Later that night, the fluorescent lights hummed faintly above the workshop's second-floor meeting room, casting a pale glow over the tired faces gathered around the long, scarred wooden table, papers and coffee cups scattered across it. Outside, Sunday night in Suginami was quiet, too quiet compared to the restless energy inside. The EK9 One-Make Retro Race was exactly one week away, and every single person in that room understood what that meant.
Haruka leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the tired faces of the crew. Izamuri sat near the end, arms crossed but alert. Rin leaned against the wall, tapping a pen against his leg. Ayaka and Hana were side-by-side, their expressions curious but focused. The twins, Kaira and Tojo, were already fidgeting, whispering to each other in the corner until Haruka shot them a look that made them straighten instantly. Daichi, Walter, Nikolai, and Simon filled out the rest of the seats, all with varying degrees of fatigue written on their faces.
Finally, Haruka exhaled. "Alright. Let's get started. As much as I want to play leader, I know when to step aside. This team needs structure, proper structure, not me fumbling my way through decisions." He gestured toward Daichi, who sat near the center of the table. "Which is why, starting tonight, I'm passing the role of Team Principal to Daichi Fujiwara."
A few surprised murmurs rippled through the room. Izamuri's eyes widened, while Rin lifted his head off the table just enough to blink in surprise. The twins whispered, "Eh? The old guy's in charge now?" before Simon rapped his knuckles on the desk, silencing them.
Haruka continued, "Daichi's the most experienced out of all of us. He's been there, raced there, strategized there. He knows how to manage a team under pressure. With him leading, we'll have a real fighting chance."
Daichi, calm as ever, adjusted his glasses and gave a small nod. "If that's your decision, Haruka, I'll accept. But understand, this won't be easy. We're not just building a team; we're building a functioning unit that has to survive a season. If anyone here thinks this will be casual, walk out now."
No one moved. Even the twins straightened a little under his sharp gaze.
"Good," Daichi said. He opened a folder in front of him and began distributing papers. "I've drawn up a preliminary structure. From now on, this is how we operate."
He pointed first to Izamuri. "Driver: Izamuri Sakuta. Honda Civic Type R EK9, number 98. Your job is simple in description, difficult in practice: drive fast, stay consistent, listen to comms."
Izamuri smirked. "Was planning on it."
Next, Daichi's finger shifted to Walter. "Strategist and driver coach: William Walter Schmidt. You'll handle pit strategy, callouts, and mentor Izamuri. You've raced in DTM in the early 90s, you've coached newer DTM drivers, you know what to say when seconds matter."
Walter gave a sharp nod. "Understood."
"Nikolai Alexander Dmitri, Chief Engineer. Your job is to make sure the car is prepared at the highest level. Suspension, gearing, aero setup, everything. Nothing leaves this workshop unless you approve."
Nikolai leaned back, arms folded, his heavy Russian accent thick as he replied, "As long as parts don't break, we win. I'll see to that."
"Vice Engineer, Haruka," Daichi continued. "You'll support Nikolai, handle secondary tasks, and provide your experience on both tuning and trackside repairs."
Haruka smiled wryly. "Guess I get to turn wrenches again."
"Support engineers: Rin, Ayaka, Hana." Daichi looked at them each in turn. "You'll handle tire changes, fueling prep, and general garage work. You'll rotate shifts during race weekends so no one burns out."
Hana straightened proudly, while Ayaka scribbled notes. Rin yawned but nodded.
"Communications and data relay: Takamori and Simon."
Takamori almost spit his coffee. "Wait, me? Why me?"
Haruka answered, leaning toward him with a small smirk. "Because you've been on a grid before. Don't act like I didn't notice. Formula Ford 1600, and those Yaris one-make races you thought nobody paid attention to." He gestured toward the wall again, tapping the nose cone of the old single-seater. "You know what a driver needs to hear in the middle of a race. That experience counts."
Takamori scratched the back of his head, embarrassed but secretly proud. "Tch… didn't think anyone remembered that. Fine. I'll take it."
Simon, seated beside him, gave a curt nod. "I'll handle telemetry and broader strategy. Takamori can manage driver feedback relay. It'll work."
Daichi moved on. "And finally, logistics: Tojo and Hojo."
The twins immediately started complaining in unison. "What?! Logistics? That's boring!"
"Yeah, we wanted something cooler, like pit crew or—"
"Silence," Daichi said firmly, his voice cutting through their whining. "You two can't be trusted with sensitive equipment. You'll handle transportation, spares, fuel, and overall logistics. Without logistics, the car doesn't even make it to the track. Treat it like a joke, and you won't see another race."
