Night had fallen over Tokyo. The city glittered with neon and halogen, skyscrapers glowing like monuments of ambition. In one of those towers, far above the bustling streets, a different kind of storm brewed.
The office of Akagi Nakamura was as imposing as the man himself. Floor-to-ceiling glass revealed the sprawl of the city, Tokyo Tower illuminated in the distance like a jewel. Behind a desk of black marble sat the billionaire himself, sharp-featured, his tailored suit immaculate, his expression carved from stone.
It was late into the night, but Akagi was still there. He sat at his desk, massive, made of dark wood that looked older than the building itself, flipping through reports with a detached calm. His tailored suit, charcoal black, was spotless. His tie, deep crimson, perfectly knotted. Not a single hair on his head was out of place.
The door opened with a soft click. His secretary stepped aside as Shina's mother entered, her heels tapping sharply against the floor. She bowed once, quickly, but her face carried a mixture of frustration and humiliation.
"Nakamura-san," she began carefully. "I must speak with you. It is about… Shina."
Akagi's hands paused over the file he was reading. Slowly, he closed it and looked up, his dark eyes steady. "Go on."
"She has been… defiant," her mother said, bitterness dripping from every word. "She refuses to listen to me. And worse, she has already attached herself to someone else."
The silence stretched.
Akagi's expression remained neutral, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Someone else?"
"…His name is Izamuri Sakuta. My daughter admitted it herself. He works at some shabby little workshop in Suginami, fixing cars like a common laborer."
Akagi's jaw tightened, though his voice, when he finally spoke, was smooth, deliberate. "So… the girl I am to marry has already given her heart to a stray mechanic."
Her mother nodded quickly, her tone sharpening as she sought to assure him. "A worthless boy. He means nothing, I promise you. I only wanted you to know so that you can act. She will listen to me, in time."
Akagi leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling. His gaze remained fixed on the skyline, but his mind was racing. Shina had dared to defy him. Shina had dared to pick someone else.
The fire in his chest burned hotter. "She is mine," he said at last, his voice low, each word deliberate. "Her future was decided the moment her family entered into agreement with me. For her to think otherwise is… insulting."
Shina's mother shifted uneasily. "That's why I came to you. She - she even called him her boyfriend in public."
For the first time, Akagi's hand twitched, his knuckles tightening against the wood of his desk. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, turned toward her.
"In public, you say?"
"Yes."
The word hung in the air. Akagi exhaled slowly, forcing the rage back under control. He was not a man who let anger guide him, not immediately. Victory was never achieved by brute force alone. He thrived on precision, strategy, crushing his opponents in the one place they thought they were strongest.
And this boy, this Izamuri… he had dared to walk into his world. Akagi leaned forward now, his elbows pressing against the polished desk. "I will not take drastic measures, not yet."
Her mother blinked. "But—"
"No," Akagi cut her off, his tone cold but steady. "You've already told me his name. Where he works. That is enough. I want to know who he really is. Everything. What he does. What he loves. What drives him. If this Izamuri has even a shred of ambition, I will find it, and I will crush him there."
For the first time, his lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. Not warm. Predatory. "Victory," he murmured, almost to himself, "is sweetest when your opponent realizes he never had a chance."
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," Akagi said.
The heavy wooden door swung open, and three men in suits filed in. Each moved with silent efficiency, their faces unreadable, their black ties immaculate. They bowed once before straightening, waiting silently for orders.
Akagi rose from his chair, pacing slowly across the room, the sound of his polished shoes echoing against marble floors. He did not look at the men immediately; instead, he let the weight of silence draw tight around them. Only when he reached the edge of the massive glass wall did he speak, his reflection staring back at him over the Tokyo skyline.
"You will begin tomorrow," he said. "There is a boy named Izamuri Sakuta. He works at a small garage in Suginami. He is… involved with my bride."
A ripple of unease passed through the men, though none dared speak.
"I want every detail of his life," Akagi continued, his voice steady. "Where he goes. Who he speaks to. What he eats. How he spends his days. I want to know if he plays games, if he competes, if he races, if he dreams of being something more than he is. Every habit. Every weakness."
He turned then, his gaze sharp enough to cut steel. "And when you find the thing he clings to most, bring it to me. Because that is where I will break him."
