The sound of two engines echoed through the midnight arteries of Tokyo. The RX-7, gleaming white under the overhead lights, surged forward through the curve with turbocharged fury. Its taillights painted crimson streaks against the concrete walls, a fleeting phantom of speed. But behind it. Closer than expected, came the #98 EK9 Civic, engine screaming at the edge of its 9,000 RPM limit, riding the tail of the rotary predator like a ghost in pursuit.
Haruka narrowed his eyes, hands steady at ten and two. "That thing's faster in the straights," he said calmly, voice barely heard over the B18C's high-rev howl. "But he's not shaking me."
Nikolai braced himself, one hand clutching his laptop. "Throttle modulation is clean. You're pulling everything from VTEC engagement. Just don't overcook the tires."
"Won't matter if I can stay in the slipstream."
The RX-7 dove through the next tunnel, carving the air in front of them like a boat splitting water. Haruka tucked the Civic just inside its vacuum, barely a car length back. The moment he entered the wake, he felt it, the sudden ease on the throttle, the invisible pull forward. He feathered the pedal, keeping balance.
"Slipstream," Haruka muttered. "Old trick, still works."
Nikolai nodded, glancing at the rear camera feed. "Traffic ahead. Three cars. Two slow. One delivery van straddling both lanes."
Up ahead, the RX-7 darted to the right, flashing its lights twice. It swerved around a blue kei truck, then dipped left again, weaving through the traffic like a practiced ghost. Haruka followed a split second later, matching the RX's trajectory. The Civic danced behind the FD, inches from bumpers, weaving between traffic with the fluidity of water through a streambed.
"Easy," Haruka breathed, tapping the brake just enough to shift weight before the next feint.
Nikolai's eyes flicked to the screen. "Temps holding. Pressure holding. You're threading the needle."
"That's how you sharpen steel," Haruka replied, lips curled.
Then came another tight cluster of traffic. Two taxis boxed together. The RX-7 cut through them with a hard right feint and a left dive. The Civic barely hesitated, shooting the gap with a burst of throttle. And still, it held on.
They approached a well-known sector. A series of subtle curves near the Nihonbashi area. The RX-7 tried to widen its arc, anticipating a more aggressive entry. Haruka countered by braking late, apexing tighter, letting the Civic's balance do the work. The gap shrank again. Then, the split.
Up ahead, the highway divided at a steep angle. One ramp curved off to the right toward a bypass. The far-left ramp continued deeper into the C1 loop, cutting through Edobashi and the elevated artery above the Sumida River.
The RX-7 tilted left, tires chirping slightly as it took the tightest line. Haruka went wide—intentionally—then cut in late, catching the apex of the inside ramp. The tires screeched, barely holding traction as the Civic's weight shifted under pressure.
He clicked the shifter down to second and followed the RX-7. They launched down the leftmost ramp. The city seemed to tilt with them. The curve was sharp and narrow, walled by high barriers, and offered no escape route. Streetlights whipped overhead in rapid staccato. One, two, three, blinking like gunfire. The RX-7 held the lead, but the Civic was no longer trailing. It was locked in, like a shadow bound to the FD's tail. The RX-7 pushed hard, launching out like a dart, exhaust spitting flames under heavy load.
"This isn't about speed anymore," Haruka muttered. "It's who folds first."
Nikolai checked the graphs.
"He's starting to hesitate on throttle lift," he observed. "His brakes aren't cooling evenly. He's running hotter than he looks."
"Everyone does," Haruka said. "That's the trap of Shutoko."
The road opened up again, long enough to breathe. He used it to close the gap by a car length. "Slipstream's working in our favor," Nikolai said, noting the Civic's throttle telemetry. "He's fast, but his corner exit isn't perfect. He's compensating with raw power."
"And overcompensating always costs something."
They dipped into a long right-hander, slicing past a line of blinking hazard lights. A truck in the center lane was crawling on emergency mode. Haruka stayed tight to the left, using the shoulder's gentle curvature to float around the obstacle without upsetting the chassis balance.
