By the next morning, It was pitch dark outside, the kind of early morning where the city was still silent except for the occasional hum of a distant train. Inside Haruka's house, however, chaos had already erupted.
Izamuri was dead asleep, his alarm set for 2:30 AM, except he had "accidentally" snoozed it and rolled over, completely oblivious to the fact that they were already late. When suddenly, the cold stillness of the early morning was shattered by the thunderous noise of hurried footsteps and muffled shouting.
Daichi barged into the room first, flicking on the lights. "Up! Now! We're late!" His voice cracked like a whip, though Izamuri only groaned and rolled deeper into the mattress.
"Forget waking him up," Takamori muttered.
Izamuri, still dead asleep in the warmth of his futon, didn't even have time to open his eyes before he felt his blanket was yanked tight around him like a cocoon, trapping his arms against his sides. Daichi at his feet, Nikolai at his shoulders, and Takamori in the middle lifted him clean off the bed in one swift motion.
"The hell—?!" Izamuri's voice was muffled as they spun him toward the door.
"No time," Daichi grunted, adjusting his grip. "You made us late!"
"It's 3:01 AM!" Takamori snapped. "We were supposed to leave at three sharp!"
"You're one minute late to your first race week," Nikolai added with mock gravity, "and in my country, that is already failure."
Still half-asleep, Izamuri wriggled in his blanket prison like an angry caterpillar. "You guys are insane! Put me down!"
But the three of them were already moving with military efficiency, hauling him out into the hallway like they were smuggling contraband. The blanket burrito bumped against doorframes, brushed against walls, and finally made its way out the front entrance into the cool pre-dawn air.
"I told him last night to sleep early," Haruka sighed.
Walter, already halfway dressed and halfway annoyed, was tossing clothes into an open suitcase. "We don't have time for him to play dead," he said, sweeping up shirts, pants, and socks in handfuls. He stuffed in toiletries, towels, a bar of soap, toothbrush, and slammed the lid shut with a satisfying clack.
"For efficiency!" Walter barked, shoving the window open.
Before Haruka could protest, Walter flung the suitcase out into the night. Below, Simon stood in his jacket, sipping coffee from a paper cup. Without even blinking, he caught the tumbling suitcase mid-air with both hands, grunting slightly at the weight.
"Bloody hell," Simon muttered, balancing it under one arm. Rin came jogging over, hair disheveled, and Simon wordlessly passed it to him.
"Got it!" Rin yelled before winding up and hurling the suitcase like a shot put into the back of the waiting Hiace van. The thud echoed across the quiet street.
Walter clambered onto the windowsill next. "For efficiency!" he repeated, saluting dramatically before leaping out. He landed on his feet with a roll, dusted off his trousers, and jogged to his Mercedes E190 Estate.
Inside, Daichi, Takamori, and Nikolai finally managed to wedge the blanket-wrapped Izamuri into the back seat of Walter's estate. He landed with a thump against the leather upholstery, squirming like a caterpillar.
"Breakfast," Takamori announced, tossing a plastic bag beside him. Inside were two rice balls, a wrapped sandwich, and a pair of bottled water. The bag smacked Izamuri's side, eliciting a muffled groan.
"Eat fast, burrito boy," Daichi teased as he slammed the door shut.
Meanwhile, Haruka was still tidying up. He double-checked the bedroom one last time, making sure nothing important was forgotten, then handed Walter the spare keys and gave a sharp nod. "Don't crash it."
Walter only smirked. "Efficiency." He gunned the engine, the E190 Estate roaring to life with a low growl, exhaust fumes puffing into the cool dawn air.
The convoy began to take shape. Walter's Mercedes rolled out first, the muffled sounds of Izamuri still whining from the back seat. Behind them, Daichi's Mitsubishi 3000GT rumbled awake, headlights cutting across the narrow street. The car's wide stance and aggressive exhaust note made it sound out of place in the sleepy neighborhood.
