The sun was beginning its slow descent behind Mount Fuji when the test finally wrapped. The white Civic EK9 sat cooling in the paddock, steam curling from the hood vents, the smell of hot brakes and burned rubber clinging to the spring air. For Izamuri, the adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, but the work wasn't over. The car needed to be packed, tools loaded, and everything returned to Tokyo.
Walter barked orders as naturally as breathing, organizing the load-out with precision. Nikolai and Daichi worked silently alongside him, checking straps and bolting down tool chests into the Hiace van. Haruka, meanwhile, stood by the tow truck driver, overseeing the Civic as it was winched onto the flatbed.
Izamuri, still sore but glowing with energy, found himself helping wherever he could, lifting jacks, coiling air hoses, even carrying crates of spare tires despite his arms trembling. He wanted to prove he was part of this.
By the time the last ratchet strap clicked and the Civic sat secure, the sky had shifted to twilight purple. Haruka gave a satisfied nod. "Alright. Let's get back. The real talk starts in Tokyo."
The convoy left Fuji in staggered fashion: Takamori in the tow truck, Hana and Ayaka driving the Hiace, Daichi's beloved 3000GT with Walter riding shotgun and Nikolai crammed in the back, and Haruka with Izamuri in the Corolla.
The ride back was quieter than the trip up. Izamuri stared out the window as neon signs and highway lamps flickered past, the Civic's reflection occasionally visible in the truck's rearview. His body was exhausted, but his mind kept replaying the day: the understeer at Turn 1, the spin at the hairpin, the save at Dunlop, and the final lap. 2:06.555.
It didn't feel real yet.
Haruka noticed the faraway look in his eyes. "You're thinking about it again, huh?"
Izamuri gave a tired grin. "I can't stop. It feels like… I finally found where I belong."
Haruka smirked, glancing at the road. "Good. Hold onto that. It's what'll keep you alive later."
It was late evening when they finally rolled into Suginami, tired but restless, the engines quieting one by one in front of Haruka's workshop. The Hiace hissed as Hana slid the door open, stretching her legs with a groan, Ayaka not far behind. Takamori leapt down from the flatbed with his usual quiet grace, while Daichi cracked his back after climbing out of the cramped Corolla.
"Home sweet home," Walter muttered, rubbing his neck. "Let's get this debrief done before I fall asleep standing."
But the moment they stepped through the shutter doors, exhaustion turned to disbelief.
The workshop was an absolute warzone.
Bolts scattered across the floor like caltrops. Tools spilled out of open drawers, sockets rolling away with every step. Oil stains smeared across the walls and ceiling in arcs that defied logic, like someone had taken a paintbrush and flung it upward. The faint smell of instant noodles overpowered the usual tang of motor oil and grease.
And then their eyes landed on Rin. He was suspended half a meter above the ground, duct-taped to the hydraulic lift like some kind of failed modern art piece. His muffled groans carried through the layers of tape plastered across his chest and arms, his hair sticking out at odd angles.
Next to him, a precarious tower of ramen cups leaned against a workbench, stacked higher than anyone thought possible without toppling. It tilted dangerously, wobbling every time someone took a step too close, like some deranged imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
In the corner, an empty oil drum rocked gently, clearly having been rolled across the shop floor like a toy.
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Then Haruka buried his face in his palm. "What the hell…"
Ayaka groaned loudly, clutching her head. "You've got to be kidding me."
Hana snorted, then immediately started laughing uncontrollably. "Oh no, oh no, they actually did it, Rin's a hostage!"
Takamori dropped his bag with a thud. "You leave them alone for ONE day and this is what happens."
Daichi walked closer, his jaw tightening. He crossed his arms, taking in the scene with the air of someone who had seen too much in his racing career, yet still couldn't quite believe this. "I thought leaving Rin with them was a bad idea. But I didn't think it'd be this bad."
Walter just burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god, they duct-taped him to the lift! Who thinks of that?"
Nikolai shook his head. "Unprofessional. Dangerous. And… creative."
Izamuri, wide-eyed, glanced at Haruka. "Uh… do you want me to…?"
