VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 619: The Trigger

Chapter 619: The Trigger

The room remains still for a moment, as if the sudden violence has drained the air itself, leaving everyone frozen in stunned silence.

There are seven men in total. Three of them are roughly Ryoma’s size, the Frenchman and two others in tailored suits who look more like professionals than street enforcers.

The remaining four are built like heavyweights whose presence alone is meant to intimidate. One of those giants is currently hunched against the door, clutching his shoulder where the joint has just been violently dislocated.

Sweat already beads along his temple as he tries to steady his breathing, his useless arm hanging at an awkward angle.

The other three heavyset men remain standing around the room like silent pillars. Yet Ryoma shows no sign of fear.

If anything, the quiet confidence in his posture feels almost like a challenge, an unspoken invitation for them to try their luck if they truly believe they can stop him here.

For a brief moment, no one moves. Then the large man whose shoulder Ryoma dislocated lets out a furious snarl again.

“What the hell are you staring at?” he snaps at the others, his voice thick with rage. “This bastard just destroyed my shoulder!”

His glare sweeps across the room, burning with humiliation and fury. “Move already!” he barks. “Or are you all waiting for him to break the rest of us too?”

Then one of the smaller men standing near the sofa slips a hand inside his jacket. A dark metal cylinder appears in his hand as he draws it out.

“I know how good he is,” he says. “But not against this.”

It’s a pistol fitted with a suppressor.

The movement is smooth and practiced. But before the man can even raise the weapon, Ryoma’s eyes have already locked it, and inside his mind, the Vision Grid System reacts instantly.

A targeting overlay snaps into place. The system highlights the man’s hand, isolating the bones of his index finger curled against the trigger.

A thin red line extends from the muzzle of the suppressed pistol, projecting the expected bullet trajectory across the room.

Data flickers quietly across the edge of his vision, with the assistant speech mode talking calmly into his head.

<< Trigger response time: 0.21 seconds. >>

<< Estimated bullet velocity: beyond evasion threshold. >>

Ryoma understands the limitation immediately. He cannot outrun a bullet, but he does not need to. All he needs is to move the instant the shot is fired.

His breathing slows. And the man finishes raising the gun.

The narrow black cylinder of the suppressor aligns with Ryoma’s torso, the trajectory line now perfectly centered across his chest.

Ryoma’s eyes remain fixed on one thing, the man’s trigger finger. Even the smallest twitch will be enough.

For a fraction of a second, the room holds its breath.

Then, without turning his body, Ryoma casually slaps the wounded giant’s injured shoulder.

The reaction is immediate.

“AAARGH!!!”

Then it happens.

Twitch!

The gunman’s finger tightens on the trigger.

And Ryoma’s body moves at the exact same instant.

He tilts his torso sharply to the side, shifting his upper body just far enough for the projected trajectory line to slide past him.

The suppressed pistol fires.

Dzib!

Dzib!

Two muted shots snap through the air almost simultaneously.

Both bullets slice through the space where Ryoma’s chest had been a fraction of a second earlier. But they miss.

Instead, the rounds slam into the large bodyguard right behind Ryoma.

The giant man jerks violently as the bullets tear through his right hand, punching straight through the thick flesh near his knuckles.

A pained roar bursts from his throat.

“FUCK!!! GODDAMNIT!!!”

He staggers backward, clutching his shredded hand as blood spills between his fingers.

“What the hell did you shoot me for?!”

Ryoma does not waste the opportunity. He pivots, his arm hooking around the man’s neck while his other hand seizes the man’s injured arm, forcing the bodyguard forward between himself and the rest of the room.

The speed of the movement leaves the others momentarily stunned. Two of the men have already drawn their weapons, pistols fitted with suppressors now aimed in Ryoma’s direction.

But neither of them fires. They simply stand there, arms extended, their expressions caught somewhere between tension and disbelief.

“What the…”

“This kid is a real deal.”

Their voices come out low and uneven, half muttered under their breath.

One of the suited men stares at the space where Ryoma had been standing only a second earlier, then snaps his head toward the gunman.

“What the hell was that?” he mutters sharply.

“Two shots,” another man growls under his breath, glaring at the shooter. “From that distance. And you still managed to hit our own guy.”

The wounded bodyguard behind Ryoma lets out another pained curse, clutching his ruined hand while blood drips between his fingers.

“Are you fucking blind or something?” he snarls through clenched teeth.

The gunman’s jaw tightens, his grip on the suppressed pistol stiffening as the accusations pile up around him.

The line of fire had been clean. The shots had gone exactly where they were meant to go. Yet somehow the target had shifted at the last possible instant.

***

Meanwhile Ryoma has already turned the wounded giant into a living shield, locking the man firmly in front of him before anyone else can react properly.

Ryoma’s left hand slips into the man’s suit jacket. His fingers find the cold metal hidden inside, a suppressed pistol.

In one clean motion, he pulls it free and brings it up beside the hostage’s head, the barrel angled outward toward the rest of the men.

The bodyguard trembles in his grip, breathing heavily as blood runs down his fingers. For the moment, the room freezes. Ryoma now holds both a weapon and a hostage.

The room fills with scattered voices instead; low curses, sharp accusations, and the strained confusion of men trying to understand what just happened.

“What the hell just happened?”

“I had him lined up! He moved!”

“You are telling me he moves faster than your bullet? Are you idiot?”

“Then explain it!”

Ryoma hears all of the blame shifting and the confusion. Beneath it all, the lingering disbelief at the absurd moment they just witnessed.

That hesitation is exactly the opening he needs. Ryoma slowly raises the suppressed pistol he just took from the bodyguard’s suit.

But he does not point it at the men holding guns. Instead, the barrel settles directly on The Frenchman.

The man stands near the sofa exactly where he had been during the entire exchange, his posture still composed, his hands empty. Unlike the others, he has not drawn a weapon.

Ryoma’s eyes lock onto him. “Alright. Let’s try something simple.”

The pistol in his hand tilts slightly, emphasizing the direction of the barrel aimed straight at the Frenchman’s chest.

“How about we turn this into a gunfight?”

His voice carries no excitement, no threat, but only a quiet statement of fact.

“You can shoot,” Ryoma continues. “But the moment any of you pull the trigger, the first bullet in this room goes through him.”

His grip on the hostage tightens slightly, keeping the wounded giant firmly in front of him as cover.

Ryoma’s gaze sweeps slowly across the other armed men. Then it returns to the Frenchman.

“So go ahead,” he says. “Let’s see how long you can last against me.”