The men nodded in unison, their voices low. "Yes, sir."
Shina's mother, still lingering by the desk, finally spoke, her tone wary. "And… if he proves stubborn? If he refuses to step aside?"
Akagi's eyes lingered on the skyline, the neon glow painting his sharp profile in crimson light. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, his voice cut through the silence, soft but deadly. "Then I will take extreme measures."
The words fell heavy, their meaning clear. The suited men bowed again before turning sharply, leaving the office as silently as they had entered. The door closed with a dull thud, leaving only Akagi and Shina's mother in the vast space.
He walked back to his desk, lifting the untouched glass of whiskey. For a moment, he swirled the amber liquid, watching it catch the light. His mind was already racing, already calculating moves several steps ahead.
"Do not concern yourself further," he said finally to Shina's mother. "You've done your part. Leave the rest to me."
Relief flickered across her face, though unease still lingered in her eyes. She bowed quickly and excused herself, heels clicking sharply against the marble as she disappeared from sight.
Alone again, Akagi raised the glass, his reflection in the window staring back at him with cold precision.
"Izamuri Sakuta," he whispered, his voice carrying a weight of promise. "If you think you can stand in my way, you are gravely mistaken. I will not just take Shina back. I will erase you."
He downed the whiskey in one smooth motion, setting the glass down with a sharp clink against the desk. The city continued to glitter beyond the glass, oblivious to the storm that was now being set in motion. And far away, in a modest workshop in Suginami, the first threads of that storm were already reaching for Izamuri Sakuta.
The next morning before the sunrises, The room was still dim when Izamuri felt someone shaking his shoulder. He stirred, groaning softly, rubbing his eyes as the faintest glow of dawn filtered through the curtains.
"Up," Haruka's voice said firmly.
Izamuri blinked, sitting up. Haruka stood over him, already dressed in his usual work jacket and holding a large black duffel bag. The weight of it was obvious from the way his arm carried it with effort.
"What's going on?" Izamuri mumbled, voice heavy with sleep.
Haruka dropped the bag onto the futon beside him. The zipper rattled with the impact. "Get dressed. Today's important."
Still groggy, Izamuri pulled the zipper open, and froze. Inside the bag was a full set of racing gear. A crisp white racing suit, gloves, balaclava, fireproof underwear, and shoes, all neatly folded. He reached out, lifting the suit from the bag. It wasn't just new. It felt personalized.
"Wait… this…" His eyes darted up to Haruka.
"You can borrow that," Haruka said calmly, though his tone betrayed the weight behind the words. "Today's going to be a track day. With the Civic EK9." He paused. "But not for me. For you."
Izamuri's breath caught. He looked back at the suit in his hands, then at Haruka again. "This… this is mine, isn't it?"
Haruka didn't answer directly. Instead, he turned toward the door. "Get changed. We leave before sunrise."
The sky was still dark when they left the house, dawn only beginning to hint at the horizon. The streets of Suginami were quiet, streetlamps buzzing faintly as Haruka's Corolla E101 rolled steadily through the neighborhood. Izamuri sat in the passenger seat, the duffel bag on his lap, staring at it like it might burst open with answers.
"Track day, huh?" Izamuri finally asked.
Haruka's hands stayed steady on the wheel. "That's right."
"You've been kicking me out of the workshop three days straight. Now you hand me a full set of gear and say we're going to Fuji. You expect me not to notice something's off?"
Haruka allowed himself a small smirk but said nothing.
Izamuri leaned back with a sigh. "Fine. Keep your secrets."
But inside, his chest tightened with anticipation. If this was what he thought it was, if Haruka was setting him up for something more than a simple "track day" then today was the day it all began.
By the time they arrived at the workshop, the sun was just beginning to rise, streaks of orange and gold peeking over Tokyo's skyline. The garage door was already rolled up, and inside was a flurry of activity.
The familiar crew was all there, the Twins bouncing around, Rin hunched over a toolbox, Takamori sipping from a can of coffee with his usual detached cool, Hana and Ayaka carrying equipment toward the bay. A flatbed towing truck idled near the entrance, its engine rumbling softly.
Izamuri's eyes lit up at the sight. "Everyone's here?"
