VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

On his way back from the gym, Ryoma swings by Shimizu's soba shop. The old man already has two bowls packed, paper bags steaming at the counter.

Ryoma reaches for his wallet, but…

"On the house," Shimizu says, sliding them over. "I liked that line you gave the magazine. 'Shimizu's broth keeps me standing.' Sounded cool. Brought in a few customers already."

Ryoma scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I'm not that popular yet. Doubt it made much difference."

Shimizu chuckles, waving him off. "Kid, don't argue with free food. Just keep winning, and I'll keep boiling noodles."

With the bags tucked under his arm, Ryoma heads not home but to his mother's barbershop.

The chairs are empty at the moment, scissors resting on the counter, the place too quiet for the late afternoon.

"Thought you'd be hungry," Ryoma says, setting the food down.

Fumiko eyes him, feigning suspicion. "You sure it's not charity? Bringing pity noodles to your poor mother?"

Ryoma smirks. "Please. You'd starve without me. Whole town knows your cooking's poison."

She swats at him with the towel in her hand, but the corner of her mouth lifts, the heaviness in the shop thinning.

They eat together at the counter, steam rising between them, broth cutting through the faint scent of shaving cream.

But then…

Drrtt!

The phone buzzes against the wood, jolting between the chopsticks and bowls. Ryoma glances down, noodles still hanging from his lips.

Turns out it's a call from Kaede. His mother spots the name too, and a knowing smile tugs at her face as she rises.

"Eat slow. I'll sweep up front," she says lightly, giving him space without going far.

Ryoma wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, exhales once, and then answers.

"Moshi-moshi…!"

There's a short pause, and a faint background chatter on the other end before Kaede's voice breaks the silent.

[Um, Ryoma...]

Her tone sounds careful, almost formal, like she's phoning a coworker instead of him.

[Sorry to call so suddenly. Are you still at the gym?]

Ryoma glances at the half-finished soba on the counter, then at his mother sweeping idly near the front.

"Nah, I already finished for today. Just… cooling down."

[I see…]

Kaede feels a bit hesitate.

[It's been a while since we talked. I didn't want to interrupt if you were busy.]

In that moment, Ryoma realizes the distance between them has grown into this stiffness, partly her fault, but mostly his. And now, he feels it's on him to break it.

He leans back, smirking to himself. "If eating noodles counts as training, then yeah, I'm working pretty hard right now."

At that, a small laugh slips through before Kaede blurts it out.

[Idiot.]

The stiffness loosens a little. Ryoma lets it hang for a second before nudging further. "So? Did you call just to check if I'm alive, or is there something else?"

[Actually…]

Her voice drops softer.

[I wanted to know. This weekend… would you be free?]

Ryoma raises a brow, tapping the chopsticks against his bowl. "Weekend? Depends. Why?"

[My coworkers have been… curious. They watched your last fight. They keep asking about you, and they'd like to meet. So I thought… maybe we could all have dinner together.]

Ryoma catches the phrasing, the way she hides behind her coworkers. And slowly, a slow grin spreads across his face.

"Your coworkers, huh? Doesn't sound like it's only them who wants to see me."

[I… no, that's not…]

"Relax," he chuckles, cutting her off gently. "Dinner's fine. Just don't let them grill me about training while I'm trying to eat."

This time her laugh is lighter.

[Alright. Saturday evening then. I'll send you the details.]

"Got it."

When the call ends, Ryoma sets the phone down, a faint smile curves at the corner of his mouth. From across the shop, his mother eyes him with a sly grin, broom in hand.

"That didn't sound like gym talk to me."

Ryoma groans, dragging a hand over his face. "Eat your noodles, old lady."

***

Next day…

Ryoma is back at the gym with much lighter mood than usually. But there's something off with Coach Nakahara.

Well, two of the newcomers had already quit yesterday. And now, another one's missing after roadwork, its absence louder than the sound of jump ropes and gloves.

