Morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen blinds, painting long bars of gold across the table where Izamuri sat with a steaming mug of tea. Haruka was already up and dressed, pacing around the living room with the same energy he reserved for race prep days.
Izamuri had barely touched his breakfast when Haruka appeared in the doorway, arms folded. "You're not working today."
Izamuri looked up, mid-sip. "Again? I just had yesterday off."
"Yesterday, you wandered around Tokyo like a lost tourist," Haruka replied dryly. "Today, you're going somewhere specific."
Izamuri narrowed his eyes. "Where?"
"Shibuya district," Haruka said, leaning casually against the wall. "Got a friend there who runs a sim racing rental place. I booked it for you."
"A… sim racing place?" Izamuri repeated.
"Yup. Whole thing's yours for the day. Eight hours." Haruka grabbed his keys from the counter. "Don't argue."
Izamuri frowned. "Why would you rent that for me? I've got other things I could be doing."
Haruka shrugged, too casually. "Call it… stress relief. Better than sitting in the workshop pretending to organize wrenches."
Izamuri didn't buy it. "Feels a little random."
"It's not random," Haruka said, then caught himself. "Well, not entirely. Just trust me."
Unbeknownst to Izamuri, Haruka had already texted his friend late last night "Make him run proper race programs. Push him, but don't tell him why. Keep it quiet. He had plans for the rookie, but they weren't ready to be revealed yet."
Haruka reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. "Here. Plenty of cash for the day. Cover lunch, dinner, and whatever else you feel like doing. Just… don't come back to the workshop after you're done."
Izamuri blinked at the weight of the envelope as he took it. "This is way too much."
"Better to have too much than not enough," Haruka said. "And if you don't spend it, you can bring it back. Just… don't let the twins see it, or they'll find a way to 'borrow' it."
Izamuri smirked. "Noted."
Haruka checked his watch. "Alright, finish that tea. I'll drop you at the station."
The ride to Ogikubo Station was quiet, the streets still waking up with delivery trucks and early commuters. The morning air was crisp, the faint scent of blooming flowers drifting in through the cracked car window.
Haruka pulled up near the station entrance and parked. "Alright, you know the way to Shibuya, right?"
"I'm not a tourist," Izamuri said, stepping out.
"Good. My friend's place is just off Dogenzaka. Name's Tetsuya. Short guy, messy hair, wears hoodies even in summer. You can't miss him."
"Alright," Izamuri said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Haruka gave him a pointed look. "Remember, eight hours. Don't skip out early."
"You're making this sound like a job."
"It is a job," Haruka said with a half-smile. "You just don't know what you're getting paid in yet."
Before Izamuri could ask what that meant, Haruka waved him off and drove away, the sound of the car fading into the traffic hum. Inside the station, Izamuri bought a ticket, boarded the Chūō Line into the city, and switched to the Yamanote Line at Shinjuku. The ride to Shibuya was smooth, the morning crowd filling the carriages but not enough to feel cramped.
When the train pulled into Shibuya, the city's energy hit him full force, towering billboards flashing with ads, the famous scramble crossing teeming with people, and the constant, low roar of one of Tokyo's busiest districts.
He followed Haruka's directions toward Dogenzaka, weaving through narrow backstreets until he spotted the place: a glass-fronted shop with a row of high-end sim rigs visible through the window. Above the door, a sign read "RACECRAFT STUDIO"
Inside, the hum of cooling fans and the faint scent of electronics filled the air. A man in his late twenties, exactly as Haruka had described, short, hoodie-clad, messy hair, looked up from behind the counter.
"You must be Izamuri," the man said. "I'm Tetsuya. Haruka told me you'd be coming."
"Yeah. He… didn't say much else."
Tetsuya grinned. "That's Haruka for you. Well, you've got the whole place until closing. We'll start with some warm-up laps to get you used to the rigs."
Izamuri glanced at the row of simulators, full motion seats, curved triple-screen setups, force-feedback wheels that looked like they could rip your arms off if you weren't careful. "This is a lot nicer than I expected."
Tetsuya laughed. "We don't mess around here. Come on, I'll set you up."