But his excitement quickly turned to confusion. Because among the familiar faces stood three others. Daichi, who Izamuri recognized immediately, leaned against his 3000GT parked nearby. He greeted Haruka with a casual nod.
But standing beside him were two men Izamuri had never seen before. One was tall, broad-shouldered, with a weathered but sharp face,Walter. The other had striking pale features and a calm, calculating air, Nikolai. Both stood out starkly from the rest of the group, their presence commanding, their eyes flicking to Izamuri the moment he stepped inside.
Izamuri froze in the doorway. "…Who are they?"
The room seemed to stiffen at his words. The Twins stopped what they were doing. Rin set down his wrench a little too loudly. Takamori choked on his coffee for the second time in two days.
Haruka sighed quietly under his breath.
Izamuri's gaze swept across the room, his brows furrowing. The last three days replayed in his mind. Haruka pushing him out of the workshop, telling him not to work, sending him on errands, distracting him. All the strange behavior, all the evasive explanations.
"…You've been hiding something." His voice wasn't angry, just filled with dawning realization.
Haruka pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about "bad timing" under his breath. Then, finally, he looked Izamuri straight in the eye.
"Yes. I've been hiding something. These men, Walter and Nikolai, are engineers. And Daichi, well, he's secretly a 3 time DTM champion. They're here because today isn't just some casual track day."
The truth landed like a heavy weight in the air. The others glanced at each other, waiting for Izamuri's reaction. But instead of shouting, instead of demanding why they'd kept him in the dark, Izamuri's lips curled into the widest grin Haruka had ever seen on him.
"So you mean…" Izamuri's voice trembled slightly, almost with joy. "This—this is for me? A test day? For real?"
Haruka blinked, caught off guard by the reaction. "…Yes. It's for you."
Izamuri let out a laugh that echoed through the garage, loud and unrestrained. His heart raced, his hands trembling with adrenaline. "I knew it! I knew you were hiding something, old man! You think I'd be mad about this? Hell no!"
Before Haruka could respond, Izamuri darted toward the tool chests. He grabbed one by the handle and began dragging it toward the Hiace van with reckless energy.
"Come on, hurry up!" he shouted, his voice brimming with excitement. "We're wasting daylight!"
The Twins gawked as Izamuri, fueled by sheer determination, heaved another toolbox onto the van's floor. Rin hurried after him, muttering, "Don't pull your back, idiot," though even he couldn't hide the smirk tugging at his lips.
Takamori chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "He's fired up."
Walter and Nikolai exchanged glances, quietly surprised by the boy's reaction.
Daichi sipped from a paper cup of coffee, his gaze sharp as he watched Izamuri hustle about the garage. "Reminds me of someone," he muttered to himself.
Haruka, meanwhile, exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. He had been braced for resistance, for questions, maybe even anger. But seeing Izamuri's raw excitement, seeing how much this meant to him, lifted something heavy off his chest.
"Alright," Haruka said finally, his voice rising above the clatter of tools and crates. "Everyone, finish loading. We leave in fifteen minutes."
The workshop came alive with renewed energy. The Twins, freed from their sulking, began piling tires into the back of the Hiace. Hana and Ayaka secured containers of fluids and spare parts. Rin checked the straps on the tow rig, making sure the EK9 was ready to roll.
And at the center of it all, Izamuri moved with unrelenting focus, sweat already forming on his brow, a grin plastered across his face.
This wasn't just another day at the garage. This was his day.
The workshop was a storm of motion as the final straps were tightened, the last tools packed away, and the Civic EK9 secured firmly on the tow truck bed. The golden light of dawn stretched through the garage, gleaming off the polished hood of the race car. For Izamuri, just standing there and watching it get treated like something official was enough to make his pulse hammer with excitement.
When Haruka finally clapped his hands and called out, "Alright, let's move," the team split as planned. Rin and the Twins stayed behind, grumbling half-heartedly about being stuck with workshop duty.
"Don't crash the Civic while you're gone!" Hojo yelled after them, waving like a kid being left behind on a school trip.
"Bring us souvenirs!" Tojo added, before Rin swatted him over the head and dragged both brothers back inside.
Within minutes, the convoy rolled out into the quiet Tokyo streets.
