The lunch break air around Fuji Speedway was filled with the faint hum of pit fans, the clatter of tools, and the smell of hot brakes cooling off. Izamuri had just climbed out of the Championship White EK9, sweat dripping down his face despite the cool March breeze. He leaned against a folding chair while Nikolai handed him a bottle of water, and Simon scribbled notes about tire wear and fuel consumption. The morning session had been intense, and everyone was looking forward to a short breather.
That peace didn't last long.
At exactly 12:15, the low rumble of heavy diesels echoed through the paddock. Heads turned as not one, but two massive Volvo FH16 tractor-trailers rolled into the pit lane. Their size alone was intimidating; the polished trailers were wrapped in a striking blue color with "HUGO SPEED" plastered across the side in enormous, bold letters edged in metallic blue. Each rig carried the kind of presence that screamed money, professionalism, and domination.
Behind the trailers came six Isuzu Elf blind vans, all painted in a uniform gunmetal gray with small Hugo Speed decals near the doors. Their convoy wasn't done yet, two Toyota Land Cruiser 70 pickups followed last, their roofs fitted with bright yellow sirens and heavy-duty winches at both ends. They looked more like search-and-rescue trucks than race support vehicles, clearly meant as personal recovery rigs.
The contrast was staggering. Their own pit setup, an aging flatbed tow truck, Walter's 190E estate, Daichi's 3000GT, and Simon's Jaguar XJS, suddenly felt like toys next to this corporate parade. The Hugo Speed crew, dressed in spotless dark-blue uniforms, immediately jumped into action, moving with military efficiency as the first trailer backed into position next to G-Force's pit. Hydraulic lifts lowered, ramps unfolded, and in perfect formation, three pristine Honda Civic EK9s were unloaded, two in full livery with Hugo Speed's colors, and one bare spare car.
Daichi, arms crossed, let out a long breath through his nose. "Spare cars. They brought spare cars," he muttered. His tone carried both disbelief and a touch of envy.
Walter gave a low whistle. "This… is what you call an empire. Look at their equipment. They've practically brought a miniature Formula 3 paddock into Fuji."
Simon, the ex-F1 engineer, just shook his head with a quiet chuckle. "I've seen professional outfits with less gear than that. They're not just here to race. They're here to dominate."
As if to punctuate his words, a BMW M2 F87, painted in an understated alpine white, pulled up smoothly into a space near the Hugo Speed pit. The driver's door opened, and out stepped a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties. His blond hair caught the sun, and his tailored jacket looked almost out of place in a pit lane filled with mechanics in grease-stained overalls.
The man walked with confidence, his shoes clicking sharply against the pavement. As he got closer, Daichi tilted his head slightly, listening carefully as the man greeted his own mechanics with a few sharp words in a distinctly Scandinavian tone. Daichi's years in Europe sharpened his ear; he could place that accent in an instant.
"Swedish," Daichi muttered under his breath.
The man then turned toward them, smiling politely before approaching the G-Force pit. "Good afternoon," he said in fluent but lightly accented English. "I am Hugo Vatanen."
The name alone sent Walter's brow furrowing in thought. He froze for a moment before snapping his fingers. "Vatanen… wait. You… You're the guy from Forbes! Last year. 2019. The billionaire entrepreneur who built half of Scandinavia's logistics and tech industry." His tone was more incredulous than respectful.
Hugo smiled modestly, as though it was a title he'd heard countless times before. "That would be me. But here, I am just a racer. The cars speak louder than money." He gestured back to the three EK9s being prepared by his crew, each lined up neatly as though they were jewels in a showcase.
Izamuri, still holding his water bottle, blinked in disbelief. Billionaire or not, he was standing right in front of him, another driver who would share the same grid. The sheer gap in resources was overwhelming. Their G-Force team barely managed to scrounge parts, while Hugo Speed looked like it could rebuild an entire car mid-race if it exploded.
Daichi finally extended a hand, his demeanor calm but respectful. "Daichi Fujiwara. Team Principal of G-Force."
One by one, he introduced them: Walter Schmidt, strategist and coach; Nikolai Dmitri, chief engineer; Simon Brown, data and comms; Rin, Takamori, and Izamuri, their driver. Hugo shook hands with each of them firmly, maintaining eye contact that spoke of quiet confidence.