As Izamuri followed him toward the nearest rig, he had no idea Haruka's "stress relief" was actually the start of something much bigger. Tetsuya powered up the rig, the triple monitors lighting up with the menu screen of Assetto Corsa. The hum of the PC fans blended with the faint hiss from the motion platform's hydraulics.
"You've used a sim before?" Tetsuya asked, scrolling through settings.
"Once or twice," Izamuri said, settling into the bucket seat. The wheel felt solid under his hands, its Alcantara grip almost too realistic.
"Good. Today you're running one car, one track," Tetsuya said, loading the setup. "Honda Civic EK9, B18C swap. Close to the specs of something you gonna drive in real life."
Izamuri turned sharply. "Wait—what do you mean 'the real one I'm gonna drive'?"
Tetsuya kept his tone casual. "Uh… just means it's the kind of car you'd be good in. That's all."
Izamuri narrowed his eyes. Haruka was definitely up to something. "And the track?"
"Fuji Speedway. Only track we're doing today," Tetsuya only smiled. "It's a good benchmark. Tight enough to test your technique, fast enough to show weaknesses."
The sim loaded, and the triple screens filled with Fuji's main straight. The Civic's dashboard blinked to life, and the sound of the B18C roared through the rig's surround speakers. The car sat in the pit lane, sun glinting off the track surface.
"Let's start with ten laps. No pressure, just get comfortable," Tetsuya said, stepping back.
Izamuri rolled out of the pits, feeling the wheel tug against his hands with every camber change in the virtual track. The EK9's front tires bit hard into the first corner, the steering weight changing dynamically.
The first few laps were cautious, braking early, feeling out the car's balance. But by lap four he was pushing harder. The feedback through the wheel told him exactly when the front tires were beginning to slip, and he adjusted instinctively.
On lap seven, he clipped the apex at 100R perfectly, carrying speed all the way into the hairpin.
"Nice," Tetsuya murmured under his breath, just loud enough for the man standing next to him to hear.
The man wasn't there when Izamuri arrived. he had slipped in quietly about ten minutes ago. Tall, athletic build, dark hair pulled back into a short ponytail. His jacket had the logo of a major Japanese esports racing team embroidered on the sleeve.
Izamuri caught a glimpse of him in the monitor reflection when he finished the tenth lap. "Friend of yours?" he asked, pulling off the gloves.
"Yeah," Tetsuya said smoothly. "Name's Ryo. He's… another set of eyes."
Ryo stepped forward, nodding in greeting. "Haruka asked me to swing by."
There it was, that name again. Haruka. Izamuri's suspicion grew. Haruka had told him this was just "stress relief," yet here he was, being watched by a professional sim racer while driving a virtual version of the exact car and track he'd likely be competing with.
Still, he kept his expression neutral. "Alright. What's next?"
Ryo pulled a folding chair next to the rig. "Let's talk lines. Your braking points are decent, but you're leaving speed on the table at Dunlop and the final corner. Let's fix that."
From there, the training shifted gears. Ryo took over instruction, pointing out braking markers, corner entry speeds, and throttle application mid-corner. Tetsuya monitored from the PC station, adjusting force feedback levels and sim physics settings to better mimic the real car.
Every time Izamuri ran a lap, Ryo would stop him at the replay screen, freeze-frame a corner, and explain where he could shave off a tenth or two.
"Fuji's tricky," Ryo explained. "Long straights make you want to overbrake for corners. You need to trust the grip."
"Easier said than done," Izamuri replied, restarting the lap.
Hours passed in a blur of laps, replays, and corrections. By the time he hit his 50th lap of the day, sweat was running down his neck despite the room's cool air conditioning.
"You're adjusting fast," Ryo admitted, watching another lap replay. "Not many rookies can adapt line changes within two laps."
"Guess I'm just a quick learner," Izamuri said, but his mind was elsewhere. Haruka's insistence, the specific car, the pro-level instruction, it was too deliberate to be coincidence.
Still, he decided not to press. If Haruka had a plan, he'd find out eventually. Until then, he'd play along.
"Alright," Tetsuya said, checking the clock. "We've got two hours left. Let's run a 15-lap stint like it's race conditions, no rewinds, no pauses. Ryo will monitor tire temps and fuel usage. You just drive."
Izamuri nodded, slipping the gloves back on.