Simon slid smoothly into his Jaguar XJS, the old British grand tourer humming with refinement. The car's polished chrome caught the pale glow of the streetlights, its straight-six purring like a content predator.
From across the curb, Nikolai climbed into his battered white Lada Niva. The old Soviet relic coughed and sputtered to life, exhaust popping as if in protest to the early morning. The faint smell of gasoline drifted through the air as he revved the engine proudly.
"Come on, girl," he muttered in Russian, patting the cracked steering wheel. "One more long trip."
Lastly, Rin and Takamori piled into the Hiace van, already loaded with spare tools, spare fluids, and the crew's luggage. The boxy van groaned under the weight but came to life faithfully.
At the edge of the neighborhood, Walter slowed his E190 just enough to let the others fall in line. The convoy formed neatly: Walter in front, Daichi's 3000GT behind him, Simon's Jaguar in the middle, Nikolai's Niva lumbering after, and the Hiace anchoring the rear.
As they turned onto the main road, the towing truck carrying the EK9 was already waiting, hazard lights flashing. The Civic sat covered but unmistakably purposeful, strapped down with heavy chains.
Walter gave a quick flash of his headlights to signal the convoy's arrival. The truck driver responded with a quick honk before pulling ahead to lead the way out of Tokyo.
Inside Walter's E190, Izamuri finally managed to wriggle an arm free from the blanket burrito. He shoved an onigiri into his mouth, chewing angrily. "This is kidnapping," he grumbled between bites.
"This is efficiency," Takamori shot back from the passenger seat, smirking.
Daichi's voice came over the small convoy radio frequency. "Stop whining and eat. You'll thank us when we're at Fuji before sunrise."
Walter chuckled, shifting gears smoothly as the E190 cruised along the dark expressway. "Besides, burrito boy, this is tradition now. First race week, first abduction."
Izamuri groaned, slumping back against the seat, but deep down he felt a flicker of excitement. The blanket cocoon kept him warm, the food filled his stomach, and the sight of the EK9 being hauled ahead reminded him why they were all here.
The Tokyo skyline glimmered faintly behind them as the convoy merged onto the expressway heading toward Shizuoka. The road was quiet, traffic nearly nonexistent at this hour. Engines hummed in rhythm, the headlights stretching into the misty horizon.
Each vehicle carried its own atmosphere. Walter's estate was filled with sarcastic banter, Simon's Jaguar rode in dignified silence, Nikolai's Niva rattled with every bump while he muttered old Soviet driving songs, and the Hiace carried Rin and Takamori's laughter as they bickered over snacks they'd stashed in the glovebox.
By the time the clock ticked past 3:30 AM, the convoy was in full stride. Tokyo's glow faded in the rearview, replaced by the looming shadow of the mountains ahead. Fuji awaited them, and for Izamuri, still half-asleep and wrapped in his blanket burrito. the reality of race week was finally sinking in.
A few hours later, the convoy rolled into Fuji Speedway under the cover of darkness, the sky still painted in deep blues and faint hints of pale gray. The temperature had dipped slightly as they climbed in altitude, and the crisp mountain air seeped in through the barely cracked windows. The massive outline of Mount Fuji loomed faintly in the background, barely visible in the predawn haze.
Walter parked his E190 Estate beside the pit lane paddocks, the headlights cutting across empty tarmac. The towing truck rumbled to a halt a few bays down, the EK9 still strapped securely on its bed. One by one, the other vehicles rolled in—Daichi's 3000GT idling low, Simon's Jaguar humming quietly, Nikolai's Niva coughing in protest after the long drive, and the Hiace pulling up last, loaded with gear.
In the back of Walter's estate, Izamuri was still curled up in his blanket cocoon, fast asleep, one empty water bottle rolling back and forth with each movement of the car.
Takamori leaned over from the front seat, nudging his leg. "Oi. Fuji's calling."
Izamuri stirred with a groan. "What time is it…?" His voice was raspy, half-lost in the folds of fabric.