At the front, the flatbed towing truck rumbled along, the EK9 strapped securely on its back. Takamori rode shotgun, coffee in hand, already scanning through notes and maps with the driver as though he were preparing for a war.
Behind them came the Hiace van, filled to the brim with spares, tires, and toolboxes. Hana drove with calm precision, while Ayaka fiddled with the radio, alternating between blasting upbeat songs and muttering that the van smelled like motor oil.
Trailing the van was Haruka's Corolla, its four-cylinder humming steadily. Haruka drove, his hands steady on the wheel, while Daichi sat in the back with Izamuri riding shotgun, the younger boy practically vibrating with excitement. The duffel bag of racing gear sat snug against his legs.
And bringing up the rear was the unmistakable shape of Daichi's 3000GT, Walter at the wheel with Nikolai quietly watching the road. The car's deep rumble made it sound less like the tail of the convoy and more like a guard dog watching over the pack.
It all looked perfectly ordinary. A garage crew heading to a track day. Then, not long after, a low, deep growl of a powerful engine echoed down the same street. A black Mercedes-Benz W204 C63 AMG slid smoothly from the shadows, its V8 burble subtle yet commanding. The tinted windows concealed the faces inside, but the way it matched speed and distance with the departing convoy was no accident.
Inside, two men in black suits watched quietly, their eyes sharp, their radios crackling softly.
"They're on the move," the passenger said into the receiver. His voice was clipped, professional.
"Convoy consists of four vehicles: a tow truck carrying a Civic, a Toyota Hiace van, a Corolla sedan, and a Mitsubishi 3000GT. Six confirmed individuals, three more inside the workshop left behind."
On the other end, a voice answered, calm but carrying authority. "Maintain distance. Do not engage. Just report."
The man lowered his radio, nodding. The Mercedes maintained its quiet pursuit, a predator trailing prey, unnoticed by the drivers ahead. The hunters had begun their work.
Inside the Corolla, Daichi leaned forward, resting one arm on the front seat. His voice broke the comfortable hum of the engine.
"Izamuri," he began, his tone calm but carrying weight.
Izamuri turned his head slightly. "Yeah?"
Daichi studied him for a moment, as if measuring something invisible. Then he nodded once. "From today onward, Walter and I will be your mentors."
The words landed heavily, and Izamuri blinked, his mouth opening slightly. "Wait… mentors? As in… teaching me? Like… for real?"
Daichi's lips curved into the faintest smirk. "For real. Haruka asked us to step in, and frankly, I agreed. You've got potential—but potential means nothing without direction. You'll need discipline, focus, and more than a little stubbornness to survive in racing."
Walter's voice crackled faintly over the convoy's radio system, joining in from the 3000GT behind. "And Daichi's being modest. Between the two of us, you'll be learning from decades of experience. Don't take it lightly, kid."
Izamuri's chest tightened, not with fear, but with a rush of pride. He grinned, looking down at the bag of gear resting by his feet. "I won't. I promise I won't waste this chance."
Haruka glanced sideways at him briefly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn't say anything, but inside he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Seeing Izamuri embrace the truth rather than shy away from it gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, this wild idea would work.
Daichi leaned back, folding his arms. "Good. Because this isn't just about you anymore. Everyone in that convoy, everyone back at the workshop—they're counting on you. And trust me, the world of racing isn't kind. It will test you in ways you can't imagine yet."
Izamuri nodded, determination shining in his eyes.
The road stretched on, the distant silhouette of Mount Fuji growing larger with every passing kilometer. The Civic, strapped down on the tow bed ahead, gleamed faintly in the morning light, as if waiting for its moment to roar.
Unseen to any of them, the black C63 AMG kept its steady pace several cars behind, its tinted windows hiding the eyes of Akagi's men. One of them lifted the radio again.
"They're headed toward Fuji Speedway. Civic EK9 on the truck looks prepared for competition. Possible test session."
"Copy," came the reply. "Keep them in sight. Nakamura wants every detail."
The man lowered the radio, his expression cold. "Let's see what this boy is really capable of."
The Mercedes slid seamlessly back into the flow of traffic, its presence unnoticed, its intentions hidden.
