The morning conversation behind Hugo Speed's towering trailer was still in full swing. The quiet hum of engines being warmed up filled the paddock, and the six men, Daichi, Walter, Haruka, Simon, Hugo, and Izamuri, sat relaxed but alert, sipping coffee and talking racecraft. Hugo was mid-sentence about Fuji's notorious crosswinds when the mood abruptly shifted.
From the main paddock entrance, a loud, almost militaristic bark of a megaphone cut through the morning air.
"Move over! Clear the way! Team convoy incoming!"
The call wasn't from an organizer or a track marshal—it was coming from two black Mercedes G-Class W463s, their glossy paint reflecting the early sun like ink on glass. The pair rolled in side by side, their hazard lights flashing in perfect unison. Behind their tinted windows, uniformed drivers leaned out just enough to project their voices through the megaphones, demanding space as they slowly cruised down the central lane between the pit setups.
People paused mid-task—mechanics, engineers, even drivers—and turned to watch. Some muttered in irritation, others in curiosity. Nobody used a megaphone in the paddock unless they wanted attention.
And then, that attention doubled.
Trailing behind the G-Wagons came two enormous Scania S500 tractor units, each hauling a matching double-deck motorsport trailer, the kind typically reserved for international-level competition. Both trailers were spotless, their metallic silver base color broken only by bold black-and-gold livery and massive lettering…
NAKA GP
The name turned heads. For Daichi, Walter, Haruka, and even Hugo, it was an unfamiliar sight. In the last four years of this one-make EK9 championship, Hugo Speed had been the only team running a setup of this magnitude. Their trailers, pit infrastructure, and logistics capacity were overkill for a domestic series, justified only because Hugo's team had once competed in Super Formula and kept much of the equipment.
But Naka GP? Nobody had even heard of them in this paddock before.
"That's… new," Simon remarked, squinting. "And by the look of it, expensive."
"Too expensive," Walter muttered. "For a late entry? That's a hell of a flex."
Izamuri glanced at Daichi. "You've never seen them before?"
Daichi shook his head slowly. "Not once. And I keep tabs on teams in this series. The list we got from the organizers last month had 14 teams and 22 drivers. No mention of these guys. Which means they're very, very late to the party."
As the Scanias rolled further in, their sheer size forced a temporary bottleneck in the paddock traffic. The pit crews already unloading cars had to pull toolboxes and tire racks out of the way to avoid getting sideswiped. The G-Wagons kept announcing their presence through megaphones, a touch that screamed arrogance rather than necessity.
Six paddock bays down from G-Force's space, the Scanias swung wide and reversed expertly into position. Air brakes hissed, stabilizers lowered, and hydraulics began to lift and open the massive trailer panels. The operation was synchronized, every crew member moving with the crisp efficiency of a team that had drilled this dozens of times before.
But the show wasn't over.
The next wave of their convoy rolled in. Four Mercedes-Benz Sprinter vans, each liveried in the same black-and-gold as the trailers, their sliding doors already open to reveal neatly packed tool chests, tire racks, and spares.
Two Mercedes Unimog 437.4s, heavy-duty and imposing, each fitted with firefighting gear, like water tanks, pumps, hoses, and front-and-rear winches. The kind of vehicles you'd expect in rally raid support or remote endurance events, not a Japanese circuit race.
Two Mercedes Actros STX luxury motorhomes, gleaming under the morning sun, their massive side panels adorned with sponsor logos and tinted panoramic windows. These weren't just team accommodations—these were rolling luxury suites.
The collective arrival was… overkill. Not just impressive, but borderline absurd for a one-make Civic series. Even Hugo Speed's operation, as refined as it was, didn't have this kind of brute-force logistical muscle.
Izamuri glanced around. The murmurs in the paddock were growing. Mechanics were stopping mid-wrench, leaning against tire stacks just to watch. Other team managers emerged from their trailers to get a look at the newcomers.
"Feels like we're about to be invaded," Haruka muttered under his breath.
But it wasn't just the machinery, the precision, or the swagger of their arrival that made G-Force's crew tense. It was the branding.
Plastered across the sides of both trailers, in massive, unmistakable font, was their title sponsor's logo...
NEIT… Nakamura Entertainment Industries & Technology.
The sight hit like a punch to the gut for those who knew the name. Daichi's expression darkened immediately. Walter's eyes narrowed. Nikolai, still nearby sorting through a tire stack, froze mid-movement. Haruka's jaw tightened.