"A pleasure," Hugo said. His gaze lingered on Izamuri for a brief moment longer than the others, his smile faintly widening. "So, this is your driver."
Izamuri stiffened slightly, unused to the spotlight, but he nodded. "Izamuri Sakuta. Number 98. EK9. This is my first season…"
Hugo chuckled, clearly amused at his formal tone. "Good. I admire new talent. Racing thrives on young blood." He glanced back at his pit, where one of his mechanics had already wheeled out a set of tire warmers. "We have brought three cars, as you can see. One primary, one backup, and a spare chassis if fate plays cruel. Equipment is never enough, of course, but preparation minimizes luck."
Simon leaned toward Walter, whispering under his breath, "This is going to be a nightmare. They've already won the psychological war."
Walter gave a dry laugh. "Tell that to Daichi. He looks like he's trying not to strangle someone."
Indeed, Daichi's face remained expressionless, but his eyes were sharp. Years of racing had taught him not to show intimidation, even when standing in the shadow of a giant. "We appreciate the welcome, Hugo. But we don't race with numbers and budgets. We race with drivers and machines. Let's see how we measure on the track."
Hugo's smile deepened. He clearly enjoyed the competitive spark. "That is exactly why I look forward to this season. You remind me of myself, back when I was a privateer with nothing but an old Porsche 944. I built this," he gestured to the massive setup, "because I never wanted to lose to resources again. But talent… talent can overturn even empires." His eyes flicked back to Izamuri.
The weight of that statement hung heavy in the air, even as Hugo bid them farewell for now and returned to his pit. His crew resumed work like a finely tuned machine, the sound of pneumatic guns echoing across the paddock.
Izamuri watched silently, gripping his water bottle tighter. It wasn't fear, it was fuel. Seeing Hugo Speed's overwhelming presence didn't crush him. Instead, it made him want to prove himself more. Even if they had spare cars, trucks, and fleets of vans, he had his own weapon: the trust of his team, and the Championship White EK9 waiting patiently under the sun.
Daichi turned to the others, his voice steady but firm. "We're not here to admire them. We're here to beat them. Back to work."
Everyone nodded. The lunch break was over. The battlefield had changed, but the war had just begun. The afternoon sun hung low over Fuji Speedway, painting the tarmac in a warm orange hue as the pit crews prepped the cars for the post-lunch session. The Championship White EK9 sat gleaming under the fading light, its fresh Advan A050s ready to bite into the asphalt once again. Beside it, the Hugo Speed team's car, one of their meticulously prepped Civics, was being rolled toward the pit exit, its stance and setup hinting at a build with serious pedigree.
Izamuri adjusted his gloves and tightened the strap on his helmet, glancing sideways at Hugo Vatanen. The tall Swede was checking his mirrors, already belted in and giving a curt nod of acknowledgment. No trash talk, no ego, just a mutual, unspoken understanding, this was going to be a clean but relentless afternoon.
When the pit marshal waved them forward, the two cars rolled out onto the main straight in unison, the echoes of their B-series engines bouncing off the empty grandstands.
From the first lap, they developed a rhythm. Izamuri took the early lead, pushing hard into Turn 1, the tires still finding grip after the lunch break. Hugo shadowed him closely through Coca-Cola Corner, his presence in Izamuri's mirrors a constant reminder to not overstep and burn the rubber too early. On the approach to 100R, Hugo briefly nosed ahead, but backed out just before the apex, clearly gauging how far Izamuri could carry speed through the corner.
They traded positions like this for the next half hour, sometimes Hugo leading, sometimes Izamuri. Each time one of them decided to push, the other would respect it, giving just enough room but never too much. Through 300R, the two cars practically mirrored each other, their lines only inches apart. At Dunlop Chicane, Hugo would often brake later than Izamuri, but the younger driver's sharper exits kept them neck-and-neck down to the Hairpin.
On one of the more intense runs, Hugo let Izamuri through into Netz Corner. The young driver's rear tires twitched under braking, but he held the car steady, the new Yokohamas digging in just enough to make it stick. Hugo followed through without hesitation, the gap barely a car length.