Coach Nakahara doesn't say anything. But the way his eyes linger on the door, the way his voice softens when he corrects a stance, the way he lingers an extra second patting a boy's shoulder, shows how much hope he puts on these youngsters.

He offers water without being asked, tightens the youngsters' gloves himself, even cracks a faint joke at Kenta's expense just to lighten the air.

"…Look sharp, Kenta. One of these kids might steal your spot if you keep yawning like that."

Every gesture makes it obvious. He's holding onto the ones who remain, hoping they won't drift away too.

Kobo and Tsutomu watch all of this with unreadable faces. But when their eyes turn toward the ring, their attention sharpens.

Inside the ropes, Ryoma moves with his guard high, back brushing against the corner post as Ryohei rains punches on him.

Like usually, the ring has been cut smaller, two meters shaved off each side, so there's barely space to breathe.

From the outside, Kobo and Tsutomu observe intently, eyes narrowing. To them, every slip looks late, every guard imperfect, every stagger proof of weakness.

Tsutomu smirks faintly. "So this is the prodigy? Doesn't even look worth spying on."

"He's just… taking it," Kobo shakes his head. "Now I'm curious, what the hell are we doing here?"

Leather cracks against Ryoma's cheek, the sound sharp enough to echo. They don't know it's a drill, that he isn't allowed to punch back. To their eyes, Ryoma's just being walked down, a fighter with holes everywhere.

***

By the end of the third round, Ryohei steps back, sweat dripping, gloves loose at his sides. Ryoma lowers his own, chest heaving. He looks instinctively toward the corner where Nakahara should be, only to find the space empty.

The coach is across the gym, bent low over one of the newcomers, adjusting form, demonstrating the science behind jabs, patting a shoulder with more cheer than usual.

Ryoma narrows his eyes, and his Vision Grid sharpens, layers of text crawling into place:

***

[SCAN: SUBJECT – COACH NAKAHARA]

Posture: Forward-leaning, shoulders stiff

Micro-expression Index: 62% authentic

Smile Latency: +0.47s delay

Vocal Strain: Elevated pitch, 19% above baseline

Eye Tension: Lateral crow's-feet engaged

Confidence Projection: 38% genuine

"Subject displays exaggerated warmth inconsistent with natural baseline. Excessive gestures point to psychological compensation. Likely attempting to mask anxiety over gym morale."

"Analysis: Behavior indicates strain. Subject is not in comfort zone. Confidence worn as façade."

***

Ryoma's jaw tightens. The irony stings, the coach who once never left his corner is now abandoning him mid-spar, pouring everything into these newcomers.

And yet, when he shifts his gaze, his Vision Grid catches the details on the highschoolers: eyes sliding away too quickly, nods a shade too shallow, smiles arriving half a second late.

The conclusion is clear. Their interest isn't genuine and forced, only enough to keep Nakahara smiling, but hollow underneath.

Finally, unable to restrain himself…

"Coach!" Ryoma calls out. "Why not bring them in one by one? I can show them a thing or two."

The words work. Nakahara's attention snaps back to him.

The truth is, he can't train Ryoma fully yet for a valid reason, not with his recovery dragging and that right hand still half-useless.

But if it's just these high schoolers, maybe Ryoma could at least drill his left, fight without relying on the injured one.

Nakahara turns back to the group.

"Anyone?" he prompts.

No one responds, only shifting feet, sideways glances, not a single hand raised.

It's understandable, because they come from the same school as Ryoma. They know exactly how dangerous he is.

But then…

"I'll do it!" Kobo shoots his hand up, voice loud with false enthusiasm. "What an honor, getting a one-on-one lesson from Ryoma-aniki!"

That's what he says. But when he turns to Tsutomu to help tighten his gloves, his mouth twists into something uglier, contempt laced behind the smile.

"Enough pretending," he mutters under his breath. "Let's test him ourselves, see if he's really good enough for Toru-senpai."

Tsutomu snorts, tugging the laces tight. "Yeah. Why not break him while you're at it."