Izamuri, unfamiliar with the full depth of the name's weight, still recognized it. He'd heard it before, from Shina. He remembered her telling him about her mother forcing her toward a marriage with Akagi Nakamura, the man who owned NEIT. The same man who had shown up at the workshop just days ago, trying to buy their EK9.
"Well," Simon finally said, breaking the silence, "that's… not subtle."
"No," Walter replied, voice low. "That's a message."
Daichi's gaze stayed locked on the newly arrived paddock. "If Nakamura's behind this team, then this isn't just about racing."
Hugo, sensing the tension, leaned forward. "You all know this guy?"
"Some more than others," Haruka answered carefully. His eyes flicked toward Nikolai, who had gone quiet in that dangerous way people did when they were trying very hard not to explode.
Izamuri didn't need to ask. He could feel it in the air, the shift from curiosity to wariness. Naka GP wasn't here for the championship. At least, not just for it.
Down the row, the Naka GP crew continued setting up with a confidence bordering on arrogance. One of the trailers revealed a pristine row of identical EK9 race cars, three in total, each one immaculate, gleaming under the pit lane lights, their Championship White paintwork accented with red-and-black striping. Every crew member wore matching tailored race team uniforms, complete with NEIT patches on the chest and sleeves. And even though they were six paddocks away, it was impossible not to feel their presence.
Daichi finally stood, his tone sharp. "Whatever their game is, we focus on ours. Let them have their parade. We've got a race to win."
But as he sat back down, nobody missed the way his eyes lingered on the NEIT logo. Or how, for just a second, his fists tightened. The paddock was alive with motion, yet Daichi Fujiwara's eyes were fixed six bays down where Naka GP had parked their fortress-like convoy. Compared to the modest flatbeds and tool carts that filled the rest of the lane, their setup looked absurd, two Scania S500 tractor-trailers gleaming in the sunlight, flanked by Sprinters, Unimogs, and motorhomes carrying the gaudy NEIT branding across every panel. It was the kind of display meant to intimidate, and it worked. Dozens of crew members from other teams were stealing glances, whispering about the sudden arrival of a team that no one had even seen on the entry list.
Daichi narrowed his eyes. He didn't like mysteries, and he didn't like arrogance. If NEIT had truly thrown its hat into this championship, then it meant trouble not just for Izamuri, but for every privateer in the paddock. The only way to get a sense of what kind of men he'd be dealing with was to test the waters himself.
"Where are you going?" Walter asked from his chair, noticing Daichi stand and smooth his jacket.
"Just a peek," Daichi said casually, but his tone carried steel. "If these newcomers think they can roll in and take over, I want to see what they're made of."
Without waiting for a reply, he strode toward Naka GP's setup.
The closer he got, the clearer it became that Naka GP wasn't treating this like a grassroots series. Their motorhomes had red carpets rolled out at the steps, crew members wore spotless tailored uniforms instead of grease-stained coveralls, and their pit bays already looked like something from Formula 2. Yet for all the polish, the air around them reeked of something Daichi hated, corporate posturing rather than racing passion.
As he reached the edge of their setup, two men stepped forward, breaking from the shadows beside the motorhome. Their matching black jackets made them look more like bodyguards than pit crew. They positioned themselves shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a human wall.
"Can I help you, sir?" one asked flatly. His tone made it clear, no, he couldn't.
Daichi tilted his head, voice calm. "Just taking a look. This is a paddock, not a private compound. Everyone has the right to see who they're racing against."
"This area is restricted," the second guard said without a hint of apology. "Team orders."
Daichi smirked faintly. "Team orders? Last I checked, the FIA doesn't run security here. You're in my country, and this is a public paddock. Don't forget that."
He shifted his weight forward, ready to brush past them. But the moment he lifted a foot to cross the invisible line, the guards' movements changed. With casual precision, they shifted their jackets aside, not to reveal radios, pepper-spray, or batons, but the cold steel glint of MP5A3 submachine guns, slung low and tucked beneath their coats. The weapons were unmistakable, compact, and deadly.
Daichi froze mid-step. His eyes flicked down, confirming what he saw before meeting the guard's stare. The message was clear, this wasn't a bluff. These weren't just rent-a-cops, they were trained, armed professionals.