The twins pouted but said nothing more.
Daichi set the folder down, his gaze sweeping the room. "This isn't up for debate. This is the structure that gives us the best chance. Haruka knew what he was doing by stepping back, he can contribute more by focusing on engineering rather than splitting his attention. We'll all respect these roles, or we'll collapse before the season even begins. When we roll into Fuji next week, we're not just testing anymore. We're racing. People will see us as outsiders, amateurs. They'll expect us to break down, to fold under pressure. And they'll be right, unless we hold to this."
The words lingered in the air, heavy but motivating.
Haruka stood then, picking up his coffee cup and holding it out in a mock toast. "To G-Force," he said quietly. "To this madhouse we've built."
One by one, the others followed suit. Rin raised his half-empty soda can, Hana and Ayaka lifted their mugs, Takamori lifted his thermos, the twins raised their energy drinks, and even Walter joined in with his untouched black coffee. Izamuri, hesitant at first, finally raised his water bottle, meeting Daichi's steady gaze.
"To G-Force," they echoed, the room buzzing with a renewed, if weary, energy.
The meeting pressed on, details flowing like gears slotting into place, schedules, equipment lists, travel routes. And though the night outside deepened, inside the workshop office, something new was taking shape, not just a team, but a foundation strong enough to carry them into the fight ahead.
By the time the wall clock in the upstairs office struck eleven, the meeting had wrapped. The air in the room was thick from hours of back-and-forth, strategy talks, equipment lists, and even a few heated exchanges over logistics. But the whiteboard was now filled with names and roles, each one underlined with Daichi's sharp handwriting. Everyone knew exactly where they stood.
They drifted down the creaking stairs one by one, boots and sneakers scuffing the concrete floor. The faint chill of the late March night followed them as they stepped outside. Tokyo's streets were quiet; the warm glow from the workshop windows spilled into the alley like a beacon. Walter gave a quick nod to Haruka before heading to his car. Nikolai lit a cigarette as he walked, his sharp profile cutting through the shadows. Simon tugged his coat tighter, muttering something about "bloody long nights" as he made for his Jaguar XJS.
Haruka stayed back, locking the main shutter. Izamuri lingered for a moment, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes following the others as they disappeared into the night. Tomorrow would be business as usual, or as close as this chaotic crew could get.
The next morning, the city was still waking up when Haruka's Corolla rolled into the workshop lot at exactly 7:00 AM. The air was crisp, tinged with the faint scent of spring blossoms mixed with the lingering smell of oil and asphalt. Izamuri, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, carried a bag of convenience store pastries under one arm and a bottle of canned coffee in the other.
The metal shutter groaned upward as Haruka unlocked it, letting in the pale sunlight. The workshop interior was still and cool, the faint metallic tang of grease and aluminum filling the air. Haruka flipped the breaker, and the lights blinked on row by row.
"Alright," Haruka muttered, already shrugging off his jacket. "Let's get this place alive."
Izamuri pulled the tool chests out from the wall, arranging them near the lifts while Haruka began rolling out the jack stands and clearing yesterday's clutter from the workbenches. The rhythmic clatter of tools and the low hum of a compressor filling the air made the workshop feel like it was slowly coming to life.
At 7:15, the first creak of the front door announced Walter's arrival. He stepped inside with his usual stoic expression, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the room before offering a faint nod. "Morning."
Following close behind at 7:20, Takamori strolled in with a thermos in one hand and a bag slung over his shoulder. "Still feels weird to be here this early," he muttered, setting his things down before getting to work on a Honda Fit in for brake service.
Rin arrived at 7:25, headphones around his neck, yawning wide enough to pop his jaw. He barely had his shoes off before Hana and Ayaka appeared together a few minutes later, both in matching black overalls with their hair tied back.
The last of the early arrivals was Simon. The ex-Formula 1 engineer stepped through the doorway at 7:40, dressed in his work coveralls with the sleeves rolled up. He gave a small wave before heading toward one of the empty bays. "Nothing until the dyno session at eleven," he said, glancing at Haruka. "Might as well put my hands to use."
Haruka grinned. "We'll see if you can still handle a proper wrench after all that time behind computers."
Simon smirked and got to work helping Ayaka with an alternator replacement on a Mazda MX-5. He moved with a practiced ease, his motions deliberate and precise, no wasted effort. "F1 cars are just chaos wrapped in carbon fiber," he commented casually. "This? This is relaxing."