"Remember," Nikolai said, "this isn't a race. This is data."
"Sure," Haruka said, voice tense with focus. "And I'm a responsible adult."
Back in Suginami, the evening rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the city glazed in reflected neon. At Haruka's house, Izamuri stood at the front window, arms crossed, gazing out at the still street. It was already 8 PM.
Haruka had left that morning saying something about groceries, which Izamuri didn't question at the time. He was told the shop was closed for the day. Tuesday being a rare break in their chaotic workweek. He thought nothing of it then, enjoying the quiet, feeding Haruka's cat, and even cleaning the kitchen.
But now, twelve hours later, Haruka still hadn't come back. Izamuri glanced at his phone. No messages. No calls. He even checked the GPS tracker he secretly installed on Haruka's Corolla as a joke. Not pinging.
"Maybe he's just testing something," Izamuri muttered, shaking his head and sighing. "Probably forgot to charge his phone again."
He closed the curtains, trying to ignore the pit of unease sitting in his gut. After a long stretch, he changed into his worn T-shirt and shorts, brushed his teeth, and crawled into the futon. The house felt too quiet. But he didn't know why.
Meanwhile, under the hum of sodium street lamps and the echo of high-revving engines, Haruka was still wide awake, both in mind and on the throttle. The Civic's B18C sang in sync with his footwork as he threaded through Tokyo's sleepless veins. North of the Imperial Palace, the road curved sharply before leveling out near the forested outer walls. Traffic had all but vanished. The white RX-7 remained a few car lengths ahead, cutting through the darkness like a falling star.
"They're good," Haruka muttered, fingers tight on the wheel. "But they're pushing too hard."
Nikolai said nothing from the passenger seat. He hadn't spoken since the last checkpoint. The laptop still glowed in his lap, but the numbers no longer held his focus. His eyes were locked forward now.
"They're sliding," Nikolai finally said, noticing the RX-7's rear end shimmy slightly on corner exit.
"Yeah," Haruka agreed, easing the throttle just enough to give himself a buffer. "Rear tires are losing grip. Too much heat, maybe running too much pressure."
Ahead, the RX-7 darted left toward a split ramp. The green sign overhead glowed: Hanzomon Tunnel – 700m.
Haruka's blood went cold. "I have a bad feeling about this…"
The Hanzomon Tunnel was infamous in Tokyo street lore. A tight, winding passage with low visibility and no runoff. Speeding inside it was suicide, especially in older high-powered machines with twitchy rear ends.
But the RX-7 took the turn anyway. It dove into the left lane, rear tires squealing just slightly as it entered the drop, no brake lights, just full commitment. Haruka stayed back, holding the Civic's line with disciplined throttle modulation.
As they entered the dimly lit tunnel, the walls narrowed. The yellow bulbs overhead cast a sickly hue on the asphalt, and the sound of both cars echoed like trapped thunder.
Haruka watched as the RX-7 took the first corner wide. Too wide. He saw it in slow motion, the faint shift of the car's weight, the oversteer beginning to brew in the rear suspension, the flash of the brake lights, too late.
The rear wheels lost traction. The RX-7 twitched once, then snapped sideways. Its rear slammed hard into the inside wall of the tunnel, sending up a spray of fiberglass and sparks. The car ricocheted violently, its front clipping the barrier before it came to a twisted stop halfway across the lane, smoke hissing from the shattered intercooler.
Haruka's heart kicked into overdrive. "Hold on!"
The Civic swerved right, hugging the inside barrier of the tunnel wall with barely a foot to spare. The left fender missed the crumpled RX-7 by inches as Haruka dropped two gears and floored it, letting the Civic scream through the remaining stretch of tunnel like a ghost escaping death. Behind them, Nikolai turned his head, eyes wide. "Are they-?"
"I'm not sticking around to find out," Haruka snapped.
