The morning air above Fuji Speedway was sharp and clear, the kind that carried every echo of an engine across the valley. The sun had barely risen over the snow-draped peak of Mount Fuji, but the paddock was already alive with noise—ratchets clicking, jacks slamming against asphalt, and the rising pitch of idling engines warming up for the day.
Inside G-Force's pit bay, the EK9 sat in the middle of the concrete floor, the white paint glowing faintly under fluorescent lighting. Izamuri tightened the straps of his helmet, pulled on his gloves, and gave a final glance at Daichi, who stood at the pit wall in full crew uniform, headset clipped across his jaw. Walter was beside him with a clipboard, already scribbling baseline notes.
"Don't chase lap times yet," Daichi instructed firmly. "Focus on traffic. Use this to practice race conditions—passing, defending, keeping your head cool. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Izamuri replied, voice steady but eyes burning.
Walter leaned in. "Remember, it's not about the hero moves. Consistency first. If you get stuck behind someone slower, don't panic. Hugo will help you spot opportunities if he's nearby. Just watch and learn."
Izamuri nodded, pulled the belts tight across his chest, and flicked the Civic's ignition. The B18C roared to life, sharp and clean. A dozen heads in the surrounding pit bays turned at the sound; the EK9, though modest compared to some of the machinery in the paddock, had a voice that carried authority.
"Release!" Daichi barked.
The jacks dropped, tires squealed against the painted floor, and the Civic rolled forward. As Izamuri guided the car out of the garage and toward pit exit, he was joined by a small train of machines queuing for the session.
The lineup included familiar faces, Hugo's #11 car, its livery a striking blue with yellow accent, tucked neatly behind Izamuri's white #98. Several privateers followed, their machines less polished but no less determined. And then, at the very rear of the group, came two cars in glossy, corporate-backed NEIT colors—James Hawthorn's #9 and Mike Hunt's #7.
"Eight other drivers with you," Simon's voice crackled through comms. "This will feel like traffic. Treat it like a dress rehearsal for the race."
"Copy."
The light at pit exit flicked green. One by one, the Civics surged forward, engines blaring in unison like a pack of hounds released from leash. Izamuri merged onto the circuit, keeping his line steady through Turn 1 before letting the pack settle.
Immediately, the pace split. Hugo surged forward with his trademark calm aggression, slotting neatly just ahead of Izamuri. Two privateers jostled for position into Coca-Cola Corner, while James and Mike… lagged.
"Bloody hell," Walter muttered from the pit wall, watching the live timing. "They're three seconds off the pace after two corners."
On track, Izamuri could see it for himself. Hawthorn braked far too early into 100R, stacking up cars behind him like traffic on a Friday commute. Hunt swung wide, missed his apex completely, and then muscled his way back across the racing line, nearly clipping a Studie Racing driver.
"Idiots," Simon hissed in his headset. "Stay away from them, Izamuri. Don't even try to follow their lines."
"Copy."
Fortunately, Hugo seemed to be thinking the same thing. The Swede lifted slightly to allow Izamuri to close the gap, then pointed a gloved hand out the window, gesturing forward as if to say, watch me.
The next few laps turned into an impromptu lesson. Hugo would approach slower traffic, pick his line with clinical precision, and make the move cleanly. Each time, Izamuri mirrored him—sometimes taking the inside, sometimes the outside, depending on what Hugo showed him. It wasn't about raw pace; it was about discipline.
At the hairpin, Hugo demonstrated how to pressure a slower driver into defending the inside, then cut back sharply for a better exit. Izamuri followed, and the satisfaction of nailing the maneuver sent a surge of confidence through his chest.
"Good," Walter's voice encouraged. "That's how you do it. Don't fight the car. Don't force it. Let them make mistakes and you take the space."
Lap after lap, the pair carved their way past the traffic. The privateers put up a fight, but they were fair and respectful. Izamuri began to feel the rhythm of it—the way Hugo timed his braking, how he positioned himself half a car's width wider to unsettle the man ahead. Each move was a chess play, and Izamuri was finally starting to read the board.
Meanwhile, James and Mike continued to bumble around the circuit like spoiled children in oversized toys. Mike dive-bombed into the Dunlop Chicane only to overshoot completely, scattering cones and barely rejoining without stalling. James waved at photographers from the Panasonic Corner, as if the lap was nothing more than a rolling photoshoot.
