VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 630: Black Coffee, Cold Truth

Chapter 630: Black Coffee, Cold Truth

The door closes behind the departing guests, and the room settles back into something familiar. Nakahara lingers for a moment, before clapping his hands once.

“Alright,” he says. “Back to work.”

The shift happens naturally. Whatever had just taken place in the office is left there, as both of them return to the floor where things are simpler and clearer.

Ryoma picks up the jump rope without a word. The rhythm comes quickly, the rope slicing cleanly through the air beneath his feet.

His breathing steadies as he transitions into footwork, moving across the canvas with light steps, testing angles, adjusting distance.

From there, he moves to the heavy bag, combinations landing with a sharp, consistent sound that fills the gym.

Nothing looks wrong at a glance. But when he steps in for mittwork, Nakahara feels it almost immediately.

“Again. One-two.”

Ryoma throws, and the punches land. But the timing is just slightly off, enough for Nakahara to catch it in the way the impact settles into the mitt.

“You’re late,” he says.

“Sorry.”

“Again.”

Ryoma resets and throws again. This time it’s clean, the snap returning, the rhythm intact.

“That’s better,” Nakahara mutters. “Keep it.”

They continue, but the sharpness doesn’t last. Gradually, the combinations start to drag again. Nakahara lowers the mitts slightly, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about that conversation,” he says.

Ryoma lets out a small breath, an almost embarrassed smile appearing as he nods.

“Yeah… a bit.”

Nakahara exhales through his nose.

“I figured.”

“Sorry.”

“If it starts affecting your performance as a fighter,” Nakahara says, raising the mitts again, “then I’ll have to rethink letting you act as co-promoter with me.”

Ryoma’s expression tightens slightly, the weight of that statement settling in.

“For now, focus here,” Nakahara continues, tapping the mitt lightly. “One-two.”

They resume, and this time Ryoma locks back in. The punches snap cleanly into place, the timing sharp, the rhythm steady enough to carry them through the rest of the session.

At least for that day.

The next day, the same issue returns.

And the day after that, it becomes harder to ignore.

During footwork, Ryoma’s pendulum step begins to lose its precision, his weight shifting a fraction too late, breaking the smoothness of his movement.

In shadowboxing, his combinations stall midway, his gaze drifting as if caught on something beyond the ring. By the time mittwork begins, it’s already hard to ignore.

“Again,” Nakahara says.

Ryoma throws, but the timing lags behind.

“Again,” Nakahara snaps.

And Ryoma’s still off.

This time, Nakahara doesn’t bring the mitts back up right away. He studies Ryoma, reading the distraction in the way his shoulders sit, in the slight delay before each movement.

“Stop thinking about it,” he says flatly. “That negotiation isn’t getting resolved in three days.”

Ryoma nods once. “I know.”

“Then act like it.”

They go again. For a few exchanges, the rhythm returns, the punches landing the way they should. But the focus doesn’t hold.

In the middle of the next sequence, Ryoma slows, then stops altogether, his gloves lowering slightly as his thoughts drift again.

Nakahara tilts his head, watching him. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’re already tired.”

Ryoma exhales slowly, his gaze dropping as if weighing something he hasn’t said out loud.

Nakahara clicks his tongue, the irritation no longer hidden. “Honestly, your performance this past week has been far from satisfying.”

Ryoma remains still, listening, still considering about something.

“While the others are training, you’ve been sitting in the office with us,” Nakahara continues. “And even when you come back here, your head stays there.”

He taps the mitt lightly against his palm, the sound sharp in the space between them.

“If this keeps going,” he says, his tone settling into something more decisive, “we go back to how it was. You focus on fighting. And I handle the promotion. Alone.”

The mitt rises again, waiting for him to respond. But instead of stepping back into position, Ryoma lowers his hands slightly and looks at Nakahara, something unsettled still sitting behind his eyes.

“…Coach, let’s get some coffee.”

For a second, Nakahara just stares at him, as if he heard it wrong.

“…What?”

“A coffee break,” Ryoma repeats quickly.

Nakahara’s expression hardens immediately. “Are you out of your mind?” he snaps. “In the middle of training? You want a coffee break?”