Ahead, a tunnel exit loomed. Haruka took it without blinking. The Civic emerged back into the night air, tires screeching slightly as they joined the Route 302 connector. He eased the throttle only once they were far from the wreck site. No sirens yet. But they wouldn't be far off.
"Too hot," Haruka muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "They lost the rear the moment they clipped throttle into the entry."
Nikolai nodded slowly. "That wasn't just showing off. That was desperation."
"Or overconfidence."
The road ahead stretched dark and silent. For now, they were alone. No tail lights, no pursuers. Just the lingering image of a white RX-7 crumpled in the mouth of the Hanzomon Tunnel—and the echo of mistakes that Haruka had once made himself.
Meanwhile back at the loop. The support van rumbled steadily along the C1, its rear tires humming against the night-warmed asphalt. Inside, Rin leaned forward from the second row, squinting out through the windshield like a hawk in a cheap hoodie.
"Where the hell are they?" Rin muttered.
"Still way ahead," Takamori grunted from the driver's seat, one hand lazily gripping the wheel.
"We lost visual after the Shiba exit."
The twins sat in the back, bored out of their minds. Tojo was fiddling with the air conditioning vents while Hojo tapped out something vaguely resembling a rhythm on the dashboard with a tire pressure gauge.
The van rounded a bend near the Imperial Palace's northern wall when something suddenly glimmered under the streetlights.
"Whoa," Rin said, sitting up. "You see that?"
"Yeah…" Takamori squinted. "Is that…"
A trail of white debris littered the expressway. Fiberglass shreds, a mangled rear diffuser, and a side skirt torn nearly in two. Everyone in the van went silent.
"Oh no," Rin said, the words falling out of his mouth.
Takamori didn't wait for instructions. He hit the hazard lights and slowed the van to a crawl. The taillights glowed red as the van coasted around the next sweeping corner. The moment the road straightened, "There!" Tojo pointed.
Nestled under the flickering tunnel lights was a mangled white RX-7, its nose crumpled into the inside barrier, rear axle twisted at an unnatural angle. The passenger door had been forced open by the impact, the hood popped, and the front right wheel was tucked awkwardly into the fender.
"Jesus..." Takamori whispered.
They pulled to a stop fifty meters back, everyone tense. A second passed. Then two. Rin slowly reached for the door handle. But before anyone could step out. Takamori's phone buzzed in the center console.
He snatched it up. "It's Haruka."
He swiped to answer. "Where the hell are you?"
"Nowhere near that RX-7," Haruka's voice came through, calm but slightly winded. "I'm fine. Meet me back at the workshop. Now."
"You're not gonna explain what the hell just happened?"
"I'll tell you later. Just don't stick around there. Trust me." The line clicked.
Takamori stared at the screen for a moment. Then sighed. "He's fine."
"Was that the car he was chasing?" Rin asked, pointing at the wreckage.
"Looks like it."
Tojo blinked. "Wait. That RX-7 wasn't Haruka's?"
"Do you think that body-kit is an RE Amemiya?" Hojo scoffed.
"Okay, okay!"
Rin leaned back in his seat, still eyeing the wreck. "Think the guy's alive?"
"Not our problem anymore," Takamori replied. "Haruka says back to base. We're leaving," Takamori said firmly, throwing the van back into drive. "Don't want to be here when cops show up. They see a van full of weirdos loitering near a crashed sports car at night, and we'll spend the rest of the evening in holding cells."
He flicked the turn signal and merged back onto the loop. Behind them, the shredded remains of the RX-7 grew smaller in the mirrors, left to the shadows and approaching sirens.
Rin looked out the window as they accelerated again. "You think he beat them?"
Takamori smirked. "This is Haruka we're talking about."
They merged back onto the main road, the city lights swallowing them up once more as they headed east toward the glowing spine of Tokyo. The van moved slow, but steady, its role more vital than anyone gave it credit for. It was the support. The safety net.
And tonight, it had confirmed two things:
Haruka was still Haruka.
And Tokyo's underworld roads had not forgotten how to bite back.