"Yes. Please get him down before I lose my mind," Haruka muttered.
It took five minutes and a box cutter to free Rin from his silver prison. As the last strip peeled off, Rin collapsed to the floor with a groan, glaring at the two culprits who were nowhere to be found.
"Where are they?" Rin rasped.
A small noise came from under a workbench. Two pairs of wide eyes peeked out from behind a stack of tires. The twins, Tojo and Hojo had the decency to look sheepish for exactly three seconds before bursting into laughter at Rin's scowl.
"You two…" Rin growled, pointing a shaking finger. "I swear, I—"
"Enough!" Haruka's voice cut through the room. Everyone froze. His patience, already frayed from the day, had snapped clean.
The workshop went silent except for the faint hum of the cooling lights overhead.
Izamuri chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. He had never quite grasped how chaotic the twins really were, but now he had a front-row seat. "So… what's next?"
"Next," Haruka said firmly, "we debrief. Everyone. Now. Upstairs. We're doing the debrief before I lose my mind."
Haruka herded everyone upstairs to the second-floor office where the debrief would take place. The small room, cluttered with whiteboards and stacks of paperwork, at least looked more civilized.
Everyone squeezed in. Haruka at the desk, Daichi standing by the window, Walter and Nikolai against the wall, and the others sprawled across mismatched chairs and stools. Izamuri sat near the back, still clutching the memory of his laps like a treasure.
Daichi opened a folder filled with notes and timing sheets. "First, the numbers. Izamuri's best time. 2:06.555. That puts him two-tenths off last year's pole time at Fuji. Considering today was his first proper outing, that's insane."
Walter leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "Talent's there. But raw. He still spins under pressure, still overdrives in sector three. Needs discipline. But if we put him on the right path? He's got something special."
Nikolai nodded once, his expression calm but his voice steady. "He adapts quickly. That's rare. Means he can be trained."
Izamuri blinked, still not used to hearing people talk about him like that. "So… what does this mean? Am I… in?"
Haruka smiled faintly. "You were in the moment you strapped into that Civic. This just confirmed it."
Daichi cleared his throat, tapping the table. "Which brings us to logistics. Race weeks. We can't keep splitting between the workshop and the race team. If everyone's divided, we'll be useless at both. The test proved we need all hands on deck for race weekends."
Walter gestured toward the twins with a smirk. "And leaving these two in charge clearly isn't an option unless you want the shop to collapse."
The twins both protested in unison. "Hey!"
Haruka ignored them, nodding grimly. "Agreed. Which means on race weeks, the workshop is closed. No jobs, no repairs, nothing. We can't afford distractions."
Rin perked up from his seat, still sulking but curious. "So what about me? Am I stuck babysitting these lunatics again?"
"Actually, no." Haruka leaned forward. "You're officially off twin-duty. Starting next event, you're with us on the race team."
Rin blinked, then slowly grinned. "Seriously? About time!"
The twins groaned dramatically. "Aw, come on, who's gonna appreciate our genius now?"
Ayaka deadpanned. "Maybe the ramen tower will."
Laughter rippled through the room, easing some of the tension. But Haruka's voice cut back through.
"This is serious. Closing the workshop means losing income during races. But if Izamuri keeps improving, sponsors will come. Today showed promise, more than promise. We need to treat this like the real deal from here on out."
Daichi nodded. "I'll draft a training schedule. Walter and I will take over mentorship, and Nikolai can handle data analysis. The twins…" he shot them a look, "…can maybe be trusted with pit equipment if they swear not to duct-tape anyone again."
Tojo raised a hand. "What if it's necessary duct tape?"
"Then no," Haruka snapped.
The room chuckled again, but beneath the humor was a shared seriousness. Something had shifted. The chaos downstairs only proved what they already knew: the workshop couldn't be both a business and a race team at the same time. If they were going to commit, they had to go all in.
Izamuri sat quietly, listening, his heart swelling. For the first time, it wasn't just his dream. It was everyone's dream, converging here in this cramped office above a messy garage.