Ahead, Izamuri sat forward in his seat, eyes wide with anticipation. He didn't know he was already being watched. He didn't know that his first real test on the track would also mark the beginning of a shadow war outside of it.
All he knew was that the road ahead led to Fuji International Speedway, and for the first time, he would be driving not as a helper, not as a bystander, but as a racer in his own right.
a few hours later the sun had already climbed high by the time the convoy finally pulled into the broad approach road leading toward Fuji International Speedway. The mountain loomed in the distance, its snowcapped peak cutting across the sky like a guardian watching over the track.
Izamuri's breath caught in his throat the moment the massive grandstands came into view. He had seen racing circuits before, on TV, in games, and once as a spectator years ago, but arriving here as part of a team was something entirely different. His heart hammered with a mix of awe and nerves.
The tow truck carrying the EK9 turned past the gate, the guard giving only a cursory glance at the paperwork before waving them through. The Corolla and the Hiace followed behind, their engines humming as the convoy rolled onto the paddock area.
The paddock buzzed with energy. Even though it wasn't a major racing weekend, private teams and enthusiasts filled the space, unloading cars, rolling tires, and tuning engines. The smell of hot oil and burning rubber already hung in the cool March air. The echo of engines revving in the distance sent chills down Izamuri's spine.
The convoy parked in a reserved section near the garages. Takamori jumped out of the tow truck first, stretching his arms. "Finally. My legs are stiff as hell."
Ayaka and Hana hopped out of the Hiace, immediately pulling open the back doors and beginning to unload toolboxes and spare tires.
From the Corolla, Haruka stepped out calmly, surveying the space like a general reviewing a battlefield. Daichi followed, his eyes sharp, scanning everything from the pit lanes to the distant corners of the track. Izamuri lingered by the passenger side, his bag of gear still clutched tightly in his hands.
Then came the moment.
The tow driver lowered the hydraulic bed, and with a metallic groan, the Civic EK9 rolled down onto the tarmac. Its pristine white body gleamed in the sun, subtle race modifications giving it a presence that stood out even among the other track cars around them.
Izamuri stepped closer, unable to tear his eyes away. He had worked on this car before, tightening bolts, checking fluids, cleaning components, but seeing it here, wheels strapped with fresh slicks, ready for battle, was different.
It wasn't just Haruka's car anymore. Today, it was his.
Daichi's voice broke through the haze. "Suit up."
Izamuri turned, startled. "R-right now?"
Daichi smirked faintly. "You wanted this, didn't you?"
Haruka placed a steadying hand on Izamuri's shoulder. "Go on. Get changed in the garage. We'll prep the car."
For a second, Izamuri hesitated. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—he wasn't just dreaming anymore, this was reality. But then determination surged. He clutched the gear bag tighter and hurried toward the garage stalls.
Meanwhile, in the corner of the paddock, parked discreetly between a pair of vans, the black Mercedes C63 AMG idled silently. Two men sat inside, their windows tinted, watching the group intently.
"Target confirmed," the passenger said quietly into his radio. "The boy is here. They've unloaded the Civic. Looks like he's the one driving."
The radio crackled back with a familiar voice, Akagi Nakamura's. Cold. Commanding. "Observe everything. How he prepares. How he drives. I want to know his strengths and his weaknesses."
"Understood" The man lowered the radio, eyes narrowing as he watched Izamuri disappear into the pit garage with his bag. "Let's see if this kid is worth all the trouble."
Back in the pit, Izamuri emerged minutes later fully suited, the fireproof race gear hugging him perfectly. The white and red design shimmered under the light, the helmet tucked under his arm.
For the first time, the workshop crew fell silent, their chatter replaced with stares of recognition. He no longer looked like the clumsy helper boy sweeping floors. He looked like a driver.
"Damn…" Hana whispered, peeking from behind a stack of tires. "He actually looks… legit."
Takamori let out a low whistle, lifting his coffee in salute. "Alright, Rookie. Don't embarrass us out there."
Daichi stepped forward, his expression serious. "Remember this, Izamuri, your job isn't to impress us. Your job is to learn. Push too hard, and you'll wreck the car. Hold back too much, and you'll learn nothing. Balance is key."
Walter joined him, leaning casually against the workbench but his tone serious. "Don't think of this as a fun track day. Think of it as your first exam. Treat the car with respect, but don't be timid either. Push when you can, learn when you can't. Got it?"
