VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Chapter 457: Comfort Without Warmth

By midday, Okabe slows the van and pulls to the curb in front of Takeda Barbershop.

The engine idles. Ryoma shifts forward and reaches for the door. Two suitcases and a duffel come down with him. Aramaki follows, hopping down with a single bag slung over his shoulder, and then, with exaggerated care, he retrieves a large stuffed koala wrapped in clear plastic.

The door to the barbershop opens immediately.

Kaori steps out first, eyes widening when she sees them. Nanako is right behind her, half-hidden until she spots Aramaki.

“Papa!”

She runs straight into him. Aramaki laughs as he crouches, showing off the big koala as if the stuffed animal itself is excited to see the girl. Nanako gasps, then grabs it with both arms, burying her face into the plush fur as if afraid it might disappear.

“From Australia,” Aramaki says proudly.

Kaori smiles, relief softening her expression as she looks between them. “You’re back already.”

“Barely,” Aramaki replies. “Long story.”

Ryoma stands a little apart, hands still on the suitcase handles, watching the small exchange unfold. The warmth of it reaches him, but he doesn’t step into it yet.

Inside the shop, Fumiko doesn’t come out. She’s with a customer, scissors moving steadily, posture straight.

Through the open doorway, she glances up and sees him standing there on the sidewalk. Their eyes meet for just a second.

And that’s enough. He’s here, standing, and breathing. That is more than sufficient for now.

Her shoulders loosen, almost imperceptibly, and she turns her attention back to her work. Whatever questions she has can wait.

Before Ryoma enters the shop, the old man’s voice stops him.

“Kid.”

He turns at the sound. The old man has stepped out of the van, briefcase in hand.

“You forgot this.”

Nakahara holds it out. The case is compact, unassuming, the kind that doesn’t announce what it carries unless you already know.

Ryoma stares at it.

For a moment, he thinks of the fifth round. Of the blank space where memory should be. Of waking up in a hospital bed believing, with complete certainty, that he had lost.

He exhales softly and shakes his head. “Put it in the silverware cabinet at the gym office,” he says. His voice is calm, almost casual. “Where we talked about.”

Nakahara studies him. There’s joy there, unmistakable, but it’s held back, shaped by understanding.

“…Alright,” he says. “So be it. The gym’s yours too, after all.”

He doesn’t insist, doesn’t argue. He turns and climbs back into the van, closing the door with a gentle thud.

The engine starts. The vehicle pulls away, disappearing down the street without ceremony.

Ryoma watches until it’s gone. Only then does he lift his bags and step toward the barbershop, the bell above the door chiming softly as he enters.

Fumiko doesn’t turn right away. She meets his reflection in the mirror first, eyes flicking up, checking him in one practiced glance.

“You’re back,” she says, voice warm.

Ryoma nods and lowers himself into the empty chair near the wall, setting his bags beside it. He doesn’t bother hiding how tired he is. His back sinks into the seat, eyes half-lidded, but he keeps watching her through the mirror.

“That was a long trip,” Fumiko says as she works. “Go home and rest. You must be exhausted.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He just hums softly, eyes following the familiar rhythm of her hands, the scissors, the comb. It’s enough to be here.

A few minutes later, a taxi pulls up outside. The door slides open, and Ennosuke climbs out, muttering under his breath as he steps in.

“Customers these days,” he grumbles, loud as ever. “Always complaining. Talking about my hair like it’s their business…”

His foot bumps lightly into one of Ryoma’s suitcases. He stops, looks down, then up. His brows lift, and the next moment he’s laughing, the sound sharp and delighted.

“Oi… look at this! So you really came back alive!”

Ryoma smiles faintly. “Barely.”

“So it’s true,” Ennosuke says, stepping closer, eyes bright. “OPBF champion, huh? Where’s the belt? Don’t tell me it’s in this bag.”

“I left it in Australia,” Ryoma replies dryly.

Ennosuke snorts. “You think I’d fall for that?”

He drops into the empty chair, already settling in. “So? When do I get a haircut from an OPBF champion?”

“Sorry,” Ryoma says, shaking his head. “Not today.”

Fumiko glances over. “He just arrived. Wait until I finish this customer, at least.”

Ennosuke waves a hand. “Ah, I see. Champion now, too good for an old man.”

Ryoma lifts his hands slightly, the bandages catching the light. Ennosuke’s gaze lowers, and his grin fades for a second. He’d watched the fight, and he knows what those wraps mean.

“…You really beat him,” he says quietly.

“Looks like it,” Ryoma replies.

