The Civic's B18C screamed as Izamuri pulled through the gears on Fuji's endless front straight, his right foot braver now, his left hand moving through the shift gate with a rhythm that was starting to feel natural. The tach needle brushed close to the red, then dipped with every upshift, the car clawing toward the brake boards of Turn 1.
He braked later than before. Too late. The Civic twitched, the steering went light, and his chest slammed forward against the harness as he jammed down two gears. The nose went hunting, washing slightly wide. He tried to tuck it back toward the apex, but the front tires slid with that grainy howl of understeer.
"Damn it!"
He eased the wheel, let the car breathe out, and salvaged the exit. Not clean. But not a disaster either. He learned something.
Every lap that morning was like that, mistakes and corrections, victories measured not in lap times but in how fast he adapted.
At Coca-Cola he rotated too eagerly, the rear stepping out as if trying to overtake the front. His heart lurched, but muscle memory from countless simulator hours kicked in, countersteer, throttle balance, patience. The Civic straightened, and he huffed inside his helmet.
"Okay… okay… breathe."
Next lap, he clipped it smooth, the car dancing to his inputs instead of against them. But Fuji wasn't going to give him easy praise. At 100R, he overfed throttle mid-corner and the Civic understeered again, skating toward the outer rumble strip. He backed off and watched the exit widen like a threat. Tires spat dust as he skimmed the curb, but he kept it alive. Another near miss. Another note scribbled in his mental logbook.
The hairpin was no kinder. He braked a hair too late, the rear grew unsettled, and suddenly he was spinning. tires screaming, the sky whipping across his visor. He clutched in, locked the brakes, and let the car pirouette to a stop. His chest heaved, adrenaline drowning everything else, until silence filled the cockpit.
A marshal waved from the corner post. Izamuri raised a sheepish hand, restarted the Civic, and eased it back on track. "Yeah, yeah, I know. My fault."
When he returned to pit lane, the Civic rolled to a stop in front of the team canopy. The crew bustled. Haruka, Daichi, Walter, Nikolai, all waiting with arms crossed or clipboards in hand.
Daichi leaned over the fender as Izamuri killed the ignition. "What happened?"
"Too hot on the brakes. Car rotated quicker than I could catch."
Walter smirked. "At least you admitted it. Better than blaming the car."
Haruka crouched by the front splitter, pressing on the suspension. "She's a little stiff. No wonder you're fighting understeer at turn-in." He glanced over his shoulder. "Nikolai, soften the front a click, stiffen the rear a half."
The Russian nodded, wordless, already reaching for the dampers.
Izamuri climbed out, peeling off his gloves, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. Despite the mistakes, there was a wild spark in his eyes. He wasn't crushed, he was hungry.
"Give me five minutes," Daichi said, adjusting something near the sway bar. "Then take her back out. This time, don't try to attack Fuji. Let Fuji guide you."
"Got it." Izamuri nodded, drinking from a water bottle and pacing near the pit wall.
Ten minutes later, the Civic was rolled back onto the lane, and he climbed in again. The adjustments made a difference instantly. Turn 1, more bite at the nose. Coca-Cola, less tail-happiness. 100R, balanced, steady, almost forgiving.
And though he still made mistakes, too wide on Dunlop entry, too greedy on throttle at the exit of the final sector, he started stringing clean sectors together. The car began to feel less like a borrowed machine and more like an extension of him.
The clock crept toward noon. By then, he had logged more than two dozen laps, the Civic returning each time to the pits with another set of notes. Adjust tire pressures. Tweak camber. Tiny shifts, tiny lessons. His arms ached, his legs trembled, but his grin never faded.
Finally, Haruka raised a hand as Izamuri rolled into the pits once more. "Enough for now. Lunch break. If you push yourself past the edge, you won't learn anything."
Izamuri killed the ignition, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. His body was drenched in sweat, his pulse racing, but he nodded. He'd earned food, and rest, even if part of him wanted to go again.
The Civic was rolled back under the canopy, the team gathering around it like surgeons around a patient. Izamuri sat on a folding chair, devouring a bento box someone had picked up earlier. Rice, pickled vegetables, karaage, simple, but it tasted like heaven after hours of fighting Fuji's corners.
He didn't notice, as he ate, the quiet shadows leaving the circuit.
Parked just beyond the outer lot, the black Mercedes C63 AMG had been there since morning, its tinted windows angled toward pit lane. Inside, Akagi Nakamura's men had been watching, noting every detail, the car, the driver, the team. But now, as noon came, one of them clicked his pen shut.
"That's enough," he muttered. "We've seen what we need. He's talented, but raw. Boss will want this on his desk today."
The driver started the engine, the AMG burbling low. Without a sound, they slipped out of the lot, blending into the traffic heading back toward Tokyo.
Back in the pits, Izamuri finished his lunch, leaning back in the chair with a sigh. He didn't know the shadows had been there at all. To him, the only battle was still the one waiting on the asphalt, the Civic, Fuji, and himself.
An hour later, the midday sun baked Fuji Speedway in a shimmering haze. Heat waves rose off the tarmac, distorting the view of the front straight into a liquid blur. Crews lounged in folding chairs, sipping cold drinks or tinkering idly on their cars. But under Haruka's canopy, the air was different, sharp, buzzing with the quiet tension of focus.