Izamuri nodded firmly. "Got it."
Nikolai, still crouched by the car, finally spoke, his Russian accent cutting through the air. "Car is ready. Fluids good. Suspension stiffened slightly for track. Tyres are new. She will hold, but only if driver respects her limits."
Walter straightened, giving him a final once-over. "Good. Then get in the car."
Izamuri approached the Civic slowly, his reflection shimmering faintly in its glossy paint. He reached out, resting his palm against the roof. For a moment, everything around him fell silent. The bustling crew, the echo of other engines, even the clicking cameras from afar.
The Civic's door swung open with a metallic click. Izamuri slid into the seat, the snug fit wrapping around him like an embrace. The harness straps tightened across his chest, the steering wheel firm in his hands. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, faster than the ticking of the engine cooling down from the tow.
From the pit wall, Haruka watched quietly, his arms folded. Despite his calm exterior, there was a flicker of pride in his eyes.
"Go show them what you can do," he whispered under his breath.
The crew cleared from the front of the car. The Civic was rolled forward, its nose pointing toward pit exit. Izamuri took a deep breath, slipping the helmet over his head. The world narrowed.
This was it. His first real step into racing. And though he didn't know it, far behind the chain-link fence, Akagi's men were watching, recording, and reporting every second of it.
The Civic's engine fired to life with a sharp, high-pitched growl.
Izamuri gripped the wheel tighter, his eyes narrowing. The track awaited him for this moment. The Civic EK9 rolled down pit lane, its four-cylinder engine buzzing like a nest of hornets. The March air was crisp, carrying the faint echo of the car's induction howl as it crept past the empty garages. Izamuri's gloved hands squeezed the steering wheel, his breath steadying inside the helmet. The gear shifter rested a short flick away from his palm, each notch promising violence once unleashed.
"This is it," he thought. "Not the simulator, not the karts, not daydreams. This is the real deal."
The marshal at pit exit raised a green flag. Izamuri gave a quick nod, eased the throttle, and guided the Civic out onto Fuji Speedway's asphalt. The car vibrated with life, each bump through the suspension reminding him this wasn't a machine meant for comfort. It was bred for war.
He entered the main straight, feathering the throttle. The empty grandstands loomed on either side, silent witnesses to his first outing. He breathed once, twice, and pressed harder. The Civic's VTEC kicked in with a scream, the speed climbing rapidly as the start/finish line blurred beneath him.
"Alright… let's feel it out," he murmured inside his helmet.
The first corner, a sharp right-hander at the end of the straight, approached fast. He braked earlier than instinct told him, cautious, letting the pedal bite deep. The Civic's nose dipped, the tires squealing faintly as he turned in. The car rotated obediently, hugging the inside curb.
"Not bad… not bad," he muttered. The car was tight, responsive, its feedback flowing straight into his body. Every twitch of the wheel, every shift in weight—it all spoke to him.
Through Coca-Cola corner, then the sweeping 100R, he guided the car with careful hands, learning the balance, memorizing the rhythm of inputs. His pulse quickened, sweat beading lightly against his brow even in the cool spring air. The sound of the engine filled his ears, each gear change snapping cleanly.
Hairpin next.
He sat the car up, straightened his wrists, and stomped the brake pedal with purpose. The Civic bowed, squirmed, then settled square. Down two gears. Late turn. He aimed for a clipped, tidy apex, resisting the urge to stuff it in too early. The hairpin spat him out with a small chirp from the inside tire, and he rode the exit curb like a step down to a different song.
300R flicked by left kink, a palate cleanser. Then the track tightened again as the Dunlop section drew near: the chicane that split this grand layout from the short bypass. The cones stood bright and bossy down the center line, a fluorescent reminder to pick the right door.
He took one calming breath. "Warm-up lap. Eyes long. Keep it neat."
Brake markers whipped past his peripheral vision. 150…100… and a little past 100 he squeezed the pedal rather than stabbed it, mindful of cold-ish rubber. Weight came forward. He breathed the last few meters, released a hair too soon, turned the wheel…and felt it.
The front floated.