The decision was unanimous. during race weeks, the workshop would close. The twins would tag along, under strict supervision, and Rin was free from his babysitting shackles. The team would move as one.
A few minutes later the room was still alive with voices, a blend of excitement and exhaustion. Whiteboards were already filled with notes from Daichi, arrows pointing between "EK9 setup," "driver schedule," and "sponsor outreach." Walter was scribbling something in his small leather notebook, Nikolai tapping a pen against the table with surgical calm. Haruka leaned back in the office chair, rubbing his temples while the twins argued over whether duct tape could legally count as a pit tool.
The atmosphere shifted again when—
Bang!
The office door swung open with such force it hit the wall, startling everyone inside.
Standing in the doorway was a tall man, mid-forties, His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed, like someone who had spent years both in a garage and on the move. He wore a battered leather jacket over a collared shirt, and under one arm he carried a slim black laptop case covered in airline stickers. His presence filled the room instantly, not loud, not brash, but commanding. A faint trace of a London accent colored his first words.
The man smirked faintly. "Miss me, Fujiwara?"
Daichi blinked once, then twice, before breaking into a stunned grin. "Bloody hell… Simon?!"
For a beat, the room was silent, everyone except Walter and Nikolai exchanging confused glances. Haruka squinted, trying to place the name. The twins whispered furiously to each other, while Izamuri just stared, sensing that this newcomer wasn't ordinary.
Daichi stood slowly, his lips curling into something between disbelief and a smile. "I thought you'd never leave Brackley. Last I heard, you were still tangled with Mercedes F1."
Simon shrugged, stepping into the room as if he owned it. "Deals come and go. Politics. You know how it is. But when you sent me that karting video…" He tapped his temple with two fingers. "I couldn't get the kid's hands out of my head. Reminded me of when we used to watch Schumacher's telemetry in the early days. Natural instincts you can't teach."
Izamuri blinked, heat rising to his cheeks. "He's talking about me?"
Walter finally spoke with his arms crossed. "So what's your angle, Simon? You're not the type to join some ragtag team for free."
Simon chuckled. "Sharp as ever, Walter. My angle? Simple. I'm bored. Formula One has become too polished, too sanitized. Everything's dictated by simulation models and politics. Here, though?" He gestured around the cluttered office, the oily floorboards creaking beneath his shoes. "Here, there's chaos. Chaos breeds creativity. I want in."
Simon dropped his laptop bag onto the desk with a thud. "So here I am. You've got a car, you've got a driver, and by the look of that circus downstairs, you desperately need a crew chief." He looked around the room, sharp blue eyes scanning everyone. "That's me. I'll be your head crew chief and your data engineer."
Walter broke into a grin, pushing off the wall. "Well, I'll be damned. Didn't think you had the guts to walk away from Mercedes."
Simon shot him a pointed look. "Didn't think you had the guts to leave DTM either, yet here we are."
The two exchanged a grin, an old familiarity sparking despite the barbs.
Nikolai finally turned fully from the window, speaking in his measured, low tone. "If Simon's here, it means he's serious. He doesn't follow pipe dreams."
Daichi chuckled, shaking his head as if still not convinced this was real. "I thought the video was just me bragging. Didn't expect it to pull you halfway across the world."
Simon leaned on the desk, folding his arms. "Well, it did. And let's be clear, I don't gamble my time. If this kid's half as good as I think he is, you've got something special. I want in."
Haruka finally spoke, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the man. "Hold on. Who is this guy?"
Daichi straightened, his voice carrying the weight of respect. "Simon George Brown. Former lead engineer at Benetton F1 back in the nineties. Worked under Rory Byrne, Ross Brawn, you name it. He was there when Schumacher took his first titles. Later moved on to Mercedes F1, and now…" He gestured at Simon with a wry grin. "…apparently decided to crash our little party."
The room collectively inhaled. Even the twins sat upright now, jaws slack.
Ayaka whispered, "Wait, that Benetton? As in Formula One Benetton?"
Simon smirked. "The one and only. You lot don't look like an F1 garage, though. More like a scrapyard that learned how to stand upright."
