigation?”

Bowman exhales before answering.

[They banned me from any activity involving the WBO. They also said they’ll push the WBC, IBF, and WBA to give me the same treatment.]

Mercer’s face twists with fresh anger. ”That’s fucking bullshit. They can’t just do whatever the hell they want!”

[They can’t control the other bodies, no. But it makes things complicated for me right now. Hopefully, the WBC decides not to listen.]

Mercer falls silent, his frustration giving way to a hollow sense of defeat.

When he hears the short tone signaling that the call has ended, his grip around the phone tightens until his knuckles turn pale.

Without thinking, he raises his hand and hurls the phone against the floor. It cracks apart on impact, pieces scattering across the locker room.

The regret comes almost immediately, but not because of the price of the phone itself. The money means nothing to him. It is everything stored inside that he has just lost.

But there is nothing left for Mercer to do. He finally gives in, lowering himself onto the bench before slowly covering his face with both hands.

Marcus Vane, meanwhile, watches in silence from across the room. Yet somewhere beneath his calm expression, another doubt begins taking shape: whether staying with the Mercer-Bowman partnership is still worth it.

Marcus knows exactly how Bowman operates within the world of boxing. He is powerful, intelligent, and ruthless, the kind of promoter every ambitious fighter needs if they want to reach the highest level.

But Marcus has begun to wonder whether that same protection is becoming Mercer’s greatest weakness, shielding him from consequences and allowing him to remain comfortable when what he truly needs is someone willing to push him beyond his limits.