By 3:30 PM, both drivers pulled into the pits at the same time, engines ticking as they cooled. Hugo popped his helmet off and walked over to where Izamuri was leaning against the EK9's fender.
"You're quick," Hugo said, his Swedish accent giving the words a certain weight. "But when you're defending, you close the door too early. Makes you predictable. Keep it open until the last possible moment, it forces your opponent to commit early, and most won't have the nerve to see it through."
Izamuri nodded, hanging on every word. "And for overtaking?"
Hugo smirked. "Patience. The pass isn't about where you can get ahead, it's about making the other driver think you won't. The moment they relax, you take it. Preferably somewhere they least expect, like the exit of 300R or just before Panasonic. Everyone guards Turn 1, but few protect the rest."
The advice was practical, stripped of any grand philosophy, just the kind of insight that came from years of seat time. Izamuri mentally filed it away, already thinking of where he could apply it.
They strapped back in and went out again, this time alternating leads every couple of laps. Izamuri practiced Hugo's advice almost immediately, feinting at 100R, backing off just enough to make it look unthreatening, then striking at the Hairpin exit when Hugo left the door slightly ajar. It worked.
But Hugo wasn't giving lessons without a price, he tested Izamuri's defenses ruthlessly. A few times, the Swede lunged at Panasonic, forcing Izamuri to brake deeper and trust the car's front end. The EK9's newly tuned B18C screamed through the gears, holding together lap after lap despite the heat building in the tires and brakes.
In the pits, Daichi and Walter watched closely, occasionally exchanging impressed nods. Even Simon, normally reserved, had to admit that the dynamic between the two drivers was sharpening Izamuri in ways no amount of solo laps could.
The laps rolled on until the pit marshal signaled the final 15 minutes. Both Hugo and Izamuri understood what that meant, a last chance to push before the day closed.
On the penultimate lap, Izamuri was in front, Hugo's shadow filling his mirrors all the way through Coca-Cola Corner. At 300R, Hugo made a surprise move, edging alongside on the outside before braking later into Dunlop. Izamuri gave him room, slotting right in behind and studying every inch of Hugo's line through the chicane.
The final lap was all about pace. Hugo led down the main straight, but into Turn 1, Izamuri pulled alongside, the two cars separated by only inches as they dove into the corner. Hugo yielded just enough, letting the younger driver take the apex, and they ran side-by-side up to Coca-Cola.
By the time they exited Panasonic for the last time that day, both cars had given and taken in equal measure. There was no clear "winner" just mutual respect.
At exactly 5 PM, the pit marshal waved the checkered flag for the day's sessions. The track would be closing soon, and the paddock was already starting to empty. Hugo and Izamuri rolled back into their respective pit boxes, their engines cooling as they idled down the lane.
Hugo gave a thumbs-up through his window before shutting the car off, a small but genuine gesture that told Izamuri he'd earned more than just advice, he'd earned respect from someone who clearly didn't hand it out lightly.
The rest of the team gathered around, already talking about the runs and how to integrate some of Hugo's pointers into tomorrow's training. As the sun dipped lower and the sky began to shade into evening, the two cars sat side by side, paint glinting under the last light of day, ready to rest before the battles still to come.
And with that, both drivers eased their cars into the pit spots for the final time that Wednesday, engines clicking softly. The late afternoon air over Fuji Speedway had begun to cool, and the sky was painted in shades of gold and lavender as the G-FORCE crew wrapped up their pit area. Tools were packed back into their heavy-duty cases, laptops closed and stored, and the Championship White EK9 was gently rolled back into its paddock spot under its cover. Hugo's team was going through a similar routine next door, efficient, methodical, the sound of pneumatic tools still echoing across the nearly empty paddock.
Once everything was secure, the G-FORCE convoy and Hugo's entourage fell into formation for the short drive back to the Fuji Speedway Hotel. Hugo himself decided to ride in his BMW M2 F87, casually keeping pace with Walter's E190 Estate and the Hiace carrying the rest of the equipment. The drive was quiet but filled with that satisfying exhaustion that only comes from a long day on track.
Inside the hotel parking area, the teams parted ways with casual nods. Hugo's crew moved their equipment into their own reserved section, while the G-FORCE members, still in partial racing attire and smelling faintly of fuel and brake dust, headed toward the lobby.