The twins frowned. "Hey! This scrapyard is—"
"—currently covered in ramen cups and duct tape," Rin cut in with a deadpan expression.
The twins slumped back in silence.
Simon chuckled, then turned his attention to Izamuri, studying him intently. The weight of his gaze made the younger driver stiffen.
"You're the kid in the kart, aren't you?" Simon said quietly.
Izamuri swallowed. "Y-Yeah. That was me."
Simon's expression softened, just slightly. "Good. Because from what I saw, you've got raw pace. But raw pace means nothing without refinement. My job is to give you the tools, and the pressure, to polish that diamond." He paused, his tone turning sharper. "But know this, lad: I don't babysit. I don't sugarcoat. You'll either thrive under me or break. Which one it'll be is up to you."
Izamuri straightened in his chair, meeting the older man's eyes. The nerves fluttered in his stomach, but he didn't flinch. "Then I'll thrive."
A flicker of approval passed over Simon's face. "We'll see."
Daichi clapped his hands once, snapping the tension. "Alright then. Looks like the team just got a hell of an upgrade. With Simon as crew chief and data engineer, Walter and I focusing on driver coaching, and Nikolai on strategy, we've got a proper structure forming."
Simon nodded firmly. "Good. Because from what I gathered, your first race isn't far off. You've got less than two weeks, right?"
Haruka grimaced. "Yeah. And about three hundred problems to solve before then."
Simon cracked open his laptop, already booting it up. "Then let's start now. I'll need all the telemetry from today's runs, every scrap of video, and your setup notes. I want to know where the Civic breathes and where it chokes."
Walter chuckled. "Same old Simon. No small talk. Straight to the data."
"Small talk doesn't win races," Simon shot back without looking up.
The office buzzed again as papers shuffled and flash drives exchanged hands. The team, still stunned by his sudden arrival, quickly found themselves swept into his orbit. His presence commanded focus, reshaping the chaos into something tighter, more professional.
And in the middle of it all sat Izamuri, his heart pounding. The day had already been overwhelming, setting lap times close to last year's qualifiers—but now a former F1 engineer was here, saying he believed in him enough to come all the way to Tokyo.
For the first time, Izamuri realized, this wasn't just a small project anymore. This was becoming something bigger. Something real.
The clatter of tools, the steady hum of the compressor, and the occasional burst of laughter had filled Haruka's workshop for hours after Simon's arrival. Under his direction, the Civic EK9 had been stripped and prodded in ways it never had before. Telemetry wires snaked across the cabin, sensors were taped and bolted to suspension arms, and a makeshift pit wall of laptops was arranged on one of the folding tables. It was clear to everyone now, this wasn't just a garage project anymore. This was beginning to feel like a real race team.
But by the time the clock crept past eleven, exhaustion was written across every face. Takamori sat half-asleep in a chair with his arms crossed, a cup of coffee gone cold in his hand. Hana had stopped taking notes and was instead doodling on the corner of her clipboard, her eyes glazed from staring too long at spreadsheets. Ayaka had been leaning against the lift for so long that her legs had gone numb. Even the twins, who were usually unstoppable bundles of chaos, had slowed down to sluggish bickering over whether to use 10mm or 12mm sockets on a bracket.
Haruka clapped his hands once, loud enough to make everyone jump. "Alright, that's enough for tonight. We'll finish up tomorrow. I don't need half the team passing out in the pits."
Everyone groaned in relief.
Simon, still typing notes into his laptop, gave a small nod. "We've got enough for tonight. No sense in forcing it. Better rested minds tomorrow." His voice carried authority, the sort that made even the twins nod without protest.
Daichi stretched his arms, joints popping audibly. "Agreed. I've had my fill for the day." He gave Izamuri a tired but approving pat on the shoulder. "Good work out there today, kid. Don't let all this pressure get in your head. One step at a time."
Izamuri gave a sheepish nod, his body sore from the day's testing but his mind still buzzing. "I'll… try."
One by one, people began packing up. Walter checked his phone before muttering something about an early morning conference call he couldn't miss. Nikolai gathered his neatly folded jacket, slipping it over his broad shoulders with military precision. Simon snapped his laptop shut, tucked it under his arm, and slung his blazer over his shoulder.