"Dangerously slow," Simon muttered again as their split times rolled across the monitor. "Not even Sunday club-race pace. It's going to be chaos when they're actually forced to mix it with the midfield."
But for Izamuri, the distraction faded as Hugo gave him one final demonstration. Down the main straight, Hugo tapped his brakes lightly—an invitation. Izamuri tucked into his slipstream, heart pounding as the revs screamed, then darted to the inside at the very last second. The move stuck. For the first time that morning, Izamuri had overtaken Hugo Vatanen.
The Swede raised a hand in acknowledgment, as if to say, good.
Izamuri grinned inside his helmet.
But by the seventh lap, the Civic began to feel different. Turn-in wasn't as sharp, the rear felt floaty, and mid-corner balance seemed to shift unpredictably. Into 300R, the car twitched hard enough to send a shiver down his spine.
"Box, box, box," Simon ordered through comms. "Suspension setup needs adjustment. Bring it in gently."
"Understood."
Izamuri eased off, letting the revs fall as he guided the EK9 back toward pit entry. Hugo stayed on track, slicing past another group of cars as if to underline the lesson: there was always more to learn.
The Civic rolled into the garage, engine humming as the crew swarmed around it. Nikolai was already kneeling by the front-left corner with a spanner in hand, Haruka checking tire wear patterns with sharp eyes. Daichi leaned into the cockpit.
"Not bad," he said simply. "But we're not done. Let's get the balance right before you head back out."
Izamuri nodded, unbuckling and pulling off his gloves. Sweat dripped down his brow, but there was a glint in his eyes. For the first time, he was no longer just surviving in traffic. He was learning to fight.
Afew minutes later, as engines roared down Fuji Speedway's long main straight, their collective sound was a violent symphony that echoed against the mountain backdrop. The morning air had warmed under the sun, shimmering slightly off the asphalt, but tension was building as the session wore on.
Izamuri, strapped tightly into the EK9, pulled down his visor. His hands adjusted on the wheel, knuckles white but steady. The suspension tweaks had been made, the front dampers stiffened slightly, the rear softened for stability. Walter's voice came over the radio just as the jacks dropped and the Civic rolled forward.
"Alright, Izamuri. Clean re-entry. You've got two hours until lunch. Take your time, warm the tires, then push."
"Copy," Izamuri replied, breathing evenly as the B18C's scream filled the pit lane.
The Civic nosed toward the pit exit, the track just ahead. The green light flashed, signaling release. Izamuri pressed the throttle gently, guiding the car up the narrow strip of tarmac bordered by concrete wall and grass. His eyes flicked to the mirrors out of habit—but from the blind spot created by the wall, two cars thundered closer than he realized.
Down the main straight, the two Naka GP cars were already playing their dangerous game. Mike Hunt, in car #7, blasted ahead, his Civic running full tilt in the center of the track. Just behind, James Hawthorn in #9 tucked into his slipstream, gaining speed like a predator in pursuit.
But instead of using the wide, clear left side of the straight, more than enough space for an easy overtake, but James chose the right. The narrower, riskier side. The side that would run him directly alongside the pit wall.
"Bloody hell," Walter muttered from the pit wall as he saw the setup unfolding.
The distance shrank. Mike held the middle. James moved right, edging closer to the pit wall as his engine screamed at the limiter. He didn't know—or didn't care—that Izamuri was merging from pit exit.
From Izamuri's cockpit, the world compressed. The pit wall blocked his right-hand view. He accelerated carefully, eyes forward. But then, in an instant, headlights and the deafening roar of another engine filled his peripheral vision.
Contact.
James braked late, trying to dodge, but his Civic's nose clipped too close. His front-left fender grazed Izamuri's rear-right quarter panel, the sound of metal against metal sharp and violent. The two cars shuddered, mirrors snapping off and clattering onto the track behind them. The impact jolted through Izamuri's arms, rattling the steering wheel.
"Shit—!" Izamuri cursed inside his helmet, instinctively correcting the slide as the Civic twitched sideways. His tires screeched briefly, but he caught it, guiding the car straight again before it could spin.
"Contact! Contact!" Simon shouted over comms, half-rising from his chair at the monitors. "Car #9 sideswiped you—stay calm, check for damage!"
Izamuri's heart thundered, but his voice came steady. "Car feels fine. Steering straight. No pull." He flexed the wheel side to side, testing. "Power's still there. Just cosmetic."
On the main straight, James' Civic also wobbled. He, too, corrected and slowed, falling alongside Izamuri as both cars coasted toward Turn 1.