The steady rhythm of the morning continued, tools clinking, the air compressor cycling on and off. By 8:00, the unmistakable sound of a scooter engine sputtered to a stop outside. The front door swung open, and the twins, Tojo and Hojo, sauntered in wearing smug expressions as if they hadn't just shown up forty minutes late.
"You're late," Haruka called out from under the hood of a Civic.
"Traffic," Tojo lied effortlessly.
"Breakfast," Hojo added, holding a half-eaten convenience store sandwich.
"Arcade," Rin muttered under his breath, earning a suppressed laugh from Ayaka.
Haruka shook his head, muttering under his breath about "why we put them on logistics." Still, they grabbed the clipboard from the front counter and got to work sorting packages and moving boxes of fluids into storage.
Daichi was the only one missing, and that was by design. He'd told Haruka the night before that he had to check in on one of the convenience store branches he managed that morning. The plan was for him to come by around 10:00 AM to finalize the team's race preparations and personally take the EK9 for its scheduled dyno run later in the day.
Until then, the workshop ran in a steady hum of routine. Haruka supervised from bay to bay, checking in on progress. Walter was tightening the bolts on a Subaru suspension job. Rin and Hana were double-teaming an oil and filter change on an S2000, chatting quietly between steps. Ayaka was back under the MX-5's hood, taking Simon's directions without complaint.
At 9:30, the low, throaty rumble of an old Lada Niva echoed through the narrow street outside. The sound was unmistakable, mechanical and stubborn, like the car itself. Nikolai pulled up to the workshop in his white 1977 Niva, parking it neatly near the side wall before stepping out in his dark work coveralls. Without a word, he walked straight toward Bay 2, where Takamori was hunched over the rear of a BMW E36 sedan.
"Need another pair of hands?" Nikolai asked.
Takamori wiped the sweat from his brow. "Perfect timing. I'm wrestling with this exhaust, and it's fighting back."
The two men got to work immediately, their movements synchronized like they'd done this countless times before. Nikolai steadied the exhaust piping while Takamori lined up the bolts, both exchanging short, precise instructions. The clinking of metal and the occasional grunt of effort echoed through the space as the rest of the crew kept on with their respective jobs.
The workshop felt alive, the hum of teamwork carrying it forward. Everyone knew Daichi would arrive soon, and the atmosphere was one of quiet preparation, each person focused on the task at hand.
By the time Daichi walked into the workshop at 10:00 sharp, the place was alive with clanging tools, bursts of compressed air, and the low hum of chatter. His crisp black jacket and calm but purposeful stride instantly caught Haruka's attention from across the bay. Without wasting time, Daichi motioned for him to follow.
"Upstairs," Daichi said simply, his voice low but carrying that unmistakable authority.
Haruka wiped his hands on a rag and followed him up the narrow staircase to the office on the second floor. The door shut behind them, cutting off the workshop noise below. The scent of coffee and old paper filled the small room, the desk buried under parts catalogs, receipts, and a couple of unopened boxes of brake pads.
"I've got news," Daichi began, sliding into the chair behind the desk. His eyes lit up with the kind of satisfaction that only came after securing a big win. "Managed to strike a deal with Yokohama. Free tires, race compounds, for the season. On top of that, K&N's agreed to supply us with air filters. No cost to the team."
Haruka's eyes widened slightly. "Wait… you just walked in with that like it was nothing?"
Daichi shrugged. "Networking helps. Besides, Yokohama owes me a favor from a GT500 season years back, and I happened to bump into an old K&N rep last week. Figured I'd put the connections to work for us."
Haruka leaned back in his chair, exhaling. "That's… actually huge. Between tires and filters, we're cutting a good chunk off our running costs.. Now we can focus on dialing in the EK9 without worrying about running a set too long."
"That's the plan," Daichi said. "I'll handle the paperwork. You focus on making sure the car's ready for race week."
Downstairs, the rest of the crew kept working without pause. Walter was deep into a brake job on a Subaru Legacy, hands black with dust and grease. Rin was bent over the NSX engine bay again, fishing for that stubborn 10mm socket he dropped a week ago. Simon, sleeves rolled up, worked methodically on a customer's Roadster, clearly enjoying the slower pace compared to the chaos of the F1 paddock.
Hana and Ayaka were swapping out spark plugs on a small kei van, chatting between bursts of work, while the twins, miraculously, were hauling a set of boxed rotors into storage without dropping them.
