As the first hints of dawn slipped quietly through the thin curtains of Izamuri's hotel suite, tinting the room in a faint blue glow. His eyes opened naturally, the body clock he'd built through early training sessions waking him long before any alarm could. The air in the room was cool, carrying that crisp, almost sweet mountain freshness that seemed to roll down from Mount Fuji every morning.
He sat up slowly, stretching his arms overhead until his back gave a satisfying pop. Another day at Fuji. Another day to get faster.
Sliding out of bed, Izamuri padded across the carpet to the small hotel bathroom. The mirror reflected a face still marked by the faint tiredness of long days at the track, but also the alertness of someone who lived for this pace. He twisted the shower handle and stepped under the steaming water, letting the warmth ease the stiffness from his shoulders and legs. The sound of water masked everything else—the faint hum of the heater, the distant, muted noises of the hotel's early morning systems waking up.
After a quick but thorough wash, he toweled off, ran a hand through his hair, and dressed in simple athletic wear. No need for a racing suit yet; the morning was his own.
By 5:00 AM, he was heading downstairs. The hotel was hushed, the hallways dim except for the gentle amber lighting along the walls. The carpet absorbed his footsteps, making him feel like the only living soul in the building. The elevator ride down was silent, the lobby entirely empty when the doors opened. The front desk clerk was nowhere in sight, probably on a back-office shift change.
The buffet area was deserted, but the lights were already on, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the kitchen. Izamuri grabbed a small breakfast, just a bowl of rice, grilled fish, miso soup, and a cup of green tea. He sat near one of the windows overlooking the still-dark track, eating slowly while the tea's warmth seeped through his fingers. Outside, the pit lane lights were off, but the faint silhouette of the grandstands could be seen against the lightening sky.
He finished his meal quietly, placing the tray neatly on the return counter. The day's first meeting with the crew wouldn't be for hours yet, and for once, he didn't feel like returning to his room. His legs itched to move, his mind restless.
He remembered the museum.
The Fuji Speedway Hotel's in-house motorsport museum was open twenty-four hours to guests, its wide glass doors visible from the lobby. Without the usual bustle of visitors, the place was almost calling to him—its stillness promising something rare, a private viewing.
Izamuri stepped inside, the scent of polished floors and faint aged oil greeting him immediately. The lighting was soft and indirect, each exhibit illuminated just enough to showcase the curves, lines, and colors of the machines on display.
The first row was a timeline of Japanese motorsport history—classic touring cars from the early 70s with boxy silhouettes and chrome bumpers, followed by the aggressive flares and wings of Group A racers from the late 80s and 90s. He paused in front of a R32 Skyline GT-R in Calsonic blue, the paint gleaming under the spotlights as though it had just rolled out for a race day.
Further down, he found an entire section dedicated to endurance racing. The wide, low stance of a Mazda 787B sat in the middle of its display, its iconic orange-and-green Renown livery still as striking as it must have been thundering down the Mulsanne Straight in '91. Next to it, a Nissan R390 GT1 glimmered in deep blue metallic, looking more like a sculpture than a machine.
But it was in the next section that his steps slowed to a halt.
There, surrounded by photos of podium celebrations and action shots from Suzuka, Fuji, and Motegi, was a Toyota Supra GT500—or rather, a meticulously crafted replica of one. Painted in the red, white, and green colors of the late 90s Castrol livery, it bore the number 36 on its sides. Izamuri's eyes immediately picked out the small details: the way the sponsor decals were perfectly recreated, the aggressive stance with its wide fenders and low front splitter, and the subtle wear painted into the livery to make it look like it had just finished a race.
A brass plaque at the base of the display stand confirmed what he already suspected. "1999 Toyota Supra GT500 – Driven by Daichi Fujiwara, JGTC Season Winner."
He stepped closer, peering through the open driver's side window at the stripped interior. The roll cage was spotless white, the dashboard sparse and functional, the racing seat worn in all the right places. Even knowing it was a replica, Izamuri could almost feel the history in it. This was the car that had made Daichi a household name in Japanese motorsport.