Izamuri stood beside the Civic EK9, helmet under his arm, the last of his bottled water drained in one long gulp. His bento box was long empty, but his hunger had shifted, it wasn't for food anymore. He glanced at the car, its B18C still ticking faintly as it cooled, and then at Daichi, who leaned against a stack of tires with arms crossed.
"You ready for the afternoon session?" Daichi asked, his tone flat but his eyes measuring.
Izamuri nodded. "Yeah. The mistakes this morning… I want to iron them out."
Walter, flipping through notes on a clipboard, raised a brow. "Iron them out? Kid, you spun, nearly killed a cone at Dunlop, and understeered half a dozen times. That's not ironing, you need to wrestle those out."
Haruka smirked from the workbench, tossing Izamuri his gloves. "Don't let the old man scare you. You're doing better than I expected. Just don't get cocky. Focus."
Izamuri slipped the gloves on, pulled his helmet over his head, and strapped himself back into the Civic. The belts locked across his chest with a reassuring click. As the B18C fired up, its metallic rasp filled the garage. He flexed his fingers over the wheel, letting the hum of the B18C through the firewall fuel his nerves.
"Alright," Daichi said into the comm set, though Izamuri could hear him faintly even without it. "This isn't about pushing flat out right away. Build up. Lap by lap. Consistency before speed."
The pit marshal waved him forward. Izamuri eased onto the lane, shifted into first, and rolled back onto the track.
The first few laps were warm-up, medium pace, coaxing heat into the fresh tires, reminding his body of the rhythm. Turn 1 felt cleaner now, his braking point later, sharper, the front end darting toward the apex instead of plowing through it. Coca-Cola corner, once the bane of snap oversteer, flowed smoothly with his corrected steering. At 100R, the car stayed balanced, only whispering at the limit but never breaking free.
By his third lap, his pace climbed. The Civic dug into the hairpin, biting down on the apex curb, and he exited with a touch of wheelspin that pushed him onto the next straight. At Dunlop, he remembered the morning's scare and braked with respect, but now, instead of panicking, he feathered the car into rotation, clipping both curbs neatly before powering out.
His consistency grew lap by lap. Each mistake smoothed out, each corner tightened until the rhythm became almost musical. The engine's scream down the straights felt like part of his own heartbeat.
In the pits, Daichi scribbled on a clipboard, eyes narrowing as the sector times flashed on the monitor. Walter leaned forward, muttering under his breath. Haruka stood with his arms crossed, hiding his grin every time the timing improved. Even Nikolai allowed a slight nod when the Civic came across the line faster each lap.
Izamuri pushed harder. At 2:09… 2:08.4… 2:07.9… the gap closed. He was wringing every ounce out of the EK9, but the car was rewarding him with stability, the earlier adjustments paying off. He was no longer reacting to the Civic, he was controlling it, taming it, demanding more from it.
And then came the last run of the day. The tires had a final few laps left before they'd fade, and the crew waved him on.
"Make it count!" Haruka called through the pit radio.
Izamuri clenched the wheel tighter, rolling onto the front straight. The Civic surged forward, every gear change snapping clean, the revs soaring.
Turn 1, he braked at the 120 marker, trail-braked in, and let the car rotate with surgical precision. No slide. No drama. Clean exit.
Coca-Cola, perfect entry, the car rotating around him like a compass needle.
100R, he carried more speed than he'd dared before, keeping the throttle feathered, the Civic gripping all the way through the endless arc. He exhaled a laugh as the g-force pinned him to the seat.
Hairpin, deep braking, the nose biting, the rear squirming but caught. He snapped back onto the throttle, launching out like a slingshot.
Dunlop, brake, flick, curb-to-curb. Smooth. Aggressive. Controlled.
The final sector, quick hands, quick feet, every corner a blur of precision.
The Civic screamed down the front straight, the pit wall flashing past.
2:06.555.
The number lit up on the timing screen in the pits. For a moment, there was silence, then an eruption of voices.
"2:06?!" Walter barked, incredulous.
Daichi's eyes widened. "That's only two-tenths off last year's fastest qualifying time."
Haruka clenched his fist, grinning ear to ear. "I knew it… damn it, I knew it."
Even Nikolai, who rarely showed emotion, allowed himself a rare, thin smile. "Not bad… not bad at all."
Inside the car, Izamuri lifted his visor halfway as he coasted on his cooldown lap, chest heaving. Sweat poured down his temples, his arms ached like lead, and yet his face was split with the widest grin he'd ever worn.
He didn't know the numbers yet. He didn't need to. He felt it. He had danced with Fuji, and for one lap, Fuji had danced back.
When he pulled back into the pits, the crew was waiting. Haruka slapped the roof as Izamuri shut off the engine, his eyes bright with pride.
"2:06.5," Haruka announced.
Izamuri blinked. "Wait… what?"
"Two-tenths off the fastest quali lap from last year," Daichi said, his tone half amazement, half approval.
For a moment, Izamuri just sat there, stunned. Then he laughed, a mix of disbelief and raw joy. "You're kidding…"
"You think we'd joke about that?" Walter said, grinning.
Haruka leaned closer, voice low but warm. "Told you. This isn't just a test. This is the start of something big."
Izamuri climbed out, pulling off his helmet, his hair damp with sweat. The March afternoon sun bathed the pit lane in gold as the Civic cooled, ticking quietly under the canopy. For the first time, he felt it deep in his bones. not just as a dream, but as a certainty.
He belonged here.