The countdown hit zero, and he launched the EK9 off the line, tires chirping in the sim's speakers. Lap after lap, he settled into a rhythm. Apex, throttle, shift, brake, repeat. By lap ten, his lap times were consistent to within a tenth of a second.
When the stint ended, he pulled into the virtual pits, hands aching from the constant steering feedback.
Ryo grinned. "Not bad, rookie. You've got pace. With the right seat time… you could be dangerous."
Izamuri unbuckled and stood, stretching. "Dangerous how?"
"You'll see," Ryo said with a knowing smile.
And that was the problem. Izamuri still had no idea what this was all building toward. But whatever Haruka was planning, it was clear this wasn't just a casual day out.
"Alright," Ryo said, stepping away from his chair and toward another sim rig across the room. "We've been watching you long enough. Time to see how you do under pressure."
Izamuri glanced at him. "You mean… race?"
Tetsuya didn't waste time with small talk. He tapped the console, fingers moving fast, and the room's screens pulsed as the sim software spun up the server lobby. The screens on the wall showed the lobby slot list filling with player names. Ryo's tag appeared last, calm, plain, nothing flashy. Tetsuya nodded toward the empty rig beside Izamuri.
"Alright," he said, voice clipped with the professional edge of someone who ran a business where people paid for the illusion of speed. "No assists. No rewinds. Realistic damage and fuel. Same car, same setup. Ten laps. Winner takes the heat. We do as many heats as the hour allows. Ryo's on the other rig, treat him like the real thing."
Ryo slid into the seat opposite Izamuri, zipped his gloves on with that same quiet precision. He gave a single nod. Up close, he looked younger than his confident posture suggested, eyes sharp, jaw set. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
Izamuri's chest tightened in a way that felt a lot like nerves. He'd been driving all morning, learning lines and shaving tenths, but this was different. This was not a replay check or a coached lap. This was combat. A direct head-to-head. Haruka had engineered the encounter; Tetsuya had set the arena; Ryo was the measuring stick.
Tetsuya keyed the speakers. "One more thing. No holding back. Respectful, but honest. We want to see racecraft, not crutches. Ready?"
They were. The rigs synchronized, pit lane loaded, the Civic idling in both virtual garages. The first heat was a standing start at Fuji's Main Straight, a short 10-lap sprint with no pitstop strategy. Pure wheel-to-wheel.
Green light.
Wheels screamed. Izamuri felt the rig throw him forward as the virtual Civic lunged. The first corner at Fuji was always a heartbeat, a long straight that fed into a heavy-braking zone where races were won and lost on courage. Ryo squeezed the throttle, and for a breath the two cars sat nose to nose.
Izamuri braked later than he had practiced alone, trusting a feel that had been building, a muscle memory that felt like a secret code his hands knew how to read. He tucked the car inside the apex, clipped the curb, and powered out. Ryo darted wide, lost a sliver of momentum. By the end of lap one, Izamuri had a small gap, half a second, then three tenths, a line painting itself across the leaderboard.
They danced like that for ten laps, each corner a conversation. Ryo attacked at the hairpin, trying to outbrake; Izamuri defended with throttle and line, letting the car rotate on exit and denying any easy way past. Tetsuya watched the telemetry, his mouth pulled tight; Ryo's face didn't change. The rigs shivered as both drivers pushed the limit.
At the checkered flag of the first heat Izamuri crossed ahead by a thin margin. Ryo glanced up from his wheel, eyes calculating, not surprised but not pleased. "Good," he said simply. "Now we do it again."
They ran heat after heat. Each time they adjusted. Ryo tried different lines, brake markers, aggression levels. Izamuri absorbed it and replied. He learned the hard way, once catching the curb too hot and spinning into a gravel trap in a heat when he'd been too greedy. the simulator punished him with lost positions and a harsh reminder that aggression without control cost you dearly. He came back with a colder head on the next restart, smoothing his inputs, letting the wheel breathe through his palms instead of tightening his grip.
An hour of that felt like minutes and centuries at once. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt. His forearms throbbed from the force feedback. But something else grew steady inside him, a quiet confidence that had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with truth: he could read a tyre, feel the shift of weight through a virtual seat, and make the car obey.