Ryoma doesn’t flinch, though he knows the reaction was coming. “You can have the coffee,” he says, almost sheepish. “I just need to talk. And… I’d rather it stays between us.”

The irritation is still on Nakahara’s face, sharp and clear. But it doesn’t hold the same shape anymore. Nakahara studies him, noticing that this isn’t the same distraction from before. There’s something heavier behind it, something Ryoma hasn’t been able to settle on his own.

For a moment, he says nothing, weighing it. Then he exhales, pulling the mitts off with a rough motion.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s have some coffee.”

They leave the gym together, stepping out into the street and heading toward the coffee shop across the road, their absence immediately noticeable.

Inside the gym, the rhythm of training halts for a few moments, the attention has already shifted.

Kenta glances toward the entrance, then turns to Sera, lowering his voice slightly. “Did you see that? Ryoma… asking the old man out for coffee, in the middle of training?”

“Forget about them,” Sera dismisses. “Seriously, your performance lately… it’s starting to concern me too.”

Kenta straightens at that. “Sorry. I’ll fix it.”

Sera raises the mitts again. “Then fix it.”

Kenta nods, resetting his stance as they resume, the sound of gloves hitting pads filling the space once more, even as the question of what’s happening outside lingers just beneath the surface.

***

The coffee shop across the street moves at a quieter rhythm than the gym, with muted conversations drifting between tables, the soft clink of cups meeting saucers, and the steady hiss of the espresso machine filling the gaps.

Ryoma sits with a bottle of electrolyte drink. Across from him, Nakahara holds a cup of black coffee, the faint steam rising between them.

“So…” Nakahara exhales, rubbing lightly at his temple. “You’re still thinking about what Aleksandr Volkov said back then?”

Ryoma shakes his head. “No. It’s not just about what he said in the media.” He pauses, his fingers resting against the side of the bottle. “But honestly…”

He stops there, weighing it, his eyes lowering for a moment as if sorting through what should and shouldn’t be said.

Then he looks back up. “I was actually taken that day. Four men. They forced me to go with them. One of them had a silenced gun.”

The words land hard. Nakahara straightens abruptly, the calm from earlier gone in an instant. His hand moves instinctively, already pulling out his new flip phone.

“Why are you only telling me this now?” he snaps. “This is serious. We need to report this to the police. Immediately.”

Before he can flip it open, Ryoma reaches forward and stops him, his grip firm but controlled.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Please. Leave the police out of this. Just… hear me out first.”

Nakahara freezes, but the tension doesn’t leave his body. “You’re telling me you were kidnapped at gunpoint, and you don’t want to involve the police?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple. Do you even understand what you’re saying?”

“I do.”

Nakahara exhales sharply, pulling his hand back but not his anger. “You’re the most valuable asset in this gym. No… you’re one of the most valuable fighters in this country right now. Everyone sees where you’re going. It won’t be long before you’re on the global stage, fighting for a world title.”

His eyes lock onto Ryoma’s. “And the more valuable you become, the more dangerous it gets. That’s how this works. This isn’t something you brush off. This isn’t something you handle on your own.”

Ryoma doesn’t pull his hand away. His grip loosens, but it stays there, resting over the folded phone as he meets Nakahara’s gaze.

“I’ll be fine,” he says quietly. “Honestly, this is not what I wanted to talk about.”

Nakahara stares at him, disbelief still fresh in his expression. “You think this is something separate?”

Ryoma shakes his head slightly. “I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Nakahara cuts in. “You always think you do. You’re not fine. And don’t try to sell me that.”

Ryoma’s expression doesn’t change, and Nakahara simply presses further.

“We both know what’s happening around you right now. You’re being boxed in. They’re trying to isolate you so when you finally step onto the global stage, you don’t disrupt anything they’ve already built.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the thought clearly not new to him. “And if that’s the case, then it’s not a stretch to think someone might take it further. Sending people after you? That’s not some wild idea. Not in this business.”

The weight of that hangs between them.

“Kid… you’re not just a fighter anymore. You’re a problem for people who have a lot to lose. And problems like that… don’t always get solved inside a ring.”