He let his gaze travel to the photos behind the car. One showed Daichi mid-corner at Suzuka, the Supra's rear squatting under acceleration. Another captured the champagne spray on the podium, Daichi grinning widely with his teammates.
For a long moment, Izamuri simply stood there in the quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the climate control system. It was strange—he'd known Daichi as the quiet but firm leader of G-FORCE, the man who mentored without fanfare, who treated his team like equals. But here was a reminder of another side: Daichi the champion, the man who had stood at the top of his sport.
Izamuri's reflection appeared faintly in the Supra's spotless side window, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd ever reach something like that. Would his own career leave a car behind in a museum someday? Or would he simply be a name on a few old timing sheets?
By the time Izamuri had made a slow circuit through the museum's upper gallery and back to the main hall, the sun was just starting to break over the ridge beyond the grandstands. Pale gold light filtered through the wide glass panels of the lobby, and the mountain air beyond looked too fresh to ignore. He decided to step outside before the day's noise began, just him, the chill of the morning, and maybe the faint echo of distant birdsong.
It was exactly 6:00 AM when he stepped out of the museum doors and into the corridor that led toward the main lobby. The quiet was absolute, broken only by the soft hum of the building's heating system. His footsteps echoed lightly against the polished floor as he approached the corner.
Then the peace shattered.
A racket rolled in from the lobby like a thunderclap, a constant, overlapping roar of voices, high-pitched and unrelenting, like two wild animals fighting for the same patch of land. The noise didn't ebb; it simply hammered the air without pause.
Izamuri froze mid-step. He knew those voices. Everyone in the workshop knew those voices.
"…Oh no," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Sure enough, as he rounded the corner, there they were, the twins, Hojo and Tojo, locked in what could only be described as a live-action cartoon brawl. They weren't physically hitting each other, but their exaggerated hand gestures and synchronized yelling made it look like they were about to turn the hotel's pristine lobby into a demolition derby.
Behind them stood the rest of the new arrivals. Haruka, wearing a weary expression that belonged to someone ten years older than yesterday, was clearly seconds away from losing his remaining patience. Next to him were Hana and Ayaka, both clutching their own bags and standing at the farthest possible point from the twins without actually leaving the group. The look on their faces said everything—they had long since given up trying to intervene and were simply waiting for the chaos to burn itself out.
It didn't take a genius to figure out how they got here. Haruka's clean and reliable Corolla had brought Hana and Ayaka in one piece. The twins, however, had somehow decided to bring their own car, a 1992 Honda Civic EG8 sedan that, according to workshop lore, was more miracle than machine. Against all odds, they had managed to fix enough of its faults to make the trip without it bursting into flames, exploding, or disintegrating into roadside debris.
The twins, however, seemed more interested in loudly debating who had done more of the fixing, the volume of their voices rising with each rebuttal.
"…I told you it was the distributor cap!" Hojo barked.
"Wrong! I was the one who figured out the fuel pump was the real problem!" Tojo shot back.
Izamuri just stood there for a moment, halfway between disbelief and resignation.
Hana caught his eye and shook her head. "Don't even try. We've been listening to this since they got in the car. They didn't even stop for fuel without arguing about whose idea it was to pull over."
Ayaka added under her breath, "At this point, we're just grateful they didn't kill each other inside the car."
Haruka looked up from the check-in counter, eyes narrowing in recognition. His voice carried the weary authority of a man who had been juggling far too much for far too long. "Izamuri. You're the driver. Which means you're not the babysitter." His tone shifted into something that was almost pleading. "So don't even think about volunteering. I'm done. Absolutely done."
From the sound of it, the only moment of true peace Haruka had gotten since leaving Tokyo was the two-hour drive to Fuji with only Hana and Ayaka for company, a rare reprieve from the constant verbal warfare of the twins. And now that they had arrived, Haruka's only goal seemed to be to pass the chaos to anyone who wasn't him.
As if on cue, another sound joined the madness, the rapid patter of shoes hitting tile at full speed. From down the opposite hallway, Walter appeared, rounding the corner like a man being chased by wild dogs. His expression was one of sheer survival instinct. The moment he spotted the twins, he visibly recoiled.