At 10:30, In the far corner, Nikolai stood in front of the storage room door, an open clipboard in hand. He had been working on a customer's BMW E36 most of the morning, and now he needed a specific oil filter to finish the job. The problem was… he had no idea where it was.
He hadn't stepped foot in the storage room since his first day at the workshop over a week ago. The space was infamous among the crew—a cramped, overstuffed labyrinth of boxes, loose parts, and shelves that looked like they hadn't been organized in years.
Nikolai stepped inside, flicking on the overhead fluorescent light. The bulb flickered twice before stabilizing, bathing the room in a pale, almost sickly glow. He scanned the shelves, muttering under his breath in Russian as his eyes darted between mismatched boxes. Finally, he grabbed the thick, slightly oil-stained inventory book from the workbench and flipped it open He set the clipboard on top of a stack of boxes, then focuses on reading the text in the book.
"Of course," he muttered in Russian, thumbing through the hand-written entries. "This thing is older than my Niva."
His finger traced down the list, scanning rows of part numbers and vague descriptions. Every few seconds, he glanced up at the shelves, trying to match the chicken-scratch writing to the faded labels on the boxes.
It was in that moment, buried in the quiet of the storage room, that the distant, low rumble of an engine was muffled by the walls. Outside, tires crunched softly over the pavement as a sleek, jet-black Mercedes S600 rolled to a stop in front of the workshop.
The car's glossy paint reflected the pale morning light, the chrome accents gleaming like a blade. The driver's door opened with a solid click, and out stepped a tall man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His black leather shoes caught no dust, his dark hair slicked back in deliberate precision. A faint but noticeable air of arrogance clung to him like cologne.
No one in the workshop recognized him.
He didn't hesitate. Just walked straight past the open shutter, the sound of his polished shoes tapping against the concrete floor. His sharp eyes scanned the room once, lingering only a fraction of a second on each person before locking on to the Civic EK9 sitting at the far bay, partially hidden under its fitted cover.
Without so much as a greeting, he strode to the car and pulled the cover back, letting it slide to the floor. The vibrant Championship White paint gleamed under the fluorescent lights. He stepped closer, running a hand along the front fender as though inspecting a prized auction piece.
He stood there silently for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, studying it. Finally, his voice rang out, smooth yet firm. "How much for this car?"
The room froze. Walter glanced up from his work, confused. Rin pulled out an earbud. Hana and Ayaka exchanged wide-eyed looks.
Izamuri was the first to react. He set down his wrench and stepped forward, frowning. "It's not for sale."
The man turned his gaze on him, expression unreadable. "Everything has a price. Name it."
"I said it's not for sale," Izamuri repeated, this time sharper, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of the man's lips. "You're young. You don't understand the value of what you have here. Cars like this, built to this specification… they don't last long. Eventually, they break. Why not let me take it off your hands before that happens?"
Izamuri's jaw tightened. "Because this car isn't just some machine to flip for cash. It's ours. It's my car for the race. And I don't care who you are, you're not buying it."
The man's composure didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "You should learn not to speak so recklessly."
By now, the tension was thick enough to draw everyone's attention. Walter set down his tools and edged closer. Rin emerged from beneath the Mazda, rag in hand, watching cautiously. Even Hana and Ayaka had drifted toward the bay door, silent witnesses to the exchange.
The man stepped closer to Izamuri, lowering his voice but keeping it sharp as a blade. "You think determination makes you untouchable? You'll learn otherwise."
"I don't care what threats you're trying to make," Izamuri snapped back. "This Civic isn't for sale. Not to you, not to anyone."
The verbal sparring grew louder, sharp words echoing through the workshop until they carried upstairs. In the office, Haruka and Daichi paused mid-discussion, frowning at the sudden commotion.
"What the hell is going on down there?" Haruka muttered, pushing back his chair.
Daichi was already on his feet, his instincts sharpened by years on and off the track. "Let's go."
The two descended quickly, but before they reached the bottom, the confrontation exploded. The suited man's hand lashed out without warning. SMACK! the sound of palm against skin echoed through the bay. Izamuri staggered back, clutching his cheek.
Before anyone could react, the man shoved him hard, sending him crashing into a stack of oil barrels with a metallic clang. One barrel tipped precariously before settling back into place.
The workshop went dead silent.
Izamuri gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, fury burning in his eyes. He took a step forward, his fists clenched, ready to swing. But before he could throw a punch, two pairs of hands grabbed him from behind.