Mid-session, Tetsuya ramped up the difficulty. "Rain on the last three laps of Heat Seven," he announced, toggling weather conditions. The screens darkened slightly as rain began to fall across Fuji. The spray in the mirrors became a grey wall. Drivers had to respect a new limit.
Ryo tried to pressure there, braking later in the gloom. Tyre grip vanished in a whisper. On the penultimate lap, Ryo clipped a curb too aggressively and the car snapped. Izamuri saw the mistake and committed—he'd kept smoother lines through the rain, conserving a sliver of grip the other driver had burned. He passed cleanly and, for the first time in the day, the gap stretched to nearly four seconds by the finish.
By the final heat, ten laps scheduled as the capstone of the hour. The scoreboard showed Izamuri leading the session overall. Ryo leaned in, jaw tight, and pushed. The final race was the closest: side-by-side down the straight, two laps where they swapped paint virtually, rabbiting and feinting like two boxers testing jabs. On lap eight, Ryo tried an audacious inside move at the hairpin; Izamuri judged it a fraction better, pinched the corner perfectly, and carried more exit speed. Two corners later the gap opened.
When the last chequer fell, the margin read large across both rigs: five seconds. In sim terms that was a canyon, decisive, not just lucky. Izamuri's chest burned with exertion and the unexpected prickle of triumph.
Ryo leaned back, peeling off his gloves with slow respect. He gave Izamuri a flat, impressed half-smile that finally acknowledged what the lap times already had. "You've got pace," Ryo said quietly. "Not just raw, you race. You read people. That's rarer than being fast."
Tetsuya clapped once, loud and delighted. "Holy, did you see those lines on Dunlop? That last stint was textbook."
Izamuri could only breathe. He stared at the glowing timer on Tetsuya's console: 16:00. He looked up at the wall clock and actually laughed, soft, incredulous. "I got here at eight," he said. The sentence landed oddly in the small room; the day's strange geometry hit him, hours that had both stretched and vanished.
Ryo pushed off the rig and walked over, extending a hand that Izamuri accepted without hesitation. "You didn't look like a rookie out there," Ryo said. "You look like someone who's been practicing without telling anyone."
A tired smile slipped across Izamuri's face. "Maybe I have," he joked, but the joke had an edge. Haruka's orchestration of this day, his insistence on secrecy, the way everything had been tuned toward this test—Izamuri's suspicion didn't leave, but it felt smaller now. Less like a threat and more like a question he'd answer when it came time.
Tetsuya downloaded the replay files, already thinking of clips for his social feed. The kid had been clean, fast, and a great watch. He glanced at Izamuri and, with the bluntness of someone who ran an honest business, said, "You win, that was real. Don't let it go to your head. Let it make you hungry."
Outside the glass, the light had shifted from bright noon to the honeyed tone of late afternoon; shadows had lengthened and the streetlights on Dogenzaka were beginning to wink on. Izamuri slumped out of the rig, every muscle aching in a good way, and felt the weight of eight hours settle into his bones.
He picked up his bag, accepted the curt nods and quiet congratulations, and stepped toward the door. The session had ended. The test, whatever Haruka had intended, had been passed by more than just speed. He had raced, and won, on his own terms.
The late afternoon air in Shibuya was still buzzing with energy. Neon signs flickered awake as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the scramble crossing. Izamuri stepped out of Racecraft Studio, the warmth of the sim rigs still clinging to his skin, his shoulders aching from hours of battling Ryo. He exhaled slowly, loosening his grip on his bag straps, and started toward the station.
He hadn't taken more than ten steps before a familiar voice called out from the crowd.
"Izamuri?"
He turned, scanning the flow of people until he spotted her. Shina Ikawa, weaving through the pedestrians with that same measured grace as when they first met in the garden. Her hair caught the evening light, and she was dressed casually this time, in a cream knit sweater and light blue jeans, but still carried an air that stood out against Shibuya's bustle.
He blinked in surprise. "Shina? What are you doing here?"
"Shopping. Escaping. You know… Both." She smiled lightly, the corners of her mouth barely curving. "And you?"
"Trying sim racing" he said, keeping it vague. "Sort of."
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, as if she sensed there was more to that, but she didn't press. Instead, she glanced around at the growing evening crowd. "You busy?"
"Not really."