"Nope. Nope, nope, nope, absolutely not!" he barked, pivoting on his heel with impressive athleticism for a man of his age. Without another word, he bolted back the way he came, his long strides eating up the hallway like he was fleeing a burning building.
Unfortunately for him, in his blind retreat, he ran headlong into Rin and Takamori, who had just emerged from the elevator. The collision nearly sent Rin's coffee flying.
"Watch where you're—" Rin began, but Walter cut him off, his voice urgent. "Don't go that way. Don't you dare go that way!"
Neither Rin nor Takamori caught the meaning in time. By the time Walter had darted past them, they were already walking toward the lobby, curious about the noise. The moment they stepped inside, Haruka's eyes lit up like a man spotting land after weeks at sea.
"Perfect. You two." He didn't give them time to protest. "You're in charge of them now."
Takamori blinked. "In charge of who—?"
"Them." Haruka jabbed a thumb toward Hojo and Tojo, who were now arguing about which gear had been the most unreliable on the Civic's drive up.
Rin's face fell instantly. "Oh no. Oh no. I didn't sign up for this."
"You did now," Haruka said flatly, already turning back to the receptionist. "Check them in, make sure they don't get us banned from the hotel, and for the love of all that's holy, keep them from dismantling anything they touch."
With that, Haruka resumed his check-in paperwork, leaving Rin and Takamori staring at the human hurricanes they'd just been saddled with. Hana and Ayaka offered them sympathetic but clearly relieved looks, someone else had inherited the burden, and it wasn't going to be them.
Izamuri lingered at the edge of it all, shaking his head. He'd been prepared for many things this week—intense track sessions, mechanical troubleshooting, even dealing with Hugo Speed's intimidating presence. But nothing could have prepared him for the sheer, weaponized chaos that the twins brought with them.
By the time Rin and Takamori had wrangled the twins into some semblance of cooperation long enough for Haruka to finish the check-in, the rest of the crew had emerged from their rooms—sleepy, stretching, and already talking about coffee. The clock read 6:45 AM, and with the whole team now present for the first time in days, it was time to get moving.
Haruka clapped his hands sharply. "Alright, everyone—bags, gear, helmets. Let's head to the pits."
They spilled out of the hotel lobby in a loose formation, the early-morning chill of Fuji Speedway wrapping around them like a reminder that the mountain air was nothing to take lightly. The five who had arrived the day before—Izamuri, Daichi, Walter, Simon, and Takamori—looked more awake, their internal clocks already tuned to the rhythm of track days. Haruka, Hana, Ayaka, Rin, and the twins still carried the stiffness of travelers who'd only just arrived.
The group crossed the parking lot toward the small convoy they'd assembled. Rin took the Hiace, Haruka slid into his Corolla, and the rest piled into various cars, the EG8 Sedan of the twins somehow still idling without any immediate signs of mechanical death. It was, as someone muttered under their breath, a miracle.
7:00 AM sharp, they rolled through the service gate into the paddock. Fuji Speedway was waking up. The sun had fully crested over the grandstands, throwing long shadows across the track, and the air buzzed with the sound of idling engines, rattling toolboxes, and the metallic clink of equipment being unloaded.
Most teams were arriving in typical fashion, flatbed trucks hauling stripped-down race cars, box trucks carrying parts and spares, the occasional van doubling as a mobile workshop. It was all modest, efficient, and expected.
All except one.
The Hugo Speed paddock area, stationed in the same spot it had claimed yesterday, still stood out like a spaceship among fishing boats. The pair of massive Volvo FH16 tractor-trailers gleamed in the morning sun, their matching white-and-blue liveries reflecting off polished aluminum. The bold "Hugo Speed" lettering was practically shouting from the trailer sides. Around them, the six Isuzu Elf blind vans were neatly parked in a row, and the two Toyota Land Cruiser 70 pickups—both outfitted with heavy-duty front and rear winches and topped with yellow hazard lights—sat ready for recovery duties.
It was clear their equipment wasn't just for show. Two of the Hugo Speed crew were already checking over the three Civic race cars they'd brought—two spares and a primary, all immaculately prepared. Every tool, every canopy, and every piece of gear was perfectly placed. Their pit setup looked like something straight out of a high-level touring car championship, not an EK9 one-make race.