Outside, the street was still and quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of Tokyo's distant traffic and the buzzing neon from a convenience store sign down the block. The workshop's black roll-up door clattered shut as Haruka locked it from the outside.
"Alright," Daichi said, jingling his keys. "I'll see you all tomorrow." He walked toward his Mitsubishi 3000GT, its red paint glistening faintly under the streetlights. He slid into the driver's seat, the familiar growl of the V6 firing up as the car pulled away into the night.
Takamori was next, stretching once before heading toward his R32 GT-R that sat parked under a flickering lamp. He waved lazily before climbing in, the RB26 burbling softly as he disappeared into the dark. Hana and Ayaka followed suit, piling into Ayaka's Nissan Sileighty with bags of notebooks and spare clothes stuffed in the back. Their headlights cut down the street before vanishing into the quiet of Suginami.
That left Walter, Nikolai, and Simon.
Walter headed for his silver Mercedes 190E estate, a car as precise and pragmatic as the man himself. He tossed his bag into the back, adjusting his glasses before giving a two-finger salute to the others.
Nikolai climbed into his rugged, battered Lada Niva, an odd sight among the polished imports, but one that suited him perfectly. The little Russian truck sputtered to life, headlights flickering on as he gave Simon a short nod before driving off.
Simon, meanwhile, walked a little further down the street to where his pride and joy sat: a 1996 Jaguar XJS, its British Racing Green paint shimmering faintly under the street lamps. The car looked almost out of place in Tokyo, a long and elegant grand tourer among boxy kei cars and modern compacts, but it carried the same quiet dignity as its owner.
He set his laptop bag carefully in the passenger seat before slipping behind the wheel. The door shut with a heavy thud, the smell of leather and wood polish surrounding him. With a twist of the key, the straight-six purred to life, smooth and aristocratic, its exhaust note low and restrained.
For a moment, Simon sat there, hands on the wheel, gazing out at the workshop where the lights inside had gone dark. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head with a faint smile. "Back in the madness, George. You've really gone and done it this time."
Then, with a smooth motion, he shifted into gear and rolled off down the street, the Jaguar gliding into the night.
Inside the workshop, only Haruka and Izamuri remained for a moment longer. Haruka leaned against the Corolla, arms crossed, watching the last of the tail lights fade.
"You holding up, kid?" Haruka asked softly.
Izamuri nodded, though his voice wavered with fatigue. "Yeah… just… feels like everything's happening so fast. Yesterday I was changing oil and sweeping the floor. Now I've got all these people, professionals, talking like I'm supposed to be some… some big thing."
Haruka smirked, giving him a light punch on the shoulder. "That's because you are some big thing. You just don't see it yet."
Izamuri laughed awkwardly. "Or maybe they're all crazy."
"Maybe both," Haruka admitted. He opened the Corolla's door and motioned for Izamuri to get in. "Come on. Let's get home. Tomorrow's another long day."
The two climbed into the familiar Corolla, the engine coughing to life before settling into a steady idle. As Haruka drove them through the quiet streets of Suginami, Izamuri leaned his head against the window, watching neon lights blur by. His body was exhausted, but his mind was racing.
Today had been monumental. He had set a near-competitive lap time at Fuji, stunned everyone, and now Simon Brown, a man who had once worked on Formula One cars, was officially part of the team. The weight of it all pressed on him, but underneath the nerves was something else.
Excitement.
The road ahead was uncertain, filled with pressure, expectation, and challenges he couldn't even imagine yet. But for the first time in his life, Izamuri felt like he was standing at the edge of something huge.
As the Corolla pulled into Haruka's driveway and the garage door rolled shut behind them, Izamuri allowed his eyes to close. Tomorrow would come soon enough. Tonight, he let the exhaustion wash over him, trusting that, somehow, he was exactly where he needed to be.
And somewhere in the distance, a green Jaguar XJS prowled through Tokyo's streets, its driver already planning how to turn a team of misfits into something formidable.