"Good," she said, her smile widening just enough to look mischievous. "Then you're coming with me to dinner."
He hesitated. "Dinner?"
"Yes. Unless you have better plans?"
He didn't. And after the hours he'd just had, the idea of sitting somewhere and eating sounded dangerously appealing. "Alright. Where to?"
"You'll see."
She led him through the crowd, across the scramble, and into one of the wide, clean avenues lined with brand-name stores and tall glass buildings. After several blocks, they stopped in front of an imposing entrance flanked by uniformed doormen. The polished black sign above read "Hotel Grand Étoile" a five-star establishment with glass doors that reflected the bright city lights like a mirror.
"This is… a hotel," Izamuri said slowly.
"Not just a hotel. A very good hotel," she replied with a smirk. "Come on."
Inside, the lobby was a cathedral of polished marble and crystal chandeliers, the air subtly scented with something floral and expensive. The sounds of the street faded instantly, replaced by the soft hum of quiet conversations and the occasional clink of glassware.
They stepped into a restaurant on the far side of the lobby, a sprawling space with panoramic windows overlooking the Shibuya skyline. White tablecloths, silver cutlery, and softly glowing candles at each table. A pianist in the corner played something smooth and unhurried.
Izamuri froze at the threshold. "This is… definitely not what I was expecting."
"What were you expecting?" Shina asked, tilting her head.
"I don't know… ramen? Curry? Something that doesn't require me to sell my kidneys to afford a drink."
She laughed softly. "You worry too much. My treat."
He blinked. "Wait- no, I can't-"
"You can. And you will. Sit." She was already pulling out a chair.
He followed reluctantly, feeling distinctly out of place in his casual jacket and sneakers. The leather-bound menu the waiter handed him didn't help, there were no prices listed. That was never a good sign.
Shina ordered with ease, a seasonal seafood course for herself, and for him, a wagyu steak with truffle mash and grilled vegetables. He hadn't even had time to protest before the waiter glided away, leaving Izamuri staring across the table.
"You really didn't have to do this," he said.
"I wanted to," she replied simply. "And besides, after last time we met, I think you deserve something nice."
He looked away for a moment, remembering the tension in her voice at the garden, the way her mother's words had cut the air like glass. "You okay?"
She hesitated, just long enough for the pause to say more than her words. "For now. My mother… well, she's still my mother."
He gave a quiet nod, not pushing further.
When the food arrived, the conversation shifted to lighter topics. Shibuya's chaos compared to quieter districts, favorite places to hide from people, even the odd quirks of Tokyo's train system. Izamuri found himself relaxing despite the opulent surroundings, the rhythm of conversation almost enough to make him forget the tension of the past few days.
And then there was the food. The wagyu steak was impossibly tender, each bite melting away with a richness that made him almost afraid to finish it too quickly. The vegetables were roasted to perfection, the truffle mash smooth and decadent. He tried not to look like someone eating the most expensive meal of his life, but he knew it was written all over his face.
Shina noticed, of course. "Good?" she asked, clearly amused.
He gave a reluctant nod. "Dangerously good. Like… ruin-your-tastebuds-for-cheaper-food good."
She laughed quietly, the sound carrying just enough to draw a glance from the waiter before fading back into the piano music.
When the plates were cleared and dessert arrived, delicate slices of cheesecake with fresh berries.
Izamuri tried one last time to argue about the bill. "Seriously, at least let me cover half."
Shina shook her head firmly. "Consider it a thank-you."
"For what?"
"For… not looking at me like everyone else does." Her voice was softer now, her eyes fixed on the city lights beyond the window. "Most people see my family name before they see me. You didn't."
He didn't quite know how to respond to that, so he simply said, "You're welcome," and let the silence settle comfortably between them. When the bill arrived, Izamuri's stomach dropped at the thought of what it might say, but Shina didn't even blink. She signed it with a flourish, the motion so practiced it almost felt choreographed.
Outside the hotel, the city air felt cooler again, and the neon glow was brighter against the night sky. They stood near the entrance for a moment, neither seeming in a rush to leave.
"Thanks," Izamuri said quietly. "Really. That was… way more than I expected."
Shina tilted her head, smiling. "You're welcome. I'm glad you came."