In total, there were 14 teams on the grid this season, and as Izamuri glanced around, he could see a mix of hardened veterans and bright-eyed privateers. His own team's setup—a rented tow truck for the EK9, the Hiace full of tools, and a few cars parked nearby—looked modest in comparison, but nobody on his side seemed insecure about it. They knew what mattered most was what happened once the lights went out on race day.
While most of the crew busied themselves unloading equipment and setting up their pit space, Izamuri found himself drifting toward the shade behind the Hugo Speed trailer. Daichi, Walter, Haruka, and Simon were already there, sitting on a row of folding chairs that looked suspiciously like Hugo's crew had brought extras just for guests.
Hugo Vatanen was leaning casually against one of the trailer's polished aluminum panels, coffee cup in hand. His engineer, Fumihiro, stood beside him with a clipboard and a calm, analytical look that screamed years of technical experience.
"Morning, gentlemen," Hugo greeted, his slight Swedish accent carrying that effortless tone of someone equally comfortable in a business meeting or a pit lane. "Thought you might want to take a breather before the madness starts."
Daichi nodded, settling back into his chair. "Madness is about right. This place is going to be a zoo by midday."
Hugo chuckled. "True. But mornings like this? Best part of racing. Cool air, quiet engines—at least until someone fires up a straight-pipe."
Izamuri sat next to Haruka, still taking in the sheer scale of Hugo's setup. "You weren't kidding about coming prepared," he said, glancing at the immaculate row of cars and vans.
Hugo shrugged modestly. "Experience teaches you to expect everything to break at the worst possible time. Spares save weekends. But you—" He pointed at Izamuri. "You're the one I wanted to talk to. You've got speed. Daichi told me about your times. Impressive."
Izamuri felt a flicker of pride but tried to stay modest. "Still working on consistency. Daichi's faster."
"That's fine," Hugo replied easily. "You're young. You'll learn. The trick isn't just speed—it's knowing when to use it, and when to hold back."
Fumihiro leaned forward slightly. "Think of it like chess at 180 kilometers per hour. The fastest move isn't always the smartest one. Sometimes you set up for the overtake three corners ahead."
Walter nodded in agreement. "It's about racecraft. Knowing where your rivals are weak, and making them commit to the wrong line before you strike."
Haruka added, "And the opposite—how to defend without destroying your tires or giving them an opening."
Hugo took a slow sip of his coffee before continuing. "You've got a few days here. Use it. Watch the other drivers. See how they enter and exit corners. Learn their habits. By race day, you should know exactly where each one is vulnerable."
Izamuri absorbed every word. There was no condescension in Hugo's tone, just genuine advice from someone who had clearly spent years both behind the wheel and running a team.
Fumihiro flipped through his clipboard before adding, "Also, remember: tires. In this series, everyone's got the same rubber. That means whoever uses them best has the edge. Kill them early, and you're done for."
"Exactly," Hugo agreed. "Treat every lap like an investment. If you can save your tires for the last five laps, you'll be the one doing the overtaking while everyone else is sliding around."
The group settled into a comfortable rhythm of conversation, trading stories and tips about Fuji's quirks—how the wind could shift braking points on the main straight, where the asphalt's grip changed subtly, which curbs could be ridden and which ones could launch you into trouble.
For Izamuri, it was the perfect mix of relaxation and preparation. Sitting there, surrounded by experienced racers and engineers, the nerves in his stomach felt steadier. Today wasn't race day—it was another chance to learn, to sharpen his skills before the real fight began.
The sound of air guns and revving engines from the other pits began to grow louder as more teams finished setting up. Mechanics shouted to each other over the clatter of tools, the smell of fuel and rubber starting to fill the crisp morning air. Somewhere nearby, someone blipped the throttle on a high-strung B-series, the sharp bark echoing across the paddock.
But here, in the shade of Hugo Speed's towering trailer, the mood remained calm, the conversation steady and focused. It wouldn't last, Izamuri knew—but for now, it was exactly where he needed to be.