For a long, tense moment, silence hung between them. The paddock noise seemed to fade into the background. Daichi's instincts told him he could push further, call their bluff. But the racer in him, the man who had survived political games in Japan, Germany, and DTM, knew when to stand down.
He raised his hands slightly, backing a step. "Fine," he said evenly. "Enjoy your little fortress."
As if on cue, the sound of exotic engines broke the stalemate. From the far end of the lane, two black Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2s rolled slowly into view. Their naturally aspirated V10s growled with a sound far too flashy for a Civic series paddock, the exhaust notes bouncing off the concrete like war drums announcing royalty.
The Lamborghinis pulled up directly beside the Naka GP motorhomes, engines revving once before shutting off in unison. The doors swung open with exaggerated flair, and out stepped two young men already clad in pristine racing suits. Their hair was styled, their sunglasses still on despite the morning sun, and their expressions carried the unmistakable arrogance of those who had never wanted for anything in their lives.
Daichi didn't need an introduction. The accents said it all as they began chatting loudly with the PR staff. one British, one American.
James Ronald Hawthorn. Mike Francis Hunt.
Daichi recognized them instantly, not because they were accomplished racers, but because he had read about their kind dozens of times before. Rich playboys, eager to turn racing into their latest hobby. Their reputations, thin as they were, preceded them. These weren't hardened drivers who had clawed their way up through karts and club racing. These were children of corporate dynasties, parachuted into a race series because their fathers had the money to make it happen.
He watched with growing disgust as the NEIT public relations crew swarmed around the two men. A pit board was held up, freshly stenciled with their names.
HAWTHORN #9
HUNT #7
The photographer snapped away as they leaned against the Lamborghinis, crossing their arms and flashing smirks like rockstars posing for an album cover. Their suits were spotless, their posture practiced, their smiles empty.
Daichi's lip curled. He'd seen rookies walk into paddocks before, green and untested, but at least those rookies had humility. These two acted like the championship was just another luxury toy bought for them by NEIT. They posed in front of their cars as if they were at a fashion show, not a racetrack.
One of the PR assistants clapped excitedly. "Perfect! Hold that pose! Turn slightly, yes, like that. James, chin up a little more. Mike, good, show the logo. Wonderful!"
Daichi had seen enough. He turned away sharply, muttering under his breath. "They act like they've never even been in a real motorsport paddock before…"
His footsteps carried him back toward the G-Force pit. He didn't even bother to look back at the spectacle. The image of the twins posing with Lamborghinis while their hired guns guarded the motorhome was burned into his mind. It wasn't racing, it was theater. And Daichi Fujiwara had no patience for theater.
After a short walk, Daichi's boots hit the asphalt with a heavier thud than usual as he crossed back into the G-Force pit bay. The contrast between the quiet professionalism of their small crew and the ostentatious circus down the lane made his mood even worse. Walter was leaning casually against a stack of tires, a bottle of water in hand, watching Daichi's approach with mild curiosity.
"Back so soon?" Walter asked, raising an eyebrow. "Who's behind the NEIT circus?"
Daichi didn't even sit down. "James Hawthorn and Mike Hunt," he said flatly.
Walter was mid-swig when the names landed. He choked, coughing hard, spraying a fine mist of water onto the pit floor before turning away to avoid drenching the tool chest. "You've got to be kidding me…" he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Those two?"
Nikolai, who had been sorting sockets nearby, looked over. "Who are they?"
Walter let out a short laugh that had no humor in it. "Two of the most infamous pay-drivers in the last decade. James Hawthorn. British actor, big-budget action flicks. Took a stab at the British Touring Car Championship in 2018 and 2019. You'd think the guy was a miracle talent if you just looked at his record, finished second in the championship last year. But you dig deeper, and you find out he bought the best seat on the grid, paid for preferential treatment in the team, and basically bulldozed his way to podiums."
Simon raised a brow. "Bought his way to second? That's… not exactly admirable."
"That's just half of it," Walter continued, voice tightening. "Then there's Mike Hunt. American, also an actor. Not quite as famous as Hawthorn on screen, but he's made his rounds in Hollywood. Decided to 'live the dream' in motorsport. First ran a year in NASCAR in 2017, did okay, nothing special, then moved to IndyCar in 2018. Last year he finished fourth in the championship, but not without controversy. Both of them—" Walter pointed toward Naka GP's motorhome "—have the same issues. No consistency. Short tempers. Clumsy under pressure. And ethics?" He snorted. "Forget about it. They've been called reckless more times than I can count."