The twins.
For once, their timing was perfect. Tojo and Hojo each had a firm grip on one of Izamuri's arms, holding him back with surprising strength. And, against all odds, they weren't grinning, laughing, or stirring trouble. Their faces were serious. Calm.
"Izamuri," Tojo said quietly, almost gently. "Not here. Not now."
Hojo added, "This isn't the fight you want to pick."
The workshop held its breath, the scene frozen in tense silence. Haruka and Daichi had just reached the ground floor, their eyes locked on the suited stranger. The crew stood still, waiting to see what would happen next.
And in the center of it all, Izamuri strained against the twins' grip, his fury barely contained as the man in the suit adjusted his cufflinks, utterly unbothered.
The workshop was silent except for the heavy breathing of Izamuri, still straining in the twins' grip. The stranger in the tailored suit, Akagi Nakamura, remained unnervingly composed, brushing his sleeve as though nothing had happened.
From the far side of the workshop, the creak of a door broke the stillness. Nikolai emerged from the dim storage room, carrying a small oil filter in one hand and the dusty inventory binder under his arm. His expression was casual, his mouth already opening to complain.
"Haruka, your storage system is a disaster," he muttered in accented Japanese. "It took me ten minutes to find this. Next time—"
Then his words died in his throat. His eyes landed on Akagi. The oil filter slipped from his fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a sharp metallic clink. The sound echoed unnaturally loud in the tense silence as it rolled in a lazy arc before coming to rest against the lift.
Nikolai's expression shifted in an instant. His eyes locked on Akagi with a stare so cold and so sharp it could have sliced through steel. His entire body froze for one heartbeat, then the recognition hit, and with it, a surge of unfiltered rage.
"You…" His voice was a low growl, guttural and dangerous. Then it erupted, his words exploding into the air like gunfire. "Ты, чёртов ублюдок! Я тебя убью, слышишь меня?! УБЬЮ!!!"
Before anyone could react, Nikolai charged. The speed, the force, the sheer violence behind it, he was no longer the calm, methodical engineer the team had seen over the past week. This was a man possessed, a man who had been wronged so deeply the wound still bled fourteen years later.
Akagi's smug composure vanished. His eyes widened, a flicker of recognition flashing across his face before survival instinct kicked in. He took one step back, then turned sharply toward the open shutter.
"Nikolai! Stop!" Walter's voice cut through the air, but it was drowned out by the sound of Nikolai's boots pounding against the concrete.
Haruka moved first, throwing himself into Nikolai's path. The Russian barreled into him like a freight train, nearly knocking him over. Walter grabbed Nikolai from the side, locking an arm around his chest, but Nikolai thrashed violently, his voice a stream of Russian curses that filled the workshop with venom.
Daichi leapt into the fray from behind, wrapping his arms around Nikolai's torso in an attempt to pin him. Simon and Takamori scrambled to join in, each grabbing for a flailing arm or shoulder, trying to hold him still.
Even Hana and Rin, wide-eyed and unsure at first, rushed over. Hana took hold of Nikolai's right sleeve while Rin clamped onto his other arm. Together, they were barely able to keep him from breaking through.
But "barely" was the key word. Every muscle in Nikolai's body strained against them, his face red, veins standing out along his neck as he shouted.
"Отпусти меня! Он должен сдохнуть! Он убил мою жизнь! Дайте мне его!!!"
Akagi didn't wait to see how it played out. He was already striding briskly toward the waiting Mercedes S600 parked outside. The chauffeur, a tall, lean man in a black suit, was already stepping out to open the rear door.
The moment Akagi's polished shoes hit the pavement outside, the Russian's fury doubled. "НЕ УБЕГАЙ ОТ МЕНЯ, ТРУС!!!"
The sound was raw, animal-like. Everyone holding him could feel the tremor of muscles coiled tight, desperate to snap free.
Akagi slid into the plush interior of the Mercedes without a word. The chauffeur shut the door firmly, then rounded to the driver's seat. In one smooth motion, the luxury sedan's engine roared to life, a deep V12 growl reverberating off the workshop walls.
Inside, Akagi allowed himself one glance toward the open shutter. His eyes met Nikolai's—just for a fraction of a second. The look he gave was unreadable, somewhere between cold calculation and faint amusement.
The chauffeur pressed the accelerator.
That was when it happened.