Understeer's telltale numbness crept up through the rim, a sudden lightness that said the contact patch wasn't ready to do as told. The Civic slid wide of the chicane's first apex by a tire's width, then two. The nose pointed where he wanted; the car insisted on a straighter path. And rushing at his windshield, dead ahead, was the neat orange picket of cones that fenced off the short bypass.
"Ah—!"
He didn't lift in panic; he lifted on purpose. Just a breath, enough to plant the nose without unloading the rear. A quick brush of brake, no more than a tap, pitched an extra degree of weight onto the front tires. He unwound a sliver of steering to let them bite, then rotated back in smoothly, trading angle for grip as if pouring water from one cup to another.
The cones swelled, orange flooding his visor. The Civic twitched. One heartbeat of gray area between saving it and becoming an internet clip, and then the front end tucked. Bite. The chassis pivoted just enough to clear the plastic picket, skimming so close he heard the whisper of displaced air. He fed the throttle back in like a fuse relit, guiding the car over the second curb, letting it breathe across the exit.
The world snapped back into order.
He exhaled so hard he surprised himself, and a laugh, half relief, half adrenaline, broke loose inside the helmet. "Okay. Okay. That's real."
The car hummed down the following straight, the note brightening as revs climbed. The moment replayed in fast cuts: the light wheel, the cone wall looming, the micro-tap on the brake, the tuck. Data etched into muscle. He could feel where he'd asked too much of a still-cool tire and where he'd turned a fraction before the carcass was ready. He could feel, too, the exact tick of pressure that coaxed it back.
He didn't chase lap time now, he chased sensation. Through the next bend he let the chassis talk, a conversation of weight shifting aft and then forward again, of front tires taking a promise and rear tires honoring it. On throttle, off, on; the car's pitch and roll like breath in his body. The Civic, light and frank, told him the truth in every nudge.
Back to the front straight he came, letting the car run out and settle cleanly before he planted his foot. The grandstands glided by, skeletal and silent, but he imagined them filled anyway. Not to feed his ego, something simpler. A picture to staple in his mind: where he was headed, what this could be if he kept showing up.
He checked the mirrors out of habit, saw only the tremble of his own rear wing. Upshifts landed with a tidy ba-dap through the lever. He sat the car a shade left for Turn 1, braked a whisper later than the first time, trailed a hair deeper, and felt the nose take the bait without complaint. Margins, earned in inches.
Coca-Cola again, the left now less of a stranger. He gave it trust and received the favor back. The climb to 100R felt shorter, his mind spending less effort on surprise and more on finesse. He kept the throttle brushed and the steering angle where the front tires sang but didn't shout; the long arc held like a lasso around momentum.
Hairpin, this time he planted the brake with confident firmness, modulated as the nose dove, and released into rotation rather than after it. The car eagerly swung to the apex and leapt out with a sweet, clean traction bite. He grinned without meaning to.
300R, then the Dunlop boards arriving like old acquaintances. He measured his breath to the brake pedal, squeezed longer, carried a shaved few kilometers more speed in, and waited. one, two, until the fronts were truly ready before he rolled angle. The chicane came to him now: a neat chalk-line over curb, a sash-swish across the change of direction, the exit curb taken with a little more throttle and a little less prayer.
"Better," he said to the wheel, as if it could hear.
The Civic felt smaller suddenly, no, not smaller, closer. The gap between intent and action shrank until his hands and feet were not commands but continuations of thought. He checked his shoulders against the belts, settled his hips deeper into the seat, and let the car do what it was made to do.
The track unspooled. The mountain watched, serene and high, while the little white hatch traced its lessons at ground level, carving confidence one adjustment at a time. He kept the warm-up pace, fast enough to speak the language, respectful enough not to mangle the grammar.
Over the line again, he caught the pit wall in the corner of his eye—the blur of people who had bet their time and belief on this very moment. Their shapes were indistinct at this speed, but he felt them anyway, a pull in his chest that made the next brake marker feel less like a limit and more like an invitation.
He braked. He turned. He breathed. And he smiled, because the save at Dunlop wasn't a fluke, it was a hinge. The lap on one side of it belonged to caution; the lap on the other belonged to growth.
"Let's work," he murmured, rolling the Civic onto the line that would be his foundation for the day. The engine sang back, eager as a heartbeat.