Haruka crossed his arms. "Reckless how?"
Walter gave a humorless chuckle. "They don't just push people off the track, they deliberately run them off. For fun. The worst was Mike at Indianapolis… during a safety car, of all times. Tried to sneak an overtake on the restart lap, floored it when no one expected it, caused a twelve-car pileup. Cars everywhere, smoke, debris… total chaos. And what does he do? Climbs out laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen."
Nikolai's jaw tightened. "And now they're here, in the same race series as us."
"Exactly," Walter said grimly. "Two rich kids with just enough skill to be dangerous, and all the money in the world to cover for their mistakes."
Daichi, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke again, but this time his voice dropped low, so only Walter, Nikolai, Haruka, and Simon could hear. "There's more. They've got private security. Real ones, not ex-mall cops. They're carrying MP5A3s under their jackets."
Simon's eyes widened slightly. "Armed? In a paddock?"
"Yes," Daichi said firmly. "This isn't about racing for them. This is theater. Power. Intimidation. And if NEIT is backing them, then every move they make is going to have political weight. You've all got to be careful, both on track and off."
The four men exchanged glances. The news wasn't just concerning, it changed the stakes. NEIT's arrival wasn't merely a flashy new competitor; it was an intrusion by an organization with the means to control outcomes far beyond the grid.
But Daichi clapped his hands together, snapping the moment of tension. "Enough about them. We've got our own car to worry about."
The shift back to work was almost physical, the air in the pit lightened, tools resumed their clinking, and the smell of race fuel and rubber reclaimed dominance over the earlier bitterness.
Rin, oblivious to the conversation's weight, was in the corner wiping down the championship white EK9 with a microfiber cloth, making sure no stray fingerprints marred the gleam. Takamori was at the tire rack, checking pressures and labeling each set for rotation.
Simon crouched by the pit wall laptop, double-checking yesterday's telemetry logs. "We'll start the morning session with the baseline from Tuesday's runs," he said. "No reason to mess with what's working until we see how the grip levels are today."
Haruka was under the rear of the car, giving the suspension a final once-over. "Toe and camber are right where we left them. Dampers are holding steady. No leaks."
Daichi moved toward the front of the Civic, lifting the hood. The B18C sat there like a jewel, the K&N intake freshly installed, braided lines and fittings gleaming under the fluorescent lights. "Walter, check the fuel cell. Full tank, we don't want him running lean mid-session."
"Already on it," Walter replied, grabbing the fuel jug.
Nikolai returned from the tool bench with a torque wrench. "Lug nuts to spec?"
"Do it again," Daichi said without looking up. "I don't care if they were torqued yesterday, today is a new day."
Around them, the paddock noise swelled as other teams prepared for the session. Engines fired, pneumatic wrenches chattered, and voices echoed in a dozen languages. But in the G-Force pit, everything moved with a quiet rhythm born of trust and discipline.
Izamuri, meanwhile, sat on a folding chair near the rear of the bay, half-dressed in his racing suit, watching the preparations with a focused calm. Every now and then, his gaze flicked toward the far end of the paddock where Naka GP's fortress loomed. He didn't need to hear the details, he could feel the tension in his crew's voices when they spoke of their new rivals.
Daichi finally stepped back from the engine bay, satisfied. "All right. We roll out in twenty. Simon, you've got comms; Walter, you're on strategy calls. Haruka, you stay on the wall with me. Nikolai, keep your eyes on temps and pressures."
"Understood," they all replied almost in unison.
For a brief moment, Daichi allowed himself to look at the EK9 from a step back. The car sat low and purposeful on its fresh Advan A050s, every panel clean, every line taut. It wasn't the flashiest machine in the paddock, but unlike some of the others, it had soul. Built in a small workshop, refined through sweat and late nights, and driven by a kid with raw talent.
And Daichi knew, deep down, that was the only thing that could beat the money and muscle of NEIT.
With the clock ticking toward the start of the morning practice, the crew fell into their final checks, each man and woman moving with purpose. Whatever circus Naka GP was running, whatever games NEIT planned to play, it wouldn't matter once the green flag dropped.
On track, there was no script. No PR cameras. No bodyguards. Just the driver, the car, and the stopwatch. And in that arena, G-Force would fight on their own terms.