VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Friday, Sept 24th, 2015. The Weigh-in Day.

The JBC headquarters lobby is crowded. Ten fighters waits in the lobby, five bouts scheduled for the Tokyo Block Final.

Actually, there are ten weight classes in this tournament, but the Commission splits them into two nights, five each, to ease the load.

Right now, reporters already hover everywhere, cameras clicking, pens scratching. The finalists keep to their corners, sizing each other up in silence.

Ryoma sits apart, hood low, face hidden. He has cut down to Super Featherweight with brutal discipline, body dry, veins taut. His eyes stay on the floor, breath shallow.

Leonardo Serrano is the opposite. Phone in hand like always, he films himself, narrating loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Look at him," He tilts the lens toward Ryoma. "Bet he didn't get sleep last night. He is scared."

He grins, posts the clip, and keeps talking. Unlike Ryoma, Serrano has never cut weight. He doesn't know what it does to a man. And never cares at least to learn.

Ryoma doesn't respond. His head is already busy imagining how he is smaking Serrano's face. The grudge burns so hot, too hot that if he lifts his head and sees the man, he might snap before the ring.

Eventually, the names are called. Fighters step up one after another, the order set, the cameras ready.

For Super Featherweight, Ryoma's name is announced first. He exhales slowly, and strips down to his underpants. His shoulders are narrow from the cut, his frame tightened to the bone.

The silence is heavy. Then Serrano laughs, loud and cutting.

"Come on! What's with that look? Shigemori-san, he's actually much worse now that the last time."

Reporters swivel toward the veteran trainer, waiting for a response. But Shigemori, who knows too well the brutal discipline of cutting weight, says nothing. Inwardly, he actually feels a quiet respect.

This is Ryoma's fourth weigh-in since the Rookie King tournament began, and not once has he failed the limit. That kind of dedication deserves recognition, not mockery.

But Serrano doesn't understand that. Still unsatisfied, he turns toward Daigo Kirizume. "Boss! You're serious about putting me against this guy? Just so I can earn a fight with Renji?"

The name Renji sparks through the room. Even the journalists pause. All eyes shift toward Daigo Kirizume, the man Serrano calls "Boss."

Kirizume answers coolly. "You really don't know anything about this sport, huh? I bet you haven't even bothered to watch his previous matches."

Serrano scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Why would I? That'd be a waste of time."

The journalists catch it, notebooks and cameras snapping up the insult, hearing it for what it is, disrespect.

Shigemori, unable to let the slight go unanswered, finally speaks. "When you meet him in the ring, you'll realize he's in a very different state than what you see now."

Serrano frowns, trying to process the warning. He remembers noticing Junpei's change in the last fight, but it never struck him as anything worth caring about.

Finally, the official's voice interrupts, clear and decisive, declaring that Ryoma has hit the limit perfectly.

Ryoma lowers his head, shoulders sagging in relief. The hard work paid off. A brief applause breaks out. Several trainers and even a few reporters offer quiet congratulations.

Serrano, meanwhile, sneers at the praise. He strips off his shirt, puffing his chest, flexing for the cameras as if to steal the moment.

"If that's enough to impress you," he declares, "then this should blow your minds."

He poses, muscles tight, waiting for the applause. But the applause never comes. The silence stings, though he pretends not to notice.

Unbothered, he struts onto the scale. The number flashes, and the official confirms it: Serrano makes weight.

Ryoma doesn't stay to watch. He pulls his hoodie back on, head down, and walks straight out of the weigh-in room.

Even now, he refuses to look Serrano in the face, afraid that if he does, he won't be able to hold back. Just hearing the guy's voice already grates him.

***

Saturday, Sept 25th, 2015. Fight Day.

By early afternoon Ryoma has already regained more than three kilos. His face looks fresher, his body stronger, but his mood hasn't changed.

He speaks less and less as the hours pass. It isn't only the grudge with Serrano. It's his mother, her condition weighs on him more heavily than the fight itself.

Inside the barber shop, Fumiko keeps working, scissors moving with steady rhythm.

"When will you leave?" she asks, eyes on her client's hair. "Don't you need to prepare? Have you eaten?"

"I have," Ryoma says. "I'm just waiting for Hiroshi's call."

The phone actually buzzes soon enough. Hiroshi tells him to come to the gym. Ryoma ends the call but stays seated, still watching his mother.

Lately, he feels uneasy leaving her alone. Even at home, even in the gym, his mind drifts back to her. Even with Fumiko finishes with her customer, still Ryoma doesn't move.

And Hiroshi calls again.

[Hey, where are you? I've been waiting forever!]

"Okay, I'm on my way."

Ryoma steps toward the door, but then stops and turns back. His face is flat, unreadable, but Fumiko sees through it.

She smiles gently and nods once. Ryoma nods back, then forces himself to leave, unease still twisting in his chest.

She watches his back disappear down the street. Her smile fades into something weary as she shakes her head and picks up the broom.

***

Moments later, a small group passes by her shop, banners in hand. Among them is Shimizu, the soba shop owner.

"Oei, Fumiko! What are you doing here?" he calls.

She leans in the doorway, arms crossed. "What are you doing with that banner?"

Proudly, Shimizu and his friends lift their signs. It's banners to show their support for Ryoma tonight.

"You know your son is fighting tonight, right?"

Fumiko nods, smiling faintly.

"You should come with us," one of them urges.

"Close the shop for a while," Shimizu insists. "If Ryoma sees you there, he'll be even stronger."

Fumiko shakes her head. "And watch him get beaten? I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to stand it. It's better if I stay here, and pray he comes home safe."

The group exchanges glances, then moves on. She waves them off with her quiet smile.

Moments later, Shinzo the fisherman comes running, late to join them.

"Guys! Wait!" he shouts, hurrying after the others.

But something slips from his pocket as he runs. Fumiko bends down and picks it up. Turns out it's a flyer of Ryoma's fight, tonight.

When her eyes land on the opponent's portrait, her face drains of color. Her smile vanishes. Anxiety tightens her chest, and the flyer trembles in her hands.

It's Leonardo Serrano, the gaijin from three days ago. The one who bullied her son.

She turns back toward the street where the supporters disappeared, torn between following them and locking herself inside.

The memories of that day flood back, Serrano's taunts, Ryoma falling, the helplessness she felt. And slowly, the panic rises back.

Her breath shortens, and her heart races. She stumbles back inside the shop, hands shaking, reaches for the pill bottle, takes two tablets, and swallows them dry.

But the dread does not fade. This time, even the medicine feels too weak.