The moment passes. Ennosuke’s grin returns, softer this time.

When the customer finally leaves, satisfied and smiling, Fumiko turns on Ryoma immediately.

“That’s enough. Go home,” she says.

“I’m fine,” Ryoma says, not moving.

She doesn’t argue. She slips the apartment keys into Ryoma’s pocket, then looks to Aramaki.

“Take him home for me, please.”

Aramaki sighs, then grabs one of Ryoma’s suitcases and hauls him up without ceremony.

“Come on, champ.”

Outside, the street has noticed. Neighbors step out, surprised murmurs turning into smiles.

“It’s really him.”

“Ryoma’s back.”

“Welcome home, champ.”

Polite applause follows him down the sidewalk. Ryoma bows once, brief and tired, and keeps walking.

From the soba shop, Shimizu sticks his head out. “Come inside, kid! Champion or not, you’re still too thin.”

Ryoma lifts a hand. “Later.”

“Yeah,” Shimizu laughs. “Even champions need rest.”

Back in the barbershop doorway, Fumiko watches him go, hands folded, pride quiet but unmistakable.

***

When Ryoma finally reaches his apartment, the quiet feels heavier than he expects. He drops his bags just inside the door and doesn’t bother moving them any further. The suitcases stay where they land.

He crosses the room, sinks into the sofa, and lets his weight settle there as if it’s the first time his body has been allowed to stop.

He doesn’t even make it to his room. Too tired for that.

His hand finds the remote by habit. The television flickers on, filling the room with color and sound, but he isn’t really watching.

For the first time in days, his mind is quiet. Not relieved, just empty, hollow in a way that doesn’t hurt, but doesn’t comfort either.

He thinks about how well everything has gone lately. The title. The contract with Aqualis. The numbers Nakahara laid out without drama.

Even as a replacement, the win bonus alone is enough to buy him time, the kind that lets you breathe without counting days.

And now, as a champion, every fight after this will be bigger. More money. More leverage. Fewer worries.

For the first time in his life, stability doesn’t feel hypothetical.

Then he blinks.

“Oh. Right.”

“Achievement bonus,” he murmurs.

“System,” he says quietly. “Show me the contract again.”

The familiar overlay appears. Clauses scroll past in clean lines; performance-based incentives, international results, milestones tied to visibility and titles.

He doesn’t read every word. The meaning is already clear.

Ryoma smiles faintly, not out of greed, but relief.

But then the smile fades. The quiet stretches again, and into that space slips a name he hasn’t thought about in days.

“Kaede…”

He stares at the television without seeing it.

“How is she doing now?”

Back then, it wasn’t that he didn’t want her. It was that she wanted certainty, commitment he wasn’t sure he could honor without failing her later.

He told himself it was better to step away than promise something he couldn’t guarantee.

But now?

In just a few months, everything has changed. The Aqualis contract alone secures him for years. Five, at least. Enough to plan. Enough to support not just himself, but her. His mother, too.

The system finally speaks, unprompted this time, voice calm and analytical.

<< Based on current income projections and growth rate, you’re in a stable position now. Marriage is feasible. You could support a household comfortably. Both her and your mother. They’d get along, statistically speaking. >>

Ryoma snorts quietly. “Didn’t you tell me to cut her out of my life?”

<< I made a recommendation based on the circumstances at the time. Back then, she was a distraction. >>

<< You were unstable. No guarantees. No safety net. Emotional commitment would have introduced variables you couldn’t afford. >>

<< Now your situation is different. Income is stable. Career trajectory is positive. Risk tolerance has improved. So the recommendation changes. >>

He stares at the ceiling. “So you admit you were wrong.”

<< No… you benefited from having no distractions. Don’t forget, everything you’ve achieved happened after she was gone. >>

<< You made the correct choice then. That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt now. >>

Ryoma doesn’t respond. He sits there, staring into nothing, considering it longer than he expects.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Nearly half an hour slips by without him noticing.

Finally, he reaches for his phone, and makes a call.

Sadly, the line doesn’t connect. An automated voice answers, neutral and distant, informing him the number cannot be reached.

Ryoma lowers the phone slowly. “She’s probably doing better,” he murmurs. “Malaysia suited her.”

He doesn’t try again. Interfering now would only be selfish, he tells himself.

He leans back into the sofa, exhaustion finally dragging him down, eyes fixed on the television as the light flickers across his face.

The news cuts in. His name flashes briefly at the bottom of the screen. Then Daisuke Yoshizawa appears.

But Ryoma’s already asleep, hollow and peaceful all at once, while the story of him continues without his attention.