With a guttural roar, Nikolai's right arm wrenched free from Haruka's grip. The sudden force sent Haruka stumbling backward into Walter, who lost his hold as well. Simon was shoved aside, Takamori's fingers slipped from Nikolai's jacket, and Hana barely jumped back in time to avoid being knocked over.
The Russian broke free like a wolf slipping its chain. He sprinted out of the workshop, boots hammering against the asphalt, his eyes locked on the black Mercedes as it began to roll forward.
"Nikolai!" Daichi's voice cracked like a whip, but it was useless.
The chauffeur, sensing the threat, stomped on the gas. The rear tires chirped, the car lunged forward, and the distance between predator and prey began to widen.
Still, Nikolai chased. His hands reached out, almost close enough to grab the rear door handle. His boots pounded the road, his breath came in ragged bursts, and his voice tore from his throat, raw, furious, desperate.
"СТОЙ, ТРУС!" he shouted, sprinting toward the retreating car.
The Mercedes sped down the street, tires squealing slightly as it neared the intersection. Nikolai chased it down the block, his boots hammering against the pavement, but the sedan was already pulling away. By the time he reached the corner, it was gone, swallowed by Tokyo's traffic.
For a moment, he stood there in the middle of the street, chest heaving, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Then he turned back toward the workshop, striding with heavy steps until he reached the open shutter once more.
"Daichi," he growled, his voice still thick with rage. "Did you call him here for sponsors?"
Daichi, still catching his breath from wrestling him earlier, shook his head firmly. "No. I don't even know the man. He just showed up out of nowhere."
Nikolai exhaled sharply, the fire in his expression cooling just enough for him to regain some composure. "Good. Because if you had…" He trailed off, then shook his head as if forcing himself to let go of the thought.
Everyone in the workshop was watching now—Izamuri with narrowed eyes, Haruka with a cautious frown, and even the twins who had, moments ago, been the unlikely peacekeepers.
"That man," Nikolai began, his voice carrying the weight of deep history, "is Akagi Nakamura. One of the filthiest, most dangerous businessmen I've met. I spent two years working in the upper ranks of Russia's motorsport engineering scene… until I met him."
Walter straightened, listening intently.
"He came to us with a request," Nikolai continued, his tone tightening. "He wanted me to tamper with an ECU—to cheat. Said it was for 'a driver he believed in.' I refused. I told him motorsport has no place for that kind of corruption. A week later, I was in prison for the murder of a fellow mechanic." His eyes flicked toward Haruka. "A murder I didn't commit."
The silence was heavy.
"He framed you," Haruka said flatly, though it was more statement than question.
"Yes," Nikolai spat. "And he made sure my life was burned to the ground before the trial even ended. Every connection, every sponsor, every friend I had, gone. I rotted in a cell for years while he walked free, climbing higher in his empire."
Rin let out a low whistle, shaking his head.
Nikolai's gaze swept over the group, sharp and warning. "If he's here, it's not by accident. He doesn't just wander into workshops to admire cars. If he has taken an interest in our team, especially Izamuri, it means trouble. Big trouble."
Hana frowned. "So what do we do?"
"For now?" Nikolai bent down, picking up the oil filter he'd dropped earlier. "We act like nothing happened. Keep our heads down. But if he comes back, if he makes another move. I want everyone here to remember this… You cannot trust him. Ever."
He turned toward Daichi, Haruka, Simon, and Walter, his expression deadly serious. "He's not just dangerous in business. He's dangerous everywhere. He plays with people like they're pawns on a chessboard, and when he's done, he sweeps them away without a thought. I've seen it firsthand."
Walter crossed his arms. "Sounds like we're in for a storm."
Nikolai's mouth curled into something between a grimace and a smirk. "I've weathered worse. But I won't let him ruin this team, or Izamuri, like he tried to ruin me."
The heavy mood lingered for another few seconds before Nikolai glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 10:45 AM.
"Enough of this," he said abruptly. "We've got a dyno session at eleven, remember?"
He slapped the oil filter lightly against his palm and nodded toward the EK9. "Let's get her ready. If Akagi wants to know what this car can do, let's make sure the answer is 'everything.'"
Daichi exhaled, still processing what had just happened. Haruka, Simon, and Walter exchanged knowing looks, their expressions marked by the silent agreement that today had shifted things in a way none of them could undo.
And as the crew slowly returned to their work, the sound of tools and machinery filled the air again, but underneath it all was the quiet, unspoken truth: Akagi Nakamura's shadow had just fallen over G-FORCE.