By the time they reached the elevator, everyone was already splitting off according to their evening routines. Simon and Daichi exchanged a few words in the lobby before quietly making their way up to their rooms. Simon preferred to review data in solitude, and Daichi, despite his outward energy, valued some quiet time before the next day's work.
Izamuri, however, had other plans. After dumping his helmet bag in his suite and swapping his race suit for gym clothes, he met Nikolai in the hallway. The Russian was already geared up in a sleeveless shirt and track pants, a duffel slung over one shoulder.
"You still have enough energy for this?" Nikolai asked, his usual half-smirk in place.
Izamuri adjusted his towel over his neck. "After today? I need it. I don't want to lose steam mid-race."
The two made their way to the hotel's fitness center, a well-lit room overlooking the quiet mountain slopes. The gym had a faint smell of rubber mats and disinfectant, and the distant hum of treadmills filled the space. Nikolai led the session like a personal trainer, starting Izamuri with a light jog on the treadmill to loosen up the muscles that had tensed up during the afternoon runs.
"Remember," Nikolai said, walking alongside him, "endurance wins races just as much as skill. The car can run on fuel and tires, your body runs on stamina and control."
After a steady warm-up, they moved to circuit training, light weights for arm strength, resistance bands for shoulders, and medicine ball drills to keep reflexes sharp. Every now and then, Nikolai corrected Izamuri's form with the blunt efficiency of someone who had trained both drivers and athletes before. Sweat was running freely by the time they switched to core work, planks, twists, and stability exercises that mirrored the kind of strain a driver feels during cornering.
Meanwhile, a floor above them, Takamori had opted for a more relaxed evening in the indoor pool. He swam slow, deliberate laps, letting the water take the day's fatigue from his muscles. Occasionally, he'd float on his back, eyes closed, listening to the muted sounds of the water filtering system and the faint echo of his own movements.
The real commotion, however, was down in the buffet area. Rin had claimed a corner table and was already stacking plates high with food, alternating between grilled meats, steaming bowls of noodles, and an almost comical tower of sushi. Walter, equally unashamed, joined in, though he at least paced himself between courses. The two traded quiet jokes between bites, occasionally pointing out items on the dessert table as if they were plotting the next lap in a race.
"Think the twins would've cleared this place out if they were here?" Walter asked, setting down an empty plate and reaching for his tea.
"They'd have to restock halfway through," Rin replied, mouth half full. "Honestly, they'd probably have us all banned."
Walter laughed, the kind of tired but content laugh of someone who'd spent the day in the sun and noise of engines but was now surrounded by the comfort of food and quiet company.
Back in the gym, Nikolai had moved Izamuri to a cooldown session, light stretching, yoga-inspired poses, and controlled breathing exercises. The younger driver was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, but there was a spark of determination in his eyes.
"That's enough for today," Nikolai finally said, tossing him a bottle of water. "You need to recover, not burn yourself out before the week even starts."
Izamuri took a long drink, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. "I get it. But… if Daichi can pull a lap like that after years out of the seat, I have to make sure I'm ready to fight for every tenth."
Nikolai's smirk softened into something almost approving. "Good. Just remember, consistency beats a single fast lap in a race. Now go shower before you stink up the whole hotel."
The two left the gym together, passing the pool where Takamori was just finishing his laps. He gave them a lazy wave before disappearing toward the changing rooms. The elevator ride up was quiet, the kind of companionable silence that didn't need to be filled with small talk.
On the buffet floor, Rin was finally slowing down, leaning back in his chair with an expression that suggested he'd eaten enough to keep himself fueled for a week. Walter was on his last plate, dessert, of course, methodically working through a slice of cheesecake and a bowl of fruit.
By the time everyone retreated to their rooms, the hotel hallways had gone still. Outside, the track lights had been shut off for the night, leaving the mountain air cool and quiet. From his suite window, Izamuri could just make out the silhouette of Fuji Speedway in the distance, the main straight invisible in the darkness but alive in his mind.
Tomorrow would bring more laps, more learning, and more battles. But for now, the only thing he needed was rest, and the knowledge that, somewhere in the same hotel, every member of his crew was doing the same, each in their own way preparing for what lay ahead.