"4:35," Walter said matter-of-factly, shutting off the engine. "Up. Now. The mountain won't wait for you."
Nikolai appeared at the rear door, yanking it open. The cold air rushed in, making Izamuri shiver. "On your feet, rookie," Nikolai said, pulling at the blanket until Izamuri tumbled out onto the pavement.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs of sleep, Izamuri stood and stretched, joints popping from the stiffness of the cramped ride. The scent of fuel and asphalt filled the air, mixing with the faint aroma of fresh morning dew. Somewhere in the distance, a lone bird called out, but otherwise the paddock was eerily quiet.
"Here," Rin called, tossing him the breakfast bag. Inside, the onigiri and sandwich were still intact, though slightly squashed. Izamuri sat down on the cold pit wall, munching silently as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
While he was still eating, the low hum of an electric motor drew his attention. Daichi rolled into view in a small white golf cart, wearing a smug grin and a windbreaker zipped up to his chin.
"You're done eating yet?" Daichi called out, stopping in front of him.
"Almost," Izamuri replied cautiously, sensing trouble from the man's tone.
"Good. Stretch. You've got about two minutes."
"Two minutes for what?"
Daichi just smirked. "For your track walk. Or rather… track run."
Izamuri froze mid-bite. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, I'm dead serious." Daichi gestured toward the vast, empty circuit. "Fuji's 4.5 kilometers long, and thanks to an old friend of mine in management, we've got permission to be on it before anyone else gets here. This is your chance to feel every bump, every incline, every corner—on foot."
Walter leaned against the E190, smirking. "Better run, burrito boy. This is what champions do."
"You want me to run the whole circuit?" Izamuri asked, disbelief coloring his voice.
"No," Daichi corrected, "I want you to run it twice. But we'll see if you survive the first lap."
Groans and chuckles came from the rest of the crew, but no one stepped in to save him. Simon was sipping his coffee like this was the most normal thing in the world. Takamori had already pulled out his phone to time him. Even Rin and Hana were grinning, waiting to see how long before he collapsed.
Realizing there was no escape, Izamuri sighed, stuffed the last bite of onigiri into his mouth, and stood up. "Fine. But if I die, you're all to blame."
"That's the spirit!" Daichi said, slapping him on the back. "Come on, I'll drop you off at Turn 1 so you can start fresh."
Izamuri climbed into the passenger seat of the golf cart, the little vehicle humming quietly as Daichi drove them out of the pit lane and onto the main straight. The floodlights along the paddock faded as they approached the looming first corner, the vast grandstands empty and silent under the faint pre-dawn glow.
They stopped at the start/finish line, the painted white stripes stretching across the wide expanse of asphalt. From here, the track stretched ahead like an endless ribbon, curves and chicanes disappearing into the shadows, the looming Dunlop bridge faint in the distance.
"Alright," Daichi said, pulling to a stop. "No shortcuts. You run every inch. Pay attention to the surface. Notice where it slopes, where it dips. Feel how the elevation changes. All of it matters when you're behind the wheel."
Izamuri exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Got it."
Daichi grinned. "I'll meet you back here. Don't take too long."
The moment his feet hit the tarmac, Izamuri felt the cold bite of the morning air. His breath came out in small clouds as he broke into a steady jog, the sound of his sneakers tapping against the textured asphalt echoing faintly in the quiet.
Turn 1 came fast, a sharp right-hander that dropped slightly downhill. Even at jogging speed, he could feel how the camber tilted just enough to affect balance. From there, he pushed into the sweeping left of Coca-Cola Corner, lungs already feeling the chill.
By the time he reached the 100R, the long, looping right-hand corner, his legs were warming up. The curve seemed to stretch forever, and he could already imagine the strain it would put on tires at speed. The early morning mist clung to the grass runoff, giving the place an eerie calm.
Then came the hairpin, a sudden, tight corner that forced him to slow his pace to a near walk before picking up speed again. He could feel how the braking zone here would be critical, and he made a mental note of the subtle bump just before the apex.
As he continued, the circuit began to climb slightly toward the chicane before the Dunlop Corner. His breathing grew heavier, the cold air burning his lungs, but he pressed on. The uphill section after Dunlop was a slow grind, his calves starting to protest, yet the satisfaction of cresting the hill kept him moving.
The back section of the track was quiet, almost too quiet, with only the sound of his footsteps and breathing breaking the stillness. Through the final series of corners, he could already see the lights of the pit buildings faintly glowing ahead.
By the time he crossed the start/finish line again, sweat was rolling down his forehead despite the cold. The crew was gathered there, clapping half-mockingly, half-encouragingly.
"Not bad," Daichi said, checking his watch. "22 minutes. Now go again."
Izamuri groaned but forced himself to keep moving, setting off on the second lap. This time, he started noticing details he'd missed, the slight crown in the middle of the straight, the subtle drainage grates on the inside of certain corners, the faint patches of resurfaced asphalt that offered better grip.
By the end of the second lap, his pace had slowed to a near stagger, but he finished it, lungs heaving and legs burning. Daichi was waiting in the golf cart, grinning like a proud coach.
"Good. Now you've really met Fuji," Daichi said, handing him a bottle of water. "Next time, you'll know exactly where to push."
Izamuri slumped into the cart, gulping water as they drove back toward the pits, the first hints of sunrise now painting the horizon in pale gold. By the time the first real warmth of the morning sun crept over the surrounding mountains, the crew's convoy was already pulling into the hotel parking lot just beyond the spectator stands of Fuji Speedway. The faint roar of a lone maintenance truck in the distance broke the otherwise quiet morning, while the crisp air carried the faint smell of fuel and rubber from the pit complex across the track.
The hotel itself wasn't some cheap roadside lodge, it was a well-maintained motorsport-focused establishment, catering to drivers, engineers, and VIP guests during race weekends. Wide glass panels gave a clear view of the track from the lobby, and its architecture mirrored the clean, functional lines of the circuit itself.
Daichi stepped out of his 3000GT, rolling his shoulders. "Alright, let's get this over with. We still have work to do."
The automatic glass doors opened as they filed in, their small mountain of gear and suitcases in tow. The receptionist, who clearly had dealt with many bleary-eyed racing crews before, smiled politely and began the check-in process.
Because Haruka had booked the accommodations in advance, the assignments were already arranged. Izamuri's name appeared first on the list. Suite, top floor, track view. The others each had single rooms along the same hallway, standard-sized but still comfortable.
The difference was immediately obvious. Izamuri's suite had a spacious lounge area, a massive bed, and a wide balcony overlooking Fuji's main straight. From here, he could see the pit lane, the grandstands, and even the faint white outline of Mount Fuji itself through the early morning haze.
Dropping his bag just inside the door, he muttered to himself, "Guess Haruka's making sure I sleep like a king this week."
Without wasting time, he made a beeline for the bathroom. The mirror fogged up almost instantly as he turned on the shower, hot water cascading over him and washing away the remnants of the early morning wake-up and brutal track run. The steam loosened his stiff muscles, and for the first time since the chaotic departure at 3:01 AM, he allowed himself to relax.
Meanwhile, down in the lobby, the rest of the crew were already regrouping.
"Right," Daichi said, glancing at his watch. "It's just past seven. That gives us barely any time to get to the pit garages and start setting up. The track's ours until the others arrive, so let's make the most of it."
Walter gave a nod, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "No traffic, no waiting, perfect day for testing."
Simon adjusted his sunglasses, holding a cup of hotel coffee. "And I'd like to keep it that way. The fewer eyes on our prep before race week, the better."
Nikolai, still wearing his weathered jacket, grunted in agreement. "Good. We get our baseline without distractions."
Takamori was already holding the keys to the Hiace, his foot tapping impatiently. "Then let's move."
Leaving their luggage in their respective rooms, the six of them crossed the parking lot again, heading to their vehicles. The morning air was cooler here, the wind from the open track area carrying a sharper bite than it had during their arrival. The convoy quickly navigated the short drive through the perimeter road to the back entrance of the pit complex.
The pit lane was eerily quiet, no engines running, no teams bustling about, no clatter of tools, just the occasional hum of maintenance carts. Their garage space was exactly as they had left it the night before: toolboxes neatly lined against the back wall, the EK9 parked dead center on its stands, and a faint smell of oil lingering in the air.
Simon immediately rolled up his sleeves. "Walter, you check the fuel system. I'll run through the telemetry equipment and make sure everything is reading clean."
"Got it," Walter replied, already crouching near the rear quarter panel with a fuel line gauge in hand.
Daichi pulled off his jacket and began laying out the plan for the morning. "We're running light today. This isn't about pushing times yet, it's about dialing in the car to Izamuri's style and collecting as much clean data as possible before the weekend crowd shows up."
"Understood," Takamori said, moving toward the storage shelves where spare parts were neatly arranged. He began prepping the sets of tools they would need trackside.
Rin grabbed a rag and began methodically wiping down the exterior of the EK9, not that it needed it, but his hands were restless when the others were working.
As the crew settled into their respective tasks, the rumble of a small truck echoed down the lane. Heads turned toward the open garage door just in time to see a delivery vehicle bearing the bright red-and-yellow Yokohama logo pull up.
A short, stocky man in a company jacket stepped out, clipboard in hand. "Delivery for G-FORCE Racing?"
"That's us," Daichi said, stepping forward.
The driver flipped through his papers, then waved to the back of the truck. The rear door rolled upward with a metallic clatter, revealing stacks of brand-new race tires, each wrapped in clear protective plastic. The smell of fresh rubber instantly filled the garage, sharp and unmistakable.
"Alright, here we go," one of the men said cheerfully. "Three sets of Advan 050 Mediums and two sets of Advan A006 wets, as per the order."
Daichi stepped forward to sign the delivery receipt. "Perfect timing. We'll be needing those mediums for most of the practice runs. The wets… hopefully, we don't need them at all."
"Hope's a nice thing to have," Nikolai muttered as he and Rin wheeled the first set of mediums toward the tire rack in the garage. "But Fuji in March? You always prepare for rain."
Simon crouched down by one of the medium-compound tires, running his fingers lightly along the tread. "Fresh production, these haven't sat in a warehouse for months. Good grip right out of the gate."
Takamori, already grabbing the tire pressure gauges, glanced up. "We setting them at the base recommendation first, or do you want to try a few psi lower for more surface contact?"
Walter answered before Daichi could. "Base recommendation for the first runs. We'll adjust after the first full stint."
While they organized the tires, Simon and Walter discussed the run plan for the day. The idea was simple, ease Izamuri into the track after yesterday's foot run, start logging consistent laps, and only later push for pace once the suspension, tire pressures, and fueling were dialed in.
"Today's about collecting data," Simon reminded everyone. "Not chasing lap times. We do that too early, and we waste tires without knowing what the car really wants."
In the background, Rin and Takamori had already rolled one set of mediums toward the EK9, their enthusiasm obvious. Nikolai began laying out the tools for the first tire change, every wrench, socket, and torque bar in perfect alignment.
Daichi watched them for a moment, then nodded in approval. "Alright, boys. Let's make today count. We've got the track to ourselves for another twenty-four hours. Let's use it."
They worked methodically, each movement in the garage sharp and practiced despite the early hour. Outside, the empty Fuji Speedway stretched in quiet anticipation, the air still carrying the chill of dawn. The rest of the teams would arrive soon enough, but for now, G-FORCE owned the place.
And with the EK9 sitting on fresh rubber, the tools laid out, and the crew already synced into their roles, they were ready to start turning those laps the moment their driver stepped out of that hotel suite.