He hesitated, then added, "If you ever need to find me… I work at a place in Suginami. Haruka's Auto. It's a garage, but… we're not bad company."
Her smile widened slightly. "I'll remember that."
They parted at the corner, she headed toward a waiting car, and he turned toward the station.
As he walked, the taste of the meal lingered, but so did something else, a faint curiosity about why, in the middle of everything else in his life, he'd run into her again so soon.
Shibuya's neon shimmer was just starting to claim the night fully by the time Izamuri began the walk back toward the station. The air carried the mixed scents of grilled skewers, traffic exhaust, and perfume from the endless stream of people flowing along the sidewalks.
He still felt the weight of the dinner with Shina in his chest, part warmth, part confusion. The taste of it all lingered in the back of his mind as he weaved through the crowds, hands in his pockets, ready to get back to Suginami and call it a night.
Halfway to the station, he passed a storefront he didn't immediately register—brightly lit, with a bold display of helmets, gloves, and racing suits in the window. The name above the door was in sleek lettering, something he'd heard Haruka mention once when talking about "serious gear" instead of the budget stuff.
He only gave it a passing glance before walking on. The display had just enough to register in the back of his head. Glossy visors catching the light, mannequin hands wearing gloves with precise stitching. but he kept moving.
A few seconds later, the door to the shop swung open. Ayaka stepped out first, holding a large branded bag in both hands. She was followed by Hana, who had another bag slung over her shoulder and a mischievous smirk plastered across her face.
Inside those bags was the result of the past hour's mission, shopping for Izamuri's racing gear. A brand-new HANS device, FIA-approved gloves, fireproof racing underwear, and a pristine pair of racing shoes, all chosen to match his size and style. Haruka had given them a list earlier that morning, complete with Izamuri's measurements, including his shoe size information Haruka had gathered weeks ago with the same quiet subtlety he seemed to excel at.
Hana spotted Izamuri first. She froze mid-step, her eyes narrowing in playful panic. "Ayaka," she hissed, tugging on her sister's sleeve, "don't look now, but he's literally right there."
Ayaka's head started to turn, but Hana yanked her back toward the doorway. "No, no, no, don't look! He'll see us!"
"What's the problem? We just walk past him-" Ayaka started, but Hana was already pushing her back into the shop.
"He's not supposed to know!" Hana whispered sharply, practically shoving her sister into the shelter of the doorway.
Izamuri, a few meters ahead, slowed instinctively. Something about movement in his periphery had caught his attention. He turned halfway, scanning the shop fronts behind him.
The racing gear store looked perfectly normal. Bright windows, mannequins in sleek suits, no sign of anyone he knew. He frowned, but with nothing obvious to see, he shrugged it off and turned back toward the station.
From the safety of the shop's interior, Hana peeked around the corner of the display rack, watching him disappear into the crowd. "Okay, coast is clear."
Ayaka rolled her eyes. "You're acting like we're smuggling contraband."
"In a way, we are," Hana grinned, lifting her bag slightly. "Contraband that's going to make him speechless when he sees it."
Ayaka adjusted her grip on her own bag. "I just hope Haruka doesn't make us wrap it or something. That's going to be weird."
"Please. If Haruka tries to wrap this, he'll end up using duct tape," Hana snorted, stepping back outside.
By the time they left the store for real, Izamuri was long gone, his mind already somewhere else.
He reached the station without another glance behind him. The Yamanote Line carried him back toward Shinjuku, where he transferred to the Chūō Line for the ride out to Suginami. The train was quieter now, the rush-hour chaos having thinned into a steadier rhythm of evening travelers.
He stared out the window as the city lights flickered past, his reflection faint in the glass. His thoughts kept circling back to the day. Haruka's insistence on the sim session, the sudden head-to-head with Ryo, the strange ease with which he'd won, and the unexpected dinner with Shina.
By the time the train pulled into Ogikubo Station, the air had cooled further, carrying the faint scent of rain that hadn't yet fallen. He stepped onto the platform, stretching his arms before starting the familiar walk back to Haruka's place.
Fifty minutes on foot gave him plenty of time to think. Somewhere, he suspected, Haruka was still two or three steps ahead of him, quietly moving pieces into place. But for now, Izamuri just walked, letting the spring night wrap around him, unaware of the surprises waiting in the days ahead.