From the pit wall, Daichi's jaw tightened. "Idiots," he muttered, glaring across the track at the Naka GP pit. "Bloody idiots."
The marshals waved yellow flags at pit exit, signaling the incident. Other cars on the straight slowed, giving space. Hugo Vatanen, who had been approaching fast, braked early and slipped past them on the outside, his expression under the helmet unreadable but his driving precise and deliberate.
In the cockpit of car #9, James' face flushed red. Through his visor, he glanced left at Izamuri's white EK9. His hand gestured aggressively, a quick swing of his fist as though to blame him for being in the way.
Izamuri's grip on the wheel tightened, but he kept his composure. He knew better than to react on track. "Car #9 is gesturing. Looks angry," he reported flatly over comms.
"Let him throw his tantrum," Walter snapped, his voice sharp but controlled. "Bring it back safe. Don't give him the satisfaction."
The two Civics coasted side by side down the straight, slowing as they approached the braking zone for Turn 1. Neither pushed forward. Neither wanted to escalate—not here, not now. The contact had rattled them both, but it was clear only one of them treated it like a game.
Behind them, Mike Hunt had eased off, clearly uninterested in his teammate's mess. He swung wide into Coca-Cola Corner, continuing the lap at his own reckless pace, leaving James and Izamuri to deal with the aftermath.
In the pits, tension was thick. Mechanics leaned over monitors, eyes darting between live timing and camera feeds. The G-Force crew exchanged sharp looks, some muttering under their breath. Takamori clenched his jaw so tight it looked painful, while Rin swore loudly enough that Simon had to shoot him a warning glance.
Daichi stayed silent, arms folded, but his expression said everything: fury, barely restrained.
"Box them both," Simon instructed over the radio, his voice calm but heavy with authority. "Both cars involved in the incident. Pit entry this lap. We'll check everything."
"Copy," Izamuri replied.
On the track, James received the same order from Naka GP. His response came muffled, irritated, but he obeyed, lifting off the throttle and slotting in line with Izamuri.
The two Civics crawled through the next corners, staying clear of traffic. Izamuri maintained discipline, holding his line without giving James another chance to provoke him. The British driver lingered slightly ahead, occasionally glancing in his mirrors as though daring Izamuri to challenge him.
But Izamuri didn't bite. He kept steady, his focus locked on the pit entry looming ahead.
The session's rhythm carried on around them—Hugo slicing through turns with his trademark smoothness, privateers keeping their heads down, marshals resetting cones scattered earlier by Mike. But in the minds of everyone watching, the tension between cars #98 and #9 burned like a warning flare.
As the pit entry line came into view, both cars slowed further, indicator lights flicking on. Izamuri's Civic remained clean aside from the scuffed rear quarter and missing mirror, its white paint now streaked faintly with red where James' fender had kissed it.
James' own machine showed a similar scar—his front-left panel marred with white streaks, his mirror hanging by its wiring like a broken limb.
Two cars, scarred but still alive, rolled side by side toward the lane. And with every step closer to the pit, the air in both garages grew heavier, the anticipation of confrontation palpable.
The moment Izamuri's Championship White EK9 rolled into the G-Force pit, the entire crew could feel the heat radiating off him. The car hadn't even stopped fully before the driver's door slammed outward with such force it bounced once on the hinges.
Izamuri was already tearing at his harness buckles, the webbing snapping loose from his shoulders and waist in one violent motion. His gloves hit the floor before he'd even stepped out. He ripped off his helmet, breathing hard through gritted teeth, and hurled it down onto the tarmac beside the car. It clattered loudly, skidding a few feet before coming to a stop.
Walter took a cautious step toward him. "Izamuri—"
But the younger driver was already moving, jaw clenched, eyes locked six pit boxes down toward the Naka GP garage. Without a word, he stormed off, boots pounding on the concrete. Crew members and mechanics from other teams turned their heads as he passed, some stepping aside, others pausing mid-wrench to watch the brewing storm.
At the Naka GP pit, James Hawthorn was leaning casually against the front bumper of his own Civic, the damaged front-left panel still streaked with white paint from the earlier contact. Around him, NEIT's PR team was in full swing—cameras flashing, a social media manager typing rapidly on a tablet, a videographer circling for "dynamic" angles. James smirked like he'd just taken pole position instead of nearly causing a wreck.
"I knew you'd be here, you dipshit inbred mother fucker," Izamuri barked, his voice cutting through the idle chatter. The pit went quiet for half a second.
James turned his head lazily, spotting him. "Oh, if it isn't the kid who can't merge properly. Surprised you can walk here without a map." His tone was mockery wrapped in posh British arrogance.
"You nearly wrecked both of us, you moron!" Izamuri shot back, stepping closer until there was barely a meter between them. "You had the whole left side clear AS FUCKING DAY and you still came across to the right. That's on you."
James' smirk deepened, and he straightened up from the car. "Oh, come now. You saw me coming. You could've waited five seconds. Don't make your inexperience my problem."
Then, in the most condescending gesture possible, James reached out and patted Izamuri's shoulder as if trying to calm a child.
Izamuri's reaction was instantaneous. He slapped the hand away with enough force that the sound echoed faintly in the garage. "Don't you fucking touch me."
That broke whatever thin veneer of civility remained. Their voices rose, sharp and venomous, the argument devolving into a rapid-fire exchange of accusations and insults. Crew members from both teams began edging closer, sensing the situation was teetering toward the physical.
"You were blocking me!" James snapped, stepping forward.
"You don't even know how to overtake without endangering people!" Izamuri shot back, his voice practically a growl.
"You're just pissed because you can't keep up—"
"Better slow than a hazard to everyone here—" Izamuri shot back.
The next moment happened in a blur. James' smirk vanished, replaced by a scowl, and he shoved Izamuri square in the chest. The force made Izamuri stumble back half a step.
And that… was it.
Izamuri lunged forward and slapped James across the face with an open palm. The sharp crack turned heads up and down pit lane. Gasps rippled through the bystanders.
James, ever the temperamental showman, didn't hesitate. He wound back and drove a right hook straight into Izamuri's cheekbone. The impact spun him sideways, sending him down onto one knee before James stepped in with a hard front kick to the ribs. The blow knocked Izamuri fully onto the tarmac, rolling once before he pushed himself back to his feet.
The red haze was in his eyes now. He moved toward James again, fists clenched, but before he could close the distance, the cavalry arrived.
Daichi hit him first, arms wrapping around his torso in a bear hug from behind. Walter was right there too, grabbing one arm, while Nikolai moved in from the other side. Simon, surprisingly fast for his age, got a grip under Izamuri's shoulder, while Rin and Takamori each took an elbow.
"Hold him! HOLD HIM!" Walter barked over the commotion.
James' smirk returned as NEIT security moved in to create a wall between the two teams, their expressions smug and untouchable.
From further up the pit lane, Haruka came jogging in, having caught sight of the chaos. Hana and Ayaka weren't far behind, though their expressions were less about concern and more about disbelief. The twins, Hojo and Tojo, somehow materialized out of nowhere—cheering like it was a wrestling match until Haruka barked their names in a tone that shut them up instantly.
Even Hugo Vatanen had left his own garage, hands on his hips as he surveyed the mess with a frown. Without hesitation, the Finn stepped in beside Daichi, lending his own strength to help drag Izamuri backward.
"Easy, lad," Hugo muttered, voice low but firm. "Don't waste your fight here."
It took the combined effort of nearly the entire G-Force crew—Daichi, Walter, Nikolai, Simon, Rin, Takamori, Haruka, Hana, Ayaka, the twins, and Hugo—to haul Izamuri away from the Naka GP pit. He struggled like a wild animal, boots scraping the tarmac, but they kept moving, step by step, until they reached their own garage.
Once they got him inside, Simon slammed the side door shut, muffling the noise from outside. Izamuri, breathing hard, shook free of their grips but didn't lunge again. He paced instead, running a hand through his hair, jaw still tight.
"They think they can get away with that crap because of who they are," he muttered, glaring in the general direction of the Naka GP garage.
Walter handed him a bottle of water. "And they will—if you let them bait you into getting penalized. You want payback? Do it on track, clean and legal."
Daichi nodded, still standing between him and the open garage door. "They've got money, sponsors, and armed security. You've got skill, speed, and a team that believes in you. Use that."
Izamuri didn't respond right away, just cracked open the bottle and took a long drink, letting the cold water cool the heat in his chest.
Out on pit lane, James was still posing for photos, grinning like the hero of his own story. But in the G-Force garage, the mood had shifted from rage to resolve. They'd drag him back if they had to—but the next time, they knew Izamuri